Like his father, Philippe rarely cursed; the strongest oath he normally used was “By the Lance of St James!” But as he sought to extricate himself, he was muttering an obscenity, one that could have come from the mouth of the English king or any of his sons. When he finally fought free of the thorns and briars and saw that the wretched horse was nowhere in sight, he had to bite his lip to keep further profanities from spewing out into the humid August air. As bad as being lost was, being lost and on foot was far worse.
Philippe rooted around in the undergrowth until he’d recovered his spear. They’d been hunting boar and had not seen one all day. But now it seemed to him that boars lurked in every thicket, behind every felled tree, and he gripped the weapon so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He shouted again, listened in vain for a response and then, hunching his shoulders, began to trudge along the path.
The tree branches intertwined, forming an opaque, green canopy over his head, and he went for long stretches without seeing the sky. He was slow to realize, therefore, that the light was ebbing. With the awareness that the sun would soon be setting, he suffered his first surge of fear. His second came when he tripped over an exposed root and nearly landed on a snake, and his next when he heard an owl’s prey in its death throes, unseen in the twilight dusk. But it was the distant howl of a wolf that sent him into panicked flight. He ran until he stumbled and fell flat, hitting the ground with enough force to bruise his ribs and drive all the breath from his lungs. The shock of it enabled him to regain control of himself. Realizing it was madness to keep racing around in the darkness, he crawled over to the closest tree, curled up next to its trunk, and prepared to endure an interminable night.
He was sure he’d never be able to sleep, but he finally dozed, and jerked upright just before sunrise. During the night, fog had drifted in and the trees were wreathed in patches of pale vapor, blotting out the sun. Shivering in the damp dawn air, he struggled to his feet, every muscle in his body cramping in protest, took a deep breath, and yelled for help. He thought he heard an answering shout, but he did not trust his own senses. His next cry brought another echo, though, louder this time.
“I am here! Over here!” He could hear running footsteps now, and then a huge, hulking figure was looming out of the mist, a giant with bare, muscled arms, hands like hams, a blackened, smudged face, and an axe dangling by his side, the ogre of Philippe’s boyhood night terrors. Shrinking back against the tree, he gasped, “Stay away from me! I am Philippe Capet, the king’s son! Keep away!”
Henry was back at Woodstock; it had always been one of his favorite manors and it gave him comfort to visit the nearby nunnery of Godstow, where he lavished largesse upon the priory and prayed for Rosamund’s soul. He’d held a council meeting that afternoon, a productive session in which they discussed a wide range of topics: the coming Christmas visit of the King of Scotland, the feasibility of issuing a new coinage, a report upon his recent judicial reform in which he’d divided the realm into four circuits, and the need to fill the justiciarship now that Richard de Lucy had resigned the post because of ill health. The council was done but Henry and a few others still lingered in the solar.
As all of them were men who stood high in Henry’s favor, the talk was more relaxed and informal; they’d been idly discussing the Lateran Council held in Rome that spring. One of the canons had banned “those abominable jousts and fairs, which are commonly called tournaments,” but Henry and his companions agreed that the Church prohibition would not likely be heeded. Nor did they expect the Lateran Council’s excommunication of routiers to discourage rulers from hiring them.
Henry candidly admitted that he’d continue to make use of routiers when the need arose. “Though it could be argued that routiers are actually more dangerous when they are not employed. My son Richard kept his routiers under tight rein, but once he came to England in June and they were no longer being paid, they sacked Bordeaux.”
Getting to his feet and beginning to pace, Henry stopped the others from rising, too, for Gilbert Foliot and the Bishop of Winchester were no longer young. “I received two interesting communications from the French court this week,” he said, and these men knew him well enough to understand that there was something highly unusual about those “interesting communications.”
“One came from the French king,” Henry continued, “and the other from…well, let’s just say a well-placed source at Louis’s court. Louis has had to postpone his son’s coronation. Philippe was hunting in the royal forest near Compiegne and somehow he became separated from his companions. He spent the night alone in the woods and was finally found the next morning by a charcoal burner. But my ‘source’ tells me that the charcoal burner must have had a fearsome visage for his appearance scared Philippe so badly that he took ill soon after his rescue.”
The men exchanged grins and several laughed outright. Henry shared their amusement; royal heirs were not supposed to be so delicate. “At that age, any of my hellions would have considered a night alone in the woods a grand adventure. But we know Philippe is as high-strung as a lass. The humor of his mishap soon soured, though, for within a day he was burning up with fever, and they are now fearing for his life.”
They were no longer laughing; if Philippe died, the repercussions would be felt throughout Christendom. Louis’s own health was said to be failing. If he died soon after his son, there could be a vicious struggle for his crown. His two sons-in-law, the Counts of Champagne and Blois, would be sure to make claims on behalf of their wives, his daughters with Eleanor, Marie and Alix. Some would look to Marguerite, too, even though she was a younger daughter, for there were bound to be French barons who would eagerly embrace the idea of having the easygoing, pleasure-loving Hal as their king, just as there were Poitevin lords who’d prefer Hal to his more martial brother, Richard.
“Marie is the eldest, of course,” Willem said thoughtfully, “but that might not count for much, what with her husband now in the Holy Land. My money would be on Thibault of Blois…unless you seriously back your son and the Lady Marguerite, my liege.”
Henry knew this was the question in all of their minds, but only Willem was bold enough to voice it. Thinking that Hal had yet to show he could rule one kingdom, much less two, he said, “You are getting the cart before the horse, Willem. Let’s not be so quick to bury Louis’s son. I said I’d heard from Louis as well as from my spy. He has been half out of his mind with fear.” Adding fairly, “As any father would be. But it seems that St Thomas came to him in a dream and told him that if he made a pilgrimage to Canterbury, Philippe would recover. Needless to say, when he suggested this to his council, they were greatly dismayed and dismissed it out of hand.”
Henry’s smile was sardonic. “My spy tells me they lectured Louis that it would be utter madness to enter the lion’s den of his own free will. The lion, I suppose, is me, which might be considered a perverse sort of compliment. Be that as it may, Philippe’s condition continued to worsen, and Thomas paid Louis two more nightly visits. After the third dream, he did what he ought to have done from the first-found a king’s backbone and told his council that he meant to make a Canterbury pilgrimage, their misgivings be damned. And so he has written to me, earnestly entreating me to issue a safe conduct so that he may come to England and pray for St Thomas to spare his son.”
There was a moment of astonished silence and, then, incredulous laughter. “For some reason,” Willem said dryly, “a verse of Scriptures comes to mind: He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it, ” and Hamelin gleefully recited a proverb to the effect that revenge was a dish best eaten cold.
Henry smiled. “I’ve always believed that the best way to deal with temptation was to yield to it. So it came as a surprise to discover that it is not actually that difficult to tell Satan to get behind me. An interesting lesson to learn so late in life, no?”
Hamelin’s mouth dropped open. “Harry, surely you are not saying that you might give Louis a safe conduct!”
“Yes, I am,” Henry said, and saw that Hamelin was not the only one to be gaping at him. He had not expected to have to defend his decision, but he said, with rare patience, “It is too easy to put myself into Louis’s shoes. If one of my sons were on his deathbed, I would bargain with Lucifer if I thought that would save him. It is not the French king that I am accommodating, Hamelin. It is a grieving father.”
On August 22, Louis landed at Dover, where Henry was waiting to welcome him and to escort him to Canterbury. It was the first time that a French monarch had ever set foot on English soil.
Henry led Willem into the cloisters of the cathedral. He’d sent Willem to France with the safe conduct, and this was the first time they’d had to talk since Willem had returned to England with Louis and the Count of Flanders. It was a beautiful evening, that twilight hour in which stars were just beginning to glimmer in the sky and the clouds still reflected the dying glow of the setting sun. Both men paused to breathe in the sweet clover-scented air, listening as a passing bell chimed somewhere in town, signaling that a parishioner had gone home to God. Henry came often to Canterbury in the years since he’d done penance at the archbishop’s tomb, and he was always surprised that this place, the scene of sacrilege and murder, could seem like such a peaceful haven, that the cathedral he’d entered in such despair and dread could now be soothing to his soul.
“I am on a rescue mission,” he confided to Willem. “Louis’s physicians begged me to coax him into ending his penance. They fear that he may become ill himself if he passes a second night fasting and praying. I promised to do what I could, for it would be rather awkward if he were to die whilst he was an honored guest of the English Crown.”
Willem agreed that Louis was too frail for severe mortification of the flesh, and for a moment, Henry remembered what he’d been told of Thomas Becket’s self-abasement in the last years of his life, baring his back thrice daily for scourging, wearing a lice-infested hairshirt and braies, spending hours on his knees or prone upon the stone floor as he offered up his prayers to the Almighty. Even now, five years after he and Thomas had made their peace in that shadowed, silent crypt, Henry found it difficult to reconcile the holy martyr with the worldly chancellor who’d been his friend.
“Ere I go chasing after Louis,” he said, “there is something I want to discuss with you, Willem. I learned this morning that the Count of Aumale died on Monday.”
It was never comforting to hear of the passing of a man who was close in age to them, and Willem instinctively sought to distance them from the dead count, saying, “He was not in the best of health, was he? I seem to recall that he was called Guillaume le Gros, at least behind his back!”
“He was on the stout side,” Henry allowed. “But it is not his sin of gluttony I want to talk about. He had no son, and his estates will pass to his daughter, Hawise. It is my intention to give the girl to you, Willem.”
Willem was rarely taken by surprise, but he was now. Kings were usually loath to give up the wardship of an heiress, for that gave them control of her revenues and eventual marriage. “I am honored by your trust in me. I will be greatly pleased to have the lass as my ward, will do right by her, you may be sure.”
“I am not offering you her wardship, Willem. I am giving her to you in marriage,” Henry said, amused to see that he’d managed to render the courtly, urbane earl quite speechless for once.
Willem was overwhelmed. As Earl of Essex, he need never have to beg his bread by the side of the road, but his was not the wealthiest of earldoms. Guillaume of Aumale had held extensive lands in Yorkshire and other shires as well as his estates in Normandy. Henry was offering him a great heiress as casually as if he were proffering a benefice to an improvident priest.
“Harry! How can I ever thank you?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Henry joked, before saying, quite seriously, “Kings are not denied much in this life. But their friendships are as scarce as hen’s teeth, which is one reason why we rely so often upon kinsmen-though that obviously has its drawbacks, too. I’ve been luckier than most, for I’ve had two men I could call ‘friend,’ you and Thomas.” Unable to resist teasing, “Let’s hope that our friendship ends better than mine and Thomas’s did.”
They laughed and embraced, and Henry then went off in search of Louis, in good spirits, delighted to be able to reward Willem’s loyalty as lavishly as he deserved. Entering the Martyr’s Door into the choir, he descended the steps into the crypt. There he found the French king, prostrating himself upon the tiles before St Thomas’s tomb, attended by one of his physicians, the archbishop, the new prior, and several monks.
As soon as Louis’s prayer was done, Prior Alan impressed Henry by taking the initiative. Coming forward before the French king could begin another invocation, he said quietly, “My liege, King Henry is here.”
Louis glanced up, squinting in the dim light, and Henry was struck anew by how feeble he looked. Louis was twelve years his senior, which put him in his late fifties, but if Henry had not known that, he’d have assumed that the French king had easily reached his biblical three score years and ten. Even allowing for the stress of Philippe’s illness, Louis seemed to be carrying the weight of the world upon his stooped shoulders.
Reaching out his hand, Henry helped the other man to rise. “You have been keeping this vigil since your arrival yesterday. For a day and a night now, you have done nothing but fast and pray. St Thomas will not take it amiss if you get a few hours sleep.”
Louis would have demurred, but Henry did not give him the chance. “What did Thomas say to you in those dreams? I assume you remember?”
“Of course I do! He said, ‘Our Lord Jesus Christ sends me as your servant, Thomas the Martyr of Canterbury, in order that you should go to Canterbury, if your son is to recover.’”
“As I suspected. He said not a word about your sacrificing your life for your son’s. You’ll do Philippe no good by dying at Canterbury. If you’ll not rest for your own sake, do it for mine, Louis. Spare me the embarrassment of having to explain to the rest of Christendom that the first French king to visit English shores did not make it home alive.”
Henry had long ago concluded that Louis did not have a humorous bone in his body. But the French king was still able to recognize humor in others, and he mustered up a wan smile. “You are right,” he admitted. “I am indeed bone-weary and in need of sleep.” Looking vastly relieved, his physician started toward him before he could change his mind. But he held up his hand, and slipping his arm in Henry’s, drew him aside. Henry did not resist, startled by how heavily Louis was leaning upon him for support.
“You have been very kind, Harry. But I must impose upon your kindness by seeking yet another favor from you. I would ask that you add your prayers to mine, that you entreat the Blessed Martyr to save my son. St Thomas showed himself willing to perform a miracle on your behalf, so I think yours would be the voice he’d be most likely to heed.”
Henry managed to keep his face impassive, and he would later consider that a remarkable accomplishment. “I will pray to St Thomas for your son,” he promised the French king, after taking a moment to savor the irony of Louis’s request, and watched, bemused, as the older man let his physician lead him from the crypt.
Archbishop Richard and the others accompanied Louis, but one of the monks lingered behind. “Should you wish some time for private prayer, my liege?”
“Yes, Brother Bertram, I would,” Henry confirmed, for this had become his practice upon his visits to Canterbury. He waited until the monk’s footsteps receded before walking over to the martyr’s tomb. “Well, I suppose you heard that, Thomas,” he said breezily, for that is what his talks with Thomas were, conversations rather than prayers. He’d discovered that he could unburden himself to the dead far easier than he could with the living. The Thomas he confided in was the friend he’d lost to the Church, somehow restored to him by his anguish in this crypt and the victory at Alnwick, a miracle so manifest that not
even the French king could doubt it.
“I hope that you’ll show mercy to Louis. If you could snatch a king and scatter a fleet, curing a skinny, skittish whelp like Philippe ought to be child’s play. And yes, Thomas, I daresay you’re marveling at how magnanimous I’ve become in my old age. You need not fret, for I have no yearning for sainthood, am not poaching in your woods.”
Henry cocked his head, half listening for a response. “I admit it-my own interests are invested in Philippe’s recovery. Louis does not look as if he is long for this world, and I’d rather my son face a stripling like Philippe than Henri of Champagne or Thibault of Blois. Christ help him, Thomas, for either one of them would eat Hal alive.”
There was a relief in being able to confess his doubts about his eldest’s capacity for kingship. In the past few years, he’d occasionally asked Thomas for guidance, entreated him to show Hal the way home, to restore the laughing, fair-haired lad of cherished memory, not the sullen, erratic stranger he’d become. But tonight his prayers were only for Philippe Capet, and he said softly, “I never thought I’d pity that fool on the French throne, Thomas. Fathers and sons…mayhap you were wise to choose the Church.”
He paused then, for he’d caught the sound of sandals on the crypt stairs. “My lord king, may I approach?” Brother Bertram hovered in the doorway, loath to intrude upon his sovereign’s prayers. “Your son has just ridden in, my liege, and is asking to see you straightaway. Is it your wish that I send him down?”
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