Hal felt a great relief at the sight of Will, sure all would be well now that the Marshal was here. He was not as pleased to see the doctor, looming over the bed like an avenging angel, for he recognized the man as his chief tormentor, the one who’d kept pouring vile potions down his throat, who would not go away.
“God be praised, the fever is down,” the doctor announced, but he sounded so triumphant that Hal thought he was claiming more credit than the Almighty for that benevolence. Doctors were like that, he knew. It was always their doing when a patient recovered and God’s Will when he did not. He could not summon up the effort to tease the physician, though; since when did talking tire a man out so? He was finding it hard to stay awake, but he was loath to slip back into those disquieting dreams, and when his eyes met Will’s, he silently entreated the older man to keep vigil whilst he slept. When Will brought a stool close to the bed and sat down, he smiled. Will had understood. Bless him, Will always understood.
When Hal awoke hours later, he was disappointed that he was still as weak as a newborn cub. He must have been at death’s door, for certes. He was astonished to learn that this was Sunday; he’d lost three full days of his life! He remembered some of it now-the sharp pains in his belly, the endless bouts of diarrhea, the nausea. No wonder he felt as flat as a loaf of unleavened bread. He’d have to be patient as he got his strength back, and patience came no easier to him than it did to the rest of his family.
His stomach was not ready to cooperate, though, and when they tried to feed him egg yolks mixed with cumin and pepper, he promptly vomited them up. He could not even keep wine down, and the doctor had to settle for mixing galingale and yarrow in spring water, then feeding it to Hal one small spoonful at a time. At least he was no longer passing clotted blood, doubtless because he had nothing left to void. But he sounded like a croaking crow and looked like a corpse waiting to be sewn into his shroud, complaints his friends were happy to agree with. He thought they were much too eager to regale him with accounts of his suffering, gleefully describing how he had been “sweating like a Southwark cut-purse caught by the Watch” and “spewing your guts out” and “shitting a river of blood.”
When the doctor made ready to bleed him, that brought back another unpleasant memory, and he grumbled that “I dreamed I was stabbed by a lunatic with a knife, but it was really a leech with a lancet!” The knights all laughed, but the doctor ignored his protests and deftly opened a vein in his arm, explaining needlessly that it was done to drain away the noxious humors that caused fever.
Knowing full well that bloodletting was an approved method of treating numerous ailments, Hal thought the doctor sounded like a prideful buffoon, but it was probably not wise to vex a man with a blade in his hand and so he submitted grudgingly to the treatment, although he noticed that he seemed much more light-headed after the procedure.
The men around his bed were members of his inner circle; most had been with him since his coronation at age fifteen. His gaze flickered from one familiar face to another. Will and Baldwin de Bethune and Simon de Marisco and Roger de Gaugi and Robert de Tresgoz and Peter Fitz Guy. A man could not ask for better friends. He’d been told that they’d rarely left his side during the worst of the crisis. He wished he could thank them for their devotion, but knew they’d be flustered and discomfited if he did, for banter and sarcasm were the only languages spoken in their realm.
At the moment, they were harassing Rob, entertaining Hal with exaggerated accounts of Rob’s erratic behavior in the last few days. It seemed that he’d recalled some folklore that a fever could be cured by the liver of a beaver, and he’d been flailing around on the riverbank as long as there was light, trying to catch one. When Hal asked if this was true, Rob confirmed it with a sheepish grin, insisting that beaver liver, if fried with onions, could heal the worst fever. He would have elaborated upon this miracle remedy if Will had not seen the greensick look on Hal’s face and hastily cut him off.
Hal could bring up only yellowish bile, for he’d not been able to eat for days. His friends were clustering around him, offering wine and putting wet compresses on his forehead and rushing off to see if the doctor thought he ought to be bled again. “Go away,” he groaned, “you’re worse than a mother abbess with one novice nun,” and they laughed uproariously, for these glimmers of humor were surely the best proof that the Almighty had heeded their prayers and not those of the vengeful monks.
Sunday’s celebration continued into the next day, for Hal’s allies and routiers were just as pleased by his recovery as the knights who loved him. Will lost track of all the toasts drunk to Hal’s health, but he observed the hilarity with a jaundiced eye, well aware that these men had a vested interest in the young king’s well-being. The more he saw at Martel, the more he understood Peter’s bleak admission. How had Hal ever come to this-leading an outlaw band of cutthroats and bandits? And how was he going to convince Hal to renounce these false friends and return to his proper allegiance?
Hal was no stronger on Monday, still could not eat without becoming nauseous, and although he now had a constant thirst, he could only keep water down. But he was quite lucid and his men took heart from that, assuring themselves that he’d soon be on the mend. Will was not so sure and began to harbor doubts. Hal was young and had been robust and vigorous. Shouldn’t he have begun to regain some of his strength by now? It frightened Will to see how feeble he was; the man able to wield a ten-foot lance with lethal skill could not even hold a cup to his blistered lips.
Because of his own disquiet, Will soon picked up on the doctor’s unease and nerved himself to demand the truth. He was not prepared, though, for the grim response he got from the physician. Once they were safely away from eavesdroppers, the doctor seemed relieved to share his fears. It was not just that the young king was showing no signs of improvement. His new symptoms were troubling, too. His skin and mouth were very dry, and his thirst could not be quenched. His eyes were sunken back in his head, and despite all the water he was drinking, his urine was scant and when it did come, it was a dark yellow. Had Sir William noticed that he was no longer sweating? Will had not, and when he asked what that meant, the doctor muttered evasively that it was never a good sign.
“Are you…are you saying that he will not recover?”
The physician no longer met his eyes. “That is in God’s Hands, and not for me to say.” Will stared at him in horror, understanding that he’d just pronounced a death sentence upon the young king.
Hal was frustrated that he was making so little progress. This was Tuesday morn; ought he not to be regaining strength by now? He’d been dozing since dawn, and each time he awoke, Will and Rob and Baldwin and Benoit were keeping watch by his bed, standing guard against night demons and, quite likely, the routiers. When he’d emerged from his delirium, Hal had been surprised to find an unfamiliar emerald ring upon his hand. Emeralds were said to have the power to vanquish fevers, they reminded him, and the Duke of Burgundy had kindly offered his own ring. It was a valuable piece of jewelry and Hal had jested with his knights, wondering how much they could sell it for. But he’d begun to fret that a routier might sneak into his chamber and steal it, and he decided that, if only for his peace of mind, they ought to return it to Hugh. He did not need it anymore, after all, for his fever had not spiked again, was more like a smoldering peat fire now than a roaring conflagration.
He watched his friends for several moments before they noticed he was awake. “If you are not a sad-looking lot,” he mocked. “You’d think I was on my deathbed or that Richard had Martel under siege and we were running out of wine…”
He’d meant it as a joke, but there was nothing amusing about the reaction he got. His jape was met with a stricken silence, and suddenly they were looking everywhere but at his face. He stared at them incredulously. “I am not dying…am I?”
This time they responded with a flurry of frenzied denials, assuring him that of course he was not dying, what a foolish notion, he’d be up and ab
out in no time at all. Hal was stunned, for he could see they were lying. Will alone had kept silent, but now he cried out sharply, “Enough! He deserves the truth.”
When they would have protested, Will stared them down. “He has the right to know,” he insisted. “He needs to know whilst there is still time to make amends.”
They could see the pulse thudding in Hal’s throat, hear the ragged edge to his breathing. “But…but I was getting better…You all said so…”
Will knew that Hal had always preferred an oblique approach to unpleasant truths. But he had no choice now, had to face it head-on. “We hoped you were, my liege. But you’ve been growing weaker and…and the doctor says your recovery is now in God’s Hands.”
Hal looked at him mutely and then turned his head away from them. “Go,” he said hoarsely, “leave me be…”
They did not argue and fled in unseemly haste, none of them knowing what to say or how to comfort him. Will did not go far, though, for he knew that Hal, of all men, would never find solace in solitude. He waited what he hoped was a decent interval, time enough for Hal to absorb the blow, then knocked on the door and came back into the chamber.
“I will go if you wish it,” he said, and when Hal didn’t object, he approached the bed, dreading what he would see. Hal’s spectacular tournament successes had overshadowed the fact that he was not as gifted a battle commander as Richard, or Geoffrey either, for that matter. He did not seem to have a head for strategy, to be able to anticipate the unforeseen or to adopt long-range plans. No one had ever questioned his courage, though. If he did not have Richard’s reckless daring, few men did. Will had never seen him display fear, either at castle sieges or in the wild melees of the tourney, which could be as dangerous as battle skirmishes. But he’d never seen Hal look as he did now-eyes wide and staring, pupils so dilated that much of the blue had been swallowed up, filled with utter panic.
When he spoke, his voice was unsteady, almost inaudible. “God is punishing me for my sins, Will.”
“Yes,” Will said softly. “I fear he is, lad.”
“I ought to have heeded the monks. They tried to warn me, but I would not listen. And now it is too late. Lucifer is here, waiting to claim my soul…Can you feel his presence, too?” Hal shivered. “I am damned and it is my own fault, Will-”
“Hal, no!” Will had to fight the urge to glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see diabolic red eyes glowing in the shadows. “It is not too late. The Almighty has not forsaken you, has given you a great mercy-time to repent and seek forgiveness.”
Hal had a heartbeat of hope, but no more than that. “No…” he whispered. “They’d not forgive me. How could they?”
Will was momentarily puzzled, not sure who “they” were. But then he understood. Hal was speaking of his Divine Father in Heaven and his earthly father at Limoges. “Of course they’d forgive you, Hal. The mercy of the Almighty is everlasting and endureth forever. And the lord king has never ceased to love you. Why do you think he spared you from excommunication? Or granted me a safe conduct to come to you? Are those the actions of an unloving father?”
Hal desperately wanted to believe him. “But my sins are so grievous…”
“That does not matter, not if you are truly contrite.” As complete as Will’s education had been in military matters and the tenets of chivalry, he’d not learned to read or write. He’d never regretted that lack, not until now when he yearned to quote Scriptures that could assuage Hal’s fear. Fortunately, even though he’d never been able to read the Holy Writ, he did have an excellent memory and could remember enough to paraphrase with reasonable accuracy. “The Lord God will not turn His Face away from you if you return to Him.” Will forced a smile. “Holy Writ says there is great joy in Heaven over even one sinner who repents.”
Tears welled in Hal’s eyes. “When I thought that salvation would be denied me and that it was all my doing…” He shuddered, but he no longer sounded like a man sure he was doomed. “Fetch me a priest, Will, so I may be shriven.”
Will managed another smile even as his own eyes filled with tears. “You need not settle for a priest, lad. You have a bishop at your beck and call. Bishop Gerald of Cahors rode in an hour ago. Shall I summon him now?”
“Please.” Hal was suddenly terrified that he might die before he could confess his sins. But he still called Will back as he reached the door. “Will…I must see my father ere I die, must tell him how sorry I am…”
Will doubted that Henry would come, not after being shot at twice under flags of truce. But he was not going to rob Hal of the smallest sliver of hope, and he said, as confidently as he could, “We shall send a man to Limoges straightaway.” Once he was out in the stairwell, though, he sagged against the wall, feeling as if his bones were suddenly made of sawdust, incapable of supporting his weight, much less his grief.
Alfonso, the young king of Aragon, had arrived to assist Richard and Henry in fighting the Limousin rebels and his personal bete noire, the Count of Toulouse. Daylight held sway well into the evening on summer nights, and Richard took Alfonso to see Aixe, the castle now garrisoned by rebels.
“We’ll lay siege to it on the morrow,” he said, “and if they balk at surrender, God may pardon their sins, but I will not.”
Alfonso smiled, thinking that Richard had changed little since their first meeting at Limoges, ten long years ago. He was still as decisive and confident as ever. “I can see,” he joked, “why your men call you Richard Yea or Nay, for you’re never one to dither at crossroads, are you?”
Richard glanced at him in surprise; he’d not known he’d been given that nickname. He was not displeased, though, thinking there were far worse things a man could be called. He’d begun to suggest unflattering nicknames for his elder brother-Sir Spendthrift and Lord Lies a Lot among the least insulting-when a scout sounded the alarm.
“A horseman is coming, my lord, riding like he’s escaping from Hell!”
To Alfonso’s amusement, Richard at once swung onto his stallion and rode out to intercept this mystery rider. He mounted with less haste and followed after his friend. By now the horseman was within recognition range and after a moment, Alfonso identified him as the old king’s chancellor and natural son, whom he’d met just hours ago at the cite. Pebbles and dirt flew everywhere as Geoff reined in his mount. The animal was streaked with lather and Alfonso braced for bad news, knowing that Richard’s brother would not push a horse like this unless the message he bore was urgent.
Richard had reached the same conclusion. “What has happened now?” he asked warily, for lately the war had not been going well. He’d chased Geoffrey’s routiers out of Poitou into Brittany, but his duchy was still infested with these vermin, some hired by the French king and the rebel lords, others freelancing, and the arrival of the Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Toulouse threatened to tip the balance in their favor.
“You’ll not believe Hal’s latest knavery!” Richard was accustomed to Geoff waxing indignant about their brother, but he’d never seen him so outraged; he was literally shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “He sent a man to our father tonight, claiming that he is dying and pleading that Papa come to Martel and forgive him ere he does!”
Richard’s jaw dropped, and his indrawn breath was audible enough for Alfonso to hear. Many considered it shocking and even sacrilegious that Henry dared to swear upon the Almighty, God’s Bones being one of his favorite oaths. The holy body part that Richard now blurted out was so scandalous that Alfonso did not know whether to laugh or move out of range. It was obvious, though, that Richard’s blasphemy was involuntary; he looked as if he’d been pole-axed.
“Every time I think that whoreson has gone as low as he can,” Richard spat, “he finds a shovel and keeps digging!”
“You have not heard the worst of it yet. Papa wants to go to Martel!”
“Then he is not just in his dotage, he is stark, raving mad!”
Richard wasted no more time questioning
his father’s sanity, took off in a cloud of dust, with Geoff right behind him. By now Alfonso’s men had caught up with him; they’d been alarmed to have their lord and the duke ride off like that. They were further puzzled to see Richard already disappearing in the distance, with his own knights scrambling to keep pace, but their king did not appear to be perturbed by these odd events. When they reined in and asked him if all was well, Alfonso assured them it was and then grinned.
“It seems we are returning to Limoges,” he said. “It should be an interesting evening.”
Richard found the situation at the Bishop of Limoges’s palace was not as dire as he’d feared, for he did not lack for allies. In fact, the one without allies was Henry; he was facing unanimous opposition from kinsmen, friends, barons, and bishops. Ranulf, Richard, and Geoff presented a united family front. Willem and Maurice de Craon and Rotrou, Count of Perche, were adamantly opposed to his going to Martel, too. The newly arrived Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishops of Angers and Agen were also lined up against Henry. The only one holding his peace was Sebran Chabot, their host; he’d been embroiled in a contentious dispute with Henry and Richard upon his election to the bishopric of Limoges several years ago and thought the iced-over breach with his duke and king was too fragile to test.
As was his wont, Richard seized control and launched into a passionate assault upon Hal’s tattered credibility. He demanded to hear this “dunghill of lies” with his own ears and Robert de Tresgoz was ushered back into the bishop’s great hall. At the very sight of the Norman knight, Richard burst out into scornful laughter.
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