Standard of Honor

by Jack Whyte

  “What is what, my lady?”

  “Whatever is in your mind. You have a witless, gaping look about you, so spit out your thoughts and we will talk about them.”

  Henry gestured mildly with one hand. “Merely surprise, my lady. I hear or see no bitterness or hatred in you when you speak of her.”

  A brittle smile quirked one corner of Eleanor’s mouth. “Nor should you, for I harbor none against her. Did you not hear me when I said she has been used and abused her whole life? I have bitterness aplenty in me, Henry, make no mistake in that, but none of it is wasted on Alaïs.”

  “But … she stole your husband.”

  “Stole? Stole Henry Plantagenet?” Her smile spread wider but grew no warmer. “Bethink yourself, my lord St. Clair, and remember the man of whom we speak. There never was a woman born who could steal Henry Plantagenet or bend him to her will for longer than it took for him to mount her, and I include myself in that. Henry was a taker in all things carnal. He saw, he desired, he took. Oh, I was his match for many years, but as soon as my looks began to change and I began to age, he looked elsewhere. And the old goat was lusty till the day he died.

  “No, Alaïs Capet did not steal my husband. Far from it. She was but one of a long line of vessels for his convenience, used and discarded when the next in line stepped forth to catch his eye. But Henry kept Alaïs closer than all the rest, because of the Vexin. Had he discarded her, it would have cost him the Vexin or, at very least, a long and brutal war to keep it. And in the end, he lost it anyway, before he died. But Alaïs was no thief. And besides, by the time Henry first set hands on her, he had already put me away. I had been locked up for years by then, because he said he couldn’t trust me to run free without fomenting plots against him with my sons. He was right, too. I can see that now. But hate Alaïs? Might as well hate the north wind for bringing down the snow as blame that child for what befell her.

  “But her misfortune forced Richard’s hand to what he did, once he was named as Henry’s heir. He could hardly take Alaïs as his queen when all the world knows she spent most of her betrothal period sleeping with his father. The Church in England was scandalized and made no bones about it. They howled anathema at the very idea of such a marriage, and forbade Richard to proceed with it, under pain of excommunication. And so Richard’s hand was forced. He sent her home to her brother, Philip, as was only to be expected.”

  “To be expected, perhaps, my lady, but hardly to be welcomed by her family. King Philip must have been beside himself when he learned of it.”

  “Nonsense. The only thing Philip might have been beside was his bedmate of whatever day it was when the tidings reached him. Philip cares nothing for Alaïs, Henry. He never did, from the day she was born. Women have no place at all in his affections. All he cared about was regaining the Vexin, and now that he has it safe, he will use his wronged sister as a weapon against Richard for whatever advantage he can gain. That is the total of his regard for her—she is a tool for negotiations.”

  “That is … inconceivable.” His voice had fallen on the last word, hushed with disbelief, but Eleanor negated his awe with a tightly controlled flick of one finger.

  “Nonsense, far from it. It might be unnatural, but then, Philip Capet can hardly be called a template for Nature’s perfection.”

  “Aye, I suppose that is true. But what of you, my lady? Have you been to Paris?”

  “God’s throat, no! I have been in Rouen, about my own affairs, and now I am traveling home, for the first time in far too many years. I shall stay there for a while, I think, at least until Richard has been crowned in England.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but will you not go to England to witness your son’s coronation?”

  She gave him a wintry little smile. “Absolutely not. Richard is more than capable of having himself crowned, and the last thing I need is to be there to witness it. That will all proceed perfectly well and naturally, and in the meantime I will take myself southward, across the Pyrenees to Navarre.” She saw the incomprehension in his eyes and added, “To Navarre, Henry … the kingdom in northern Iberia. There to find a queen for England.”

  “A queen, my lady?”

  She laughed outright. “Aye, a queen. My son is to be King of England and he needs a queen. England needs a queen. And I have found one in Navarre. In truth, Richard himself found her, three years ago. He met her at her father’s court and wrote to me about her then. Her name is Berengaria, daughter of King Sancho, and now that Richard is no longer betrothed, I intend to generate a marriage. Sancho should prove to be a staunch ally in this coming war, accustomed as he is to fighting off the Moors who threaten him down there in his Iberian wilderness, and I feel confident he can be persuaded to dower his daughter amply for her role as queen consort. And be assured, Richard and England will make good use of whatever he provides for their Holy War.”

  “Berengaria. That is a beautiful name. But King Sancho? I have heard, it seems to me, of a Prince Sancho …”

  Eleanor’s eyes sought his, narrowing intently, but she detected no awareness of her son’s rumored misconduct with the young Prince of Navarre. “The Prince is Berengaria’s brother. When his father dies, he will become the seventh king of that name. For now, he is a nonentity, but I have great hopes for his sister. I have not met her yet, but by all accounts, including my son’s own, she is a gentle, biddable creature … perhaps not greatly beautiful as we envision beauty, but regal nonetheless. So, if I can arrange the match, I will bring her to Richard before he leaves for Outremer.”

  The carriage slowed and came to a swaying halt as she spoke, and a babble of voices sprang up outside, with orders and instructions being shouted on all sides. Eleanor listened for a moment, then began to gather up the few belongings scattered on either side of her as St. Clair pulled aside the curtains and peered out into the gathering dusk.

  “We have arrived, obviously.”

  The words had barely left her mouth when de Neuville rode up and bent forward in his saddle. “A few moments more, my lady, and you will be able to alight. Everything appears to be prepared, and by the smell of things, the cooks have done well. Rest you there for a few more moments, if you will, until your carriage can pull forward safely to your tent. A hundred paces, even less, and you will be there.” He glanced at St. Clair. “Sir Henry, I have your mount secure. My groom will care for it tonight with my own.” He saluted Eleanor and swung his horse away, and the Duchess smiled at St. Clair.

  “Well, old friend, our visit is at an end—the most enjoyable part of it, at least—for when that door opens next, I must go back to being Eleanor of Aquitaine, with all the nonsense that attends upon being a Duchess restored to her holdings.” She reached across spontaneously and gripped him by the wrist. “It has been so wonderful to see you, Henry, and to spend this time with you. Men of your stamp are few and far between in my life nowadays. May God, if He is up there at all, bless you and your son in your future adventures, and may He forgive me for these next words. Put not your faith in princes. I know not who first said that, but he had the truth upon him when he did. Be careful of my son. I love him despite all he is in many ways, but I warn you as an old and trusted friend: do all you can for him but be you not too trusting, for he is governed by factors you cannot control, and guided by lights you would never wish to see or understand.” She drew her head back, her eyes narrowing, her fingers still gripping his wrist tightly. “I tell you that out of love, Henry— a woman’s love for an admirable man overcoming a mother’s love for a wayward son—but if you ever say a word of it to anyone, I shall deny I said it and wreak official retribution on you in return. You hear me?”

  “I do, my lady, and I shall heed your warning, unspoken though it was.”

  The carriage began to move again, lurching off the road and into the crowded meadow where the tents had been set up. Eleanor began to gather her skirts about her with one hand, bracing herself against the motion of the vehicle with the other by clinging to a braide
d silken cord handle on the wall by the door, until they came to a halt again.

  “God’s throat, I wish you well, my friend. Now, when the brouhaha begins, get you away from here and find Brodo, my steward. Tell him I sent you and he is to feed you well and find you some place suitable to sleep. I may not have the time to speak to you again and I know you will have no wish to waste your time among the fawning, squawking fowl that flock about me everywhere I go. Eat well, sleep well, then ride home early and continue your preparations to do your duty by my son. And so farewell.”

  The carriage door swung open, and Sir Henry went out first into the clustering crowd, turning to hand the Duchess down safely. He bent over her hand and pressed it to his lips, and she smiled, then tapped him on the crown with one finger of her other hand before stepping past him to be engulfed by the multitude of her admirers.

  FOUR

  Henry St. Clair discovered, very rapidly, just how great a sacrifice he had made for his temperamental liege, Richard Plantagenet. Within days of his encounter with Duchess Eleanor, he found himself being inundated with new responsibilities, tasks, and activities springing from his appointment as Master-at-Arms, and soon he barely had time to notice how quickly the days and weeks were passing. It all culminated a month later, when he received a summons to join Richard in England immediately, and from that moment onward, he could not call his life his own.

  “How soon is immediately?” Henry had barely glanced at the writing on the scroll that he had opened mere moments earlier, but that glance had taken in the peremptory instruction.

  The Hospitaller knight who had delivered the summons shrugged his wide shoulders and lowered his eyes to the scroll Henry was holding, but he said nothing and his face remained expressionless. Sir Henry looked back down at the scroll.

  “I see. It’s all in here, eh? Well, you had better sit down while I read it. Have you eaten today? No, probably not …” Henry turned to where Ector stood by the door, watching and awaiting instructions. “Bring food and drink for Sir …” He turned back to the other man. “Do you have a name, Master Hospitaller, or are you merely a grim and spectral presence? Speak up, sir.”

  “My name is Gautier, Sir Henry. Gautier de Montdidier.”

  “Montdidier, you say? Then we should know each other.” Henry moved to sit in a chair by the fireplace, waving to the other man to sit across from him. “An ancestor of yours and one of mine were among the founding members of the Temple. Did you know that?”

  “I did.”

  “Then why do you wear the black mantle of the Hospital rather than the white of the Temple?”

  Montdidier’s lip curled in a smile, and he dipped his head slightly to one side. “Mayhap I prefer it that way, but in truth I have followed the Rule of Blessed Benedict since I was a stripling boy. I was orphaned at birth and raised in a monastery in England, so when I came of age to be a knight—my father had been one, killed in battle before I was born—it was but natural that I should join the Knights of the Hospital.”

  “Aye, I suppose it would have been … Ector, food and drink for Sir Gautier de Montdidier, and see to it that his men are fed, too. How many did you bring with you, sir, and where are they now?”

  “Six men, Sir Henry, and they are all in your courtyard, awaiting word from me on where they should go next.”

  “Aye, well, they may stay here for the night, but that will depend upon just how ‘immediately’ I am to leave, so permit me to read this missive of yours, and I will be able to give you a response.”

  In truth, Sir Henry had been ready for weeks, having put all his arrangements in place to ensure that his estates and lands would be cared for in his absence, presided over by a man Henry had known and trusted for years, the eldest brother of his dead wife. But the instructions in Richard’s letter were succinct and to the point. Henry was required to make his way to England as soon as might be, in the company of Sir Gautier de Montdidier, there to take up his duties as Master-at-Arms to Aquitaine.

  The distinction did not escape him, and it was an interesting one. There had been no mention of Aquitaine in his first meeting with Richard. The position he had been ordered to take up then had been Master-at-Arms to Richard, no more and no less. It was a small point, of no real consequence since Richard, as Duke, was Aquitaine, but Henry found its presence there in Richard’s letter amusing. He surmised that the political situation in England had changed since Richard’s return, and probably radically. But he was far from unhappy with the new development. He would feel much more comfortable as Master-at-Arms to Aquitaine, a position he had held and enjoyed for years in the service of the Duchess, than he would as Master-at-Arms to an army of Englishmen, with their guttural morass of a language.

  There was no mention of André in the letter, but Henry had expected none. André had seldom been at home since first meeting the knight de Sablé, and he seemed to be enthusiastically caught up in preparations required for his upcoming admission to the ranks of the Temple Knights. Henry knew he would meet his son again in England before they set sail, and he was content with that, knowing the young man to be safe and well. He released the end of the scroll, allowing it to spring back into its cylindrical shape, then held it between the fingertips of both hands as he looked over to de Montdidier.

  “Why you, Sir Gautier? Why did Richard send you to bring me to England, with but six men? Did he think me incapable of traveling alone?”

  “I doubt that, Sir Henry. I believe it was the King’s wish that you and I spend some time together, so that we could converse on the journey.”

  “Converse about what? I have no wish to demean or to insult you, Master Montdidier, but I doubt that you and I have anything in common. The difference in our ages alone would make sure of that.”

  “Perhaps because he thinks you might learn something from what I have to say. I am newly come from Outremer and I was wounded in the debacle of Hattin. I know that the King has assigned to you the task of finding some new means of confronting and defeating Saladin’s armies. He believes I may be able to assist you with that.”

  Henry looked at the Hospitaller now with far more respect. “You may indeed. And God in His Heaven knows I require all the assistance He can send me. But how came you to survive Hattin that day? I have been told that Saladin murdered every captured member of the military orders, both Templars and Hospitallers, after the fight.”

  “He did. I watched them die and expected to die myself, for I was badly wounded. But I lived through the day, lying among the dead without being discovered, and I managed to crawl away into hiding after darkness fell. I had an arrow in my groin and was too badly wounded to have any hope of escaping, so I stripped off my surcoat, having no wish to be recognized as a Hospitaller, and managed to don a plain brown surcoat that I stripped from a dead man. I then surrendered myself the following morning. They took me captive, tended to my wound, treated me humanely, and eventually offered me for ransom with four other knights, none of whom were of the military orders. I was fortunate.”

  The doors opened and Ector entered, followed by two servants carrying food and wine on trays. They laid the contents of their trays on one of the tables and then left without having looked at either knight. St. Clair looked at the food, and then at Montdidier.

  “Well, Master Montdidier, the King was right. I do wish to speak with you, at length. You are the first person I have met who was actually there that day at Hattin.” He stood up and waved towards the table. “Eat, and when you have finished Ector will show you to a sleeping chamber, where you may rest for a few hours. I will dismiss your men to my barracks building as I leave, and I will see you later, but I have things I must do now. We will leave at dawn the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, my home is yours.” He dipped his head in a salute and went out, closing the doors behind him and leaving the Hospitaller to his food and drink. A moment later, he was back.

  “How did you come here, Sir Gautier? By what route?”

  The other swallowed
a mouthful of food. “From the west. Landed at La Rochelle, then followed the road northeastward through Niort, to Poitiers, and then northwestwards to here.”

  St. Clair nodded. “That’s the best route. Far shorter than traveling northwest to Nantes and Saint-Nazaire. How long did it take you?”

  “From La Rochelle to here? Five days … today’s the sixth. We traveled twenty miles each day, sunrise to sunset.”

  “Hmm. Well, we will need more time than that, returning. I’m taking four men with me, and a cart for my belongings, which means we will have to travel at the speed of the cart. We’ll be fortunate to make fifteen miles a day.”

  “So, seven days.”

  “Aye, but no more than that. How long, think you, will we have to wait for a ship?”

  “No time at all. We already have one awaiting us— the ship that brought me over here. It will remain there in La Rochelle for fourteen more days, then sail without us if we have not yet arrived. We would be presumed dead by then.”

  “I see. Then we had best make haste, and do what we can to remain alive.” St. Clair nodded, as if agreeing with his own comment, then left again.

  THE WIND HAD DIED SUDDENLY about half an hour earlier, and now Henry St. Clair stood on the stern platform of the ship bearing him and his party from La Rochelle to England, leaning out over the starboard rail and peering down into the waters below. He stood with his legs spread, his knees flexing against the erratic, unpredictable movements of the ship’s deck, and his right elbow hooked around a rope that stretched up like an iron bar into the mass of rigging above his head. He was untroubled by the pitching, rolling motion of the deck beneath his feet, leaning forward in fascination, craning his neck as he watched the heaving water surging beneath him. At one moment it would seem close enough for him to reach down and touch the surface, and then within the space of a heartbeat it would swoop away and down, baring the entire side of the ship until the stern rose clear of the water. It would hang there for long moments, before the vessel tipped forward and plunged down the following slope of the wave, smashing prow first into the trough at the bottom and sending vast sheets of water sweeping backward over the deck to saturate everything before it drained away.