Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Henry was stunned. “And he believed that?”

  Adam nodded somberly. “Alas, he did, my lord. They played skillfully upon his doubts, his resentments, and stirred up his fears by suggesting that there was something sinister in your decision not to demand homage from him. They argued that homage is an act of mutual obligation, claimed that you did not want to accept his homage because you did not want to be held accountable as his liege lord, proof that you must be plotting treachery once he was in England and utterly in your power.”

  “That is ludicrous! I waived homage to honor Hal.”

  “I know that, my liege. But now you see why I say it would be a mistake to command his presence at Caen. That would only confirm his suspicions, convince him that his so-called friends had spoken true.”

  Henry slumped down in his seat, suddenly as weary as if he’d spent a full day on the hunt. “What would you suggest?” he said at last, and when the chancellor urged gentle persuasion, words of reassurance rather than rage, he agreed to take that approach. But he felt defeated even before he began. Christ on the Cross, were they to start the madness all over again?

  Wolves were usually hunted only from September’s Nativity of Our Lady to March’s Annunciation. But upon Henry’s arrival at his hunting lodge, the villagers of Bures asked him to track down and slay a lone wolf that had been killing their sheep. He set out early the next morning. His lymer hounds had no luck in picking up the rogue wolf’s scent, though, and men, horses, and dogs returned tired and disappointed at day’s end, where he found Hal and Marguerite were waiting for him.

  Hal greeted him effusively, apologized for the “misunderstanding,” and announced that they were ready to depart for England whenever he wished. Greatly relieved that Adam’s “gentle persuasion” had worked, Henry welcomed his son and daughter-in-law warmly, thankful that they’d avoided a confrontation. The lodge was neither large nor spacious, ill suited to accommodate the retinues of two kings and a queen, but Henry’s servants did their best to provide a more elaborate meal than Henry would otherwise have expected, and after the dining was done, Hal held court in the great hall, laughing and jesting and charming with his usual ease, basking in the attention he was attracting. He did not notice when his father withdrew, ceding him center stage.

  Henry slipped out of a side door, stood for a time staring up at the starlit April sky. His initial pleasure had slowly ebbed away as the evening wore on, leaving him with an edgy sense of unease. Was this to be the pattern for years to come? Hal would balk, be coaxed into compliance, and all would be well-until the next time he took offense. How could the thinking of his own son be so alien to him? How had they ever gotten to this road that led nowhere?

  It was a mild night and others were outside, too. As he was recognized, several men would have approached him, but he waved them off impatiently. But then he saw one man he did want to speak with, and he moved to intercept William Marshal as he ambled from the direction of the latrines.

  “Marshal,” he said, stepping from the shadows into the knight’s path. Beckoning, he led the younger man away from their audience of eager eavesdroppers. Will followed, but his stiff posture and ducked head conveyed his discomfort as clearly as words could have done. He showed no surprise when Henry launched into a low-voiced, angry reprimand, for he’d been anticipating his sovereign’s displeasure.

  “I expected better from you, Will. You are one of the few men of Hal’s household who has a grain of common sense and a speaking acquaintance with honor. Why have you failed so dismally to protect my son?”

  “My liege…what would you have me say? I told you at Avranches that I could not spy upon him.”

  “I am not asking that of you,” Henry snapped. “But I do expect you to give him the benefit of your maturity and your good judgment, and I see precious little evidence of that. When his legion of lackeys and drones and leeches seek to poison his mind against me, what do you do? Do you stay silent? Or do you join in with the rest of the baying hounds?”

  “Sire, that is not fair! I would never speak against you to the young king. I have always encouraged him to mend this rift between you. But mine is not the only voice he heeds.”

  That was not what Henry wanted to hear. He needed to believe there was at least one rational voice to counsel his son, for his own words seemed to be falling upon deaf ears. “Then what good are you to me?” he said harshly, and turned on his heel before Will could respond, heading back toward the great hall. Will trailed unhappily after him, but knew better than to try to plead his case when the king was in one of his tempers.

  Hal was encircled by his knights, and they were applauding and cheering so enthusiastically that Henry wondered sardonically if he’d just ordered another wine-keg broken open. Gesturing to Will, he said, “Tell the ‘young king’ that the old one wants to speak with him upon the dais.”

  Hal soon sauntered in his direction, an arm draped around Marguerite’s waist, his face flushed with wine, his eyes bright with laughter. “You wanted me, Papa?”

  “I am going to my own chamber, will leave the festivities to your keeping. Enjoy yourselves, but remember that men bed down in the hall at night, so if you carouse till dawn, they’ll get no sleep.”

  Hal promised to keep that in mind, then turned as one of his knights approached, fervently expressing his eternal gratitude and loyalty. Hal sent him off with a laugh and a quip, then explained for Henry’s benefit that Giles had suffered a stroke of bad luck; his palfrey had gone lame on the ride to Bures and the village farrier had given a dread diagnosis, that the horse had foundered and must be put down. “Giles has barely two deniers to rub together, and a tightfisted father who’d see him mounted on a goat ere he’d help out. So I offered him one of the horses in my stable. He’s a good lad, is Giles, so why not?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Henry agreed dryly, for he knew that he’d end up getting the bill for the stallion Hal would buy to replace the one he’d so magnanimously bestowed on Giles. But he reminded himself that generosity was a virtue, lauded in a prince, and he asked Hal if he’d like to join the hunt on the morrow for the elusive, sheep-killing wolf.

  “I’d like nothing better! I’d ask a favor of you, though-that I be given the wolf’s pelt to make a mantle.”

  Henry blinked in surprise. “Why? You know how difficult it is to get rid of the stink of wolf.”

  Hal grinned and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “You know Adam d’Yquebeuf,” he said, naming one of the most sycophantic and fawning of his knights. “He’s not a bad sort, but sometimes I think that if my boots got muddied, he’d offer to lick them clean.”

  Henry understood, for that was always a risk of kingship; a crown too often drew the servile and obsequious as well as the capable and confident. “So you are going to give that poor sod a fur cloak that is likely to reek to high heaven,” he said, “knowing he’d wear it day and night if it came from you.” Hal laughed and Marguerite giggled even as she pretended to disapprove of his mischief-making, but Hal looked thoughtful when Henry then pointed out that since d’Yquebeuf was so often in his company, he’d be exposed to the rank wolf smell, too. Before bidding them good night, he offered Hal one final boon, seeking to ease his mind by removing any doubts about the dual obligations of homage, and told his son that he would receive Hal’s homage ere they sailed for England. But he was taken aback by his son’s reaction. Hal’s face shadowed and he glanced away, no longer meeting his father’s eyes.

  A pile of correspondence had been heaped on the table in his bedchamber, and Henry had planned to tackle it before he went to bed. But he was too restless to concentrate, and instead of summoning his scribe, he began to root through a coffer for something to read; the recipient of an excellent education, he never traveled without books. The first one he picked up was Wace’s Roman de Brut, a history in verse of the English people. Wace had dedicated it to Eleanor, though, and that reminder was enough for him to put it aside. He flipped through Geoffrey of Monmou
th’s Historia Regum Britanniae next, a mythic history of the English kings and the legend of King Arthur, and eventually settled upon Commentarii de Bello Gallico. But even Caesar’s own account of the conquest of Gaul could not long hold his attention, and he sent one of his squires to fetch his son.

  Hal did not look pleased to be dragged away from the revelries in the hall, and did not seem reassured when Henry dismissed his squires so they could speak in private. “Help yourself to wine,” Henry said, and Hal quickly drained a cup, almost as if he needed to fortify himself for this interview. For a fleeting moment, Henry was assailed by a treacherous memory from his past, the day he’d awakened his wine-besotted father to confide that he would be marrying Eleanor as soon as she could shed the French king.

  Geoffrey had cursed him freely and loudly for this unwelcome invasion of his bedchamber, and when Henry had laughed and said he had a great favor to ask, he’d grumbled, “Quit whilst you’re ahead, Harry, whilst you’re still in my will.” Henry’s news had sobered him, of course, and he was soon marveling that “Marriage to Eleanor could make you master of Europe one day…Christ Jesus, Harry, Caesar might well envy you!” He’d later warned Henry, though, that he should save his passion for his concubines, not his wife, offering the cynical counsel that “the best marriages are those based upon detached good will or benign indifference. But unfortunately for you, the one emotion you will never feel for Eleanor of Aquitaine is indifference.”

  The memory was troubling. Any remembrance of Eleanor was painful, especially recollections of those early years. But recalling the easy camaraderie and barbed banter he’d enjoyed with his father, he also felt a deep sense of loss, of regret and bafflement that he did not have the same close relationship with his own sons. Where had he gone wrong?

  “Papa?” Hal was regarding him in perplexity. “Why did you summon me? You pulled me away from a game of hazard when I was winning!”

  “Hal…I know that others sought to convince you I had a nefarious motive in not demanding homage from you as I did your brothers. You need not look so surprised, lad; nothing travels faster than gossip. I daresay at least half of these boon companions of yours are in the pay of the French king, and I expected no better from them. But I never imagined that you’d be taken in by such slander. Jesu, lad, how could you believe that of me?”

  Hal had stiffened, but by the time Henry was done speaking, he’d been disarmed by the naked pain in his father’s voice. Hal hated discord and quarrels, could not understand people like his brother Richard, who seemed to thrive on strife and controversy. He truly wanted to be at peace with his father, truly regretted their constant clashes of will. “I am sorry, Papa,” he said, as contritely as he could. “I ought not to have doubted you. It will not happen again.”

  “Hal, words are cheap and easily offered. Actions are what count. And when I told you tonight that you’d do homage after all, I saw the expression on your face. You liked it not. Whatever I do, it seems to displease you. If I do not demand homage, you see that as some sort of devious scheme. If I do, your royal dignity is affronted. God’s Bones, lad, what do you want from me?”

  Hal looked at him unhappily. “I guess I…I want your respect.”

  “Respect cannot be demanded or given, Hal. It must be earned. There are wounds still to be healed. But this I can assure you, that I love you as my life. Surely you believe that?”

  “Yes…I do. And I love you, too,” Hal added quickly, even though there were times when he was no longer sure that was true.

  “Then why…why in Christ’s Name are we always at odds like this? Why can you not come to me when you have a grievance instead of letting it fester? Why do you pay more heed to that fool on the French throne than your own father?”

  “Louis listened to me, said what I needed to hear. I ought not to have had such faith in his good will. I know that now; things were never the same after that shameful trick he pulled at Verneuil. But…” Hal hesitated, pinioning his lower lip with even, white teeth. “How honest can I be, Papa?”

  “Speak your mind,” Henry said. “I’ll not get angry.”

  Hal smiled faintly. “Can I have that in writing?” He rose suddenly, went to the table to pour another cup of wine, and finished half of it before he could nerve himself to take his father at his word. “I said I love you, Papa. But…but I am not sure I can trust you.”

  Henry drew a sharp breath. This from the stripling who’d played him for such a fool at Chinon! That betrayal lay between them like an imperfectly healed scar, for they’d never discussed it, prevented first by circumstances and then by caution. But he’d promised to hold his temper and so he said only, “Why not?”

  “Because…because I know the king will always prevail over the man, over the father.”

  Henry started to speak, stopped himself. “That may be true,” he said at last. “But all that I am doing, I do for you, Hal! I want only to secure for you a peaceful and prosperous kingdom. Nothing matters more to me than that. Why must we be at cross-purposes about this? Our interests are one and the same. Why can you not see that?”

  Hal had never been one for the unexpressed thought, rarely curbed a jest in the interest of prudence or even good manners. He almost made a dark joke now about the flaw in his father’s grand scheme-that the only way two kings could contentedly share power was if one of them was dead. But he sensed that Henry would find no humor in the gibe, for there was too much truth in it for comfort. He studied Henry’s face intently, wondering how honest he could be. Dare he confess his resentment that his father meant to bestow his English castles upon that unwanted afterthought, Johnny? When there were sons to spare in most great families, one would be destined for the Church. Why would Papa not pack the little tadpole off to a monastery? Or if he was bound and determined to reward the boy beyond his station in life, let him look to Richard’s lands or Geoffrey’s.

  All of this remained unsaid, though, for he was not a fool, knew better than to trust his father’s assurance that there’d be no anger, no recriminations. If he dared to defy Papa’s will, he’d be tossing a torch into a hayrick. It had always been so. Nothing had changed.

  “In the future,” he promised, “I will come to you first with my grievances,” and the evening ended upon a note that satisfied neither father nor son.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  November 1175

  Sarum, England

  That year was not a good one for England. The weather was severe, and there were outbreaks of plague and famine in the outlying areas. The summer was hot and dry, withering crops in the field, and autumn was cold and rain-sodden. November had been a month of gale-force winds and black ice, and winter was promising to be particularly harsh on the exposed marshlands of Salisbury Plain.

  Eleanor was curled up on the settle with a book and a blanket. She was not reading, though, her thoughts wandering far from the page open on her lap. Edith, her maid, was sitting by the hearth as she mended one of Eleanor’s gowns, humming a cheerful little song as she stitched. Cleo, her cat, was stalking prey in the floor rushes; Eleanor preferred not to know what was being hunted. The rain had ceased earlier in the day, but the wind still sought entry at the shuttered windows, rattling the latches and testing the hinges. Although it was not yet midday, the chamber held enough shadows for night, poorly lit by an oil lamp and several tallow candles that sputtered and filled the air with smoke and the pungent odor of burning fat. Eleanor had never used any candles but the expensive ones made of beeswax, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell, wondering how the queen’s allowance of a penny a day for lamp oil was being spent now.

  The cat froze in the rushes, ears flattening, and then darted under the bed. Eleanor had learned to take her cues from the little creature, and listened for the sound of footsteps approaching her door. There was soon a discreet knock, and she said, “Enter,” grimly amused by the charade they enacted every day. Her door was no longer locked as at Falaise, but it was mockery to pretend she still re
tained the right to refuse admittance to her chamber. It was too early for dinner, and she closed her book, hoping it would not be that tiresome Father Ivo, the castle chaplain. She’d have been more amenable to his attempts to save her soul if he’d been a better source for news, but either he knew nothing of the world beyond his chapel or he was that rarity, a man of God who truly knew how to practice the cardinal virtue of prudence. At least when Bishop Jocelin had finally gotten around to paying a call, he’d spiced up his sermon with a dose of gossip.

  “Madame.” An elderly servant poked his head into the room. “You have a visitor,” he announced lugubriously; Eleanor was convinced that if he ever smiled, his face would crack. But when he stepped aside to admit her guest, she jumped to her feet so swiftly that the book fell, forgotten, to the floor.

  “Rhiannon! Is it truly you?” In two quick steps, she was at the Welshwoman’s side, taking her arm to guide her into the room. “There is a coffer just to your right, but the settle is straight ahead.” Once they were safely seated, she leaned back to marvel at this unexpected appearance of Ranulf’s wife. “You are my first visitor who has not taken holy vows,” she said, and laughed. “How did you gain entry? Ah, of course, Ranulf. They’d not gainsay the king’s uncle.”

  Rhiannon started to remove her mantle, then changed her mind when she realized how chilly it was in the chamber. “No, Ranulf did not accompany me. It was actually Emma who got me permission to see you.” And she launched into a surprisingly accurate impression of Emma at her most imperious. “‘I am the sister of the king, consort of the Prince of Gwynedd. How dare you question my authority?’ In no time at all, they were wilting before her like flowers in the noonday sun.”