“My lady queen!” At the sound of that familiar voice, Eleanor swung around toward the quintain, handing her reins to Henry. Her eldest son was sitting upon a muddied chestnut stallion, smiling down at her. Eleanor smiled back, and Hal skillfully reined his mount in a semicircle, gracefully lowering his lance with a flourish. “Would you honor me, my lady, with a token of your favor?”
Richard smirked at Hal’s studied gallantry, but his parents both laughed. Reaching under her mantle, Eleanor unfastened the silken belt knotted around her hips and tied it onto Hal’s lance. Another youth was making a run at the quintain and they all turned now to watch. Although Richard was too young yet to study the arts of war, he was very familiar with the quintain and the way it worked. A post was anchored in a field and a crosspiece attached to the top by a pivot; a shield was hung from one end of this revolving arm and a sandbag from the other. Only a direct hit upon the shield would enable a rider to avoid the counterblow when the sandbag swung around, and this youngster’s aim went awry. As his lance slid off the shield, he was smacked by the sandbag with enough force to knock him from the saddle. His fall was cushioned by several layers of sticky mud, but his pride was badly bruised by a wave of mocking laughter. Infuriated by the jeers and gibes of the other boys, he started to stalk off the field, had to be reminded to retrieve his horse, and that generated another burst of merciless merriment.
Richard joined in the laughter, sure that he could master this difficult skill in no time at all. His brother was taking his turn at the quintain and he found himself hoping that Hal would take a tumble, too. But when Hal hit the target with a perfectly judged blow and galloped safely past the pivoting sandbag, Richard felt a spark of surprised admiration. Hal handled a lance with such practiced ease that he rose abruptly in his younger brother’s estimation, and as he made a second pass at the quintain, Richard was cheering him on.
Hal had another successful run and accepted the plaudits of his friends with a nonchalance that could not quite hide his pride in his feat. Riding back to his parents, he reaped a harvest of praise, and when Richard voiced his desire to try the quintain, too, Hal was feeling generous enough to indulge the boy.
“You’ll not blame me if you end up arse-deep in mud?” he warned, and when Richard insisted that he’d not care if he broke an arm, Hal grinned and beckoned his brother to follow.
It never occurred to either Henry or Eleanor to object; they took it for granted that Richard would suffer numerous injuries while learning the use of weapons. Hastily mounting his gelding, Richard listened intently as Hal showed him how to tuck the lance under his right arm and hold it steady against his chest so that it inclined toward the left. It wasn’t often that their sons displayed such a cooperative spirit, and they both took pleasure in this rare moment of brotherly harmony.
Richard was an accomplished rider for his age. He had no experience in handling a ten-foot lance, though, and in his first try, he missed the target altogether, much to the amusement of the watching youths. On his second attempt, he managed to strike the edge of the shield, and was then struck in turn by the swinging sandbag, which tumbled him down into the mud. Hal and his friends laughed so hard that they were almost in tears, but their laughter gave way to grudging approval when Richard bounded onto his feet, his mud-plastered face lit with a wide grin. “I want to try it again,” he said. “I think I’m getting the hang of it!”
Henry had led Eleanor over to a nearby cart, helping her up into the seat for more comfortable viewing. She was not surprised when he chose to stand, for he’d always found it difficult to sit still for more than a few moments at a time, and against her will, she remembered their first time alone-seated together in a garden arbor on a rain-darkened Paris afternoon-remembered how she’d wondered what it would be like to feel all that energy deep inside her.
“So, tell me,” she said abruptly. “What bad news did Barre and the archdeacon bring back from the papal court?”
Henry’s eyes were on Richard, who’d just taken another bone-bruising fall. Wincing, he said fondly, “That lad may have no common sense, but by God, he has pluck!” Glancing over his shoulder at Eleanor, he confided, then, that the news was very bad indeed.
“It was politely phrased, but the threat was lurking just beneath the surface courtesy. Alexander will not pressure Becket to accept more reasonable terms. He will, however, absolve me from my oath to give the saintly Thomas the Kiss of Peace. Nothing like an unsolicited generosity. He is appointing yet more envoys, this time the Archbishop of Rouen and the Bishop of Nevers. And if I do not make peace with Becket within forty days, England will be placed under an interdict.”
“You seem to be taking it rather well,” Eleanor observed skeptically, and he gave her an amused look that confirmed all her suspicions.
“The Pope and that bastard Becket think they have found a lever to use against me. They know how important it is to me to have Hal crowned and they think they can extort concessions from me as the price for that coronation.”
Eleanor could not fault his logic. “So what do you have in mind?”
Hal had just struck the shield off-center, ducking low to avoid the sandbag’s counterblow, and Henry let out a raucous cheer before turning his attention again to his wife. “What makes you think I have something in mind?”
“Nigh on two decades of marriage,” she riposted and earned herself an appreciative smile.
“Well… it occurred to me that this particular lever was more of a double-edged sword.”
“I asked for an explanation, Harry, not an epigram.”
Henry grinned. “Sheathe your claws, love, I’m getting to it. It is quite simple. I realized that Hal’s coronation matters almost as much to Becket as it does to me… to us. As jealous as he is of Canterbury’s prerogatives, how do you think he’d react if Hal were crowned by someone else… say, the Archbishop of York? It would drive him well nigh mad, and he’d be desperate to re-crown Hal, lest a dangerous precedent be set, one that elevated the diocese of York over Canterbury.”
Eleanor understood now what he meant to do. It was shrewd and bold and ruthless and might well work. She studied his face pensively, thinking that these were the very qualities she’d first found so attractive in him; thinking, too, that she must never forget what a formidable enemy he could be. “You are willing to defy the Pope on this? You know Becket has persuaded him that only Canterbury’s archbishop has the right to crown a king.”
Henry’s smile was complacent. “Ah, but you’ve forgotten that I still have in my possession a letter from the Holy Father in which he gives me permission to have my heir crowned by whomever I choose.”
“That letter was dated June of God’s Year 1161, if my memory serves,” she said sharply, irritated by how smug he sounded.
“Yes… but the Pope never notified me that it was revoked.”
“You are taking a great risk, Harry,” she said and he shrugged.
“It is what I do best, love.”
She could not argue with that. “Since you sent for me, I assume I have a part to play. What would you have me do?”
“I plan to leave for England as soon as possible. Once there, I shall take the necessary steps for Hal’s coronation. I want him to remain here with you to allay suspicions. But have him ready to sail as soon as you get word from me. I also want you to keep a close watch on the ports, to do whatever you must to make sure that none of Becket’s banns or prohibitions reach English shores. I’ve already talked to Richard de Humet about this and he knows what I want done.”
Eleanor did not appreciate having a watchdog, even one as competent as the Constable of Normandy. Had it escaped Harry’s notice that she’d been governing Aquitaine quite capably in his absence? She had no doubts whatsoever that she could rule as well as any man. Granted, she could not take to arms and capture rebel castles as Harry so often had to do. But mayhap her Poitevin lords would not be so defiant if not for his heavy-handed Angevin ways.
She gav
e no voice to her grievance, though, knowing it would serve for naught. Her husband was not a man to relinquish even a scrap of power if he could help it. Passing strange that he seemed so unconcerned about elevating Hal to a kingship. Did it never occur to him that Hal might not be content as his puppet, that the lad might want authority to accompany his exalted new rank? Or did Harry just take it for granted that his will would always prevail?
But in this, they were in agreement, for she, too, wanted to see their sons made secure in their inheritances. “You need not worry, Harry,” she said. “Even if Becket gets wind of what you’re planning, no messenger of his will set foot on English soil, not unless the man can walk on water.”
Their eldest son had switched his attention from the quintain and was making a run at the rings, braided circles of rope hung from the branches of a gaunt, winter-stripped tree. As Hal deftly hooked one of the rings onto the point of his lance, Henry and Eleanor exchanged a smile of parental pride. Echoing Henry’s praise, Eleanor agreed that Hal’s skill at this maneuver was indeed impressive. “During our stay at Caen, he never stopped talking about the glories of the tourney, and now I see why. He is good enough to win on his own merits, king’s son or not.”
Henry did not share the common enthusiasm for tournaments, thought they were a waste of time at best and an inducement to civil unrest at worst. “Do not encourage him in such foolishness, Eleanor. It is not as if he has to earn his way, like that young knight of yours, Marshal. You brought him along, did you not?”
“Will? Yes, he is in the great hall.” She glanced at him curiously, for he never made casual conversation. “Why?”
“I was thinking that he would be an ideal choice to watch over Hal. From what you’ve told me, he has a good head on his shoulders, could rein in Hal’s youthful follies whilst tutoring him well in the arts of war.”
She agreed that Will would be a good choice, although she felt a prickle of resentment that Henry felt so free to appropriate one of her household knights without so much as a by-your-leave. Will Marshal would have made a fine tutor for Richard, too.
“Richard will miss Will’s company,” she said composedly, “for he’s gotten right fond of Marshal. Speaking of Richard… it might be advisable to make a public acknowledgment of his right to Aquitaine now that you plan to crown Hal.”
Henry had expected her to make such a suggestion and he was amused that he could read her so well. Her partiality toward their second son was obvious to all but the stone-blind. But he was willing to indulge it, for Richard would make a good duke for Aquitaine. He was fortunate indeed that his realms were vast enough to provide for all of his sons. Well… for Hal, Richard, and Geoffrey. There was still the little lad, John, whom he’d dubbed John Lackland in a moment of levity. But John was being well cared for at Fontevrault Abbey and he would be pledged to the Church.
“An excellent idea, Eleanor.” They smiled again at each other, then cheered loudly when Richard survived his first run at the quintain, being buffeted soundly by the sandbag but remaining in the saddle.
“What of Marguerite?” Eleanor asked suddenly, thinking of her young daughter-in-law. “Do you mean to have her crowned with Hal?”
“I am not sure,” he admitted. “If I do not, Louis will be grievously offended. But if I do have the lass crowned now, that will make her an accomplice in my defiance of the Pope and the saintly Becket. You know Louis far better than me, love. Which is the lesser evil?”
Eleanor frowned. “It might be easier for him to forgive a slight than a sacrilege, for that is how he will view the coronation. I think it might be better to wait and have her crowned the second time… once you’ve come to terms with Becket.”
This was his thinking, too, and he was gratified to have her confirm his own instincts. Reaching up for her hand, he pressed a kiss into her palm, then turned back to watch as Hal snared another ring.
“When do you plan to sail, Harry?”
“As soon as the weather permits. Why?”
“Hal’s birthday,” she reminded him. “He turns fifteen on Sunday.”
“Ah, yes,” he said vaguely, for as finely tuned as his memory was, he had an inexplicable difficulty in remembering birthdates and the like, usually joking that it was her fault for giving him too many children to keep track of. “Well, then, of course I will not depart for Barfleur until Monday.”
“Hal will be pleased,” she said, wondering if that was indeed so; wondering, too, if he meant to take Rosamund Clifford with him to England.
“Holy Mother of God!” Henry’s brother was moaning softly, curled up into a ball, knees drawn against his chest, arms clasped over his head. A foul-smelling bucket testified to Hamelin’s physical distress, but the worst of his vomiting seemed to be over, probably because his heaving stomach had nothing left to disgorge. Henry leaned over and patted the younger man’s shaking shoulders, all he could think to do. Like most men blessed enough to be spared the humbling miseries of mal de mer, Henry usually felt faint contempt for those afflicted with seasickness. But now he had only sympathy for Hamelin’s ordeal. Henry had crossed the Channel more times than he could count, often in rough, wild weather. Yet he could not remember a storm of greater savagery than this one.
The seas had been choppy and turbulent even in Barfleur’s harbor. Once they had rounded Barfleur Point out into the unprotected waters of the Channel, the full force of the squall struck Henry’s fleet. In no time at all, most of the passengers on Henry’s flagship were suffering the torments of the damned, retching and shivering and offering urgent prayers to Nicholas of Bari, the patron saint of sailors. Even Henry began to experience queasiness and he could count his episodes of seasickness on the fingers of one hand. He fought it back and assured his companions that the storm would soon slacken. Even if it did not, these high winds would blow their ships to England faster than any bird could fly.
He was wrong on both counts. The storm only intensified and then the wind changed direction. The hours passed and they made little progress, their ships wallowing in heavy swells, the lanterns on mastheads extinguished by torrents of stinging, icy rain. Canvas tents had been set up to shelter the highborn passengers from the weather, but they could offer little protection against a gale of this magnitude. In Henry’s tent, the terrified men and women were soon bruised and sore, for even the most desperate grip was no match for the power of the elements. Each time the ship pitched, someone slammed into the gunwale or one of the coffers crammed into the tent, cries of pain muffled by the roar of the wind and the thud of waves slamming into the hull. Their prayers, too, were lost to the fury of the squall. As the night wore on, Henry was the only one aboard, including the ship’s master and crew, who was not convinced that they were doomed, sure to drown in the maw of the storm.
Hamelin was mumbling again about his wife, berating himself for having let Isabella sail in one of the other ships. Now they would not even drown together, he gasped, choking back a sob.
That was too maudlin for Henry. He could understand Hamelin’s fears for his wife. He had fears, too, for others in the fleet, especially his half-sister Emma and her husband. Of Geoffrey’s crop of bastards, he was fondest of Hamelin and Emma, and he regretted not insisting that she sail with him. Thank Christ that Hal and Eleanor were safe in Caen and Rosamund at Falaise, awaiting his return from England. It seemed a foolish waste of regret, though, to fret about being buried with a loved one, as Hamelin was doing. If their ship went down, they’d all be food for fish; how many bodies were ever recovered from the sea?
When he could endure Hamelin’s tearful remorse no longer, he said brusquely, “What’s done is done, man. Better you should save your breath for prayer.”
Hamelin raised his head at the sound of Henry’s voice. Although the wind blotted out most of Henry’s words, the impatient expression on his face communicated a message of its own, and Hamelin felt a quiver of despairing rage. Who but Harry was prideful enough to sail when the weather was so foul? Now t
hey were all going to die because of his reckless flouting of God’s Will.
Hamelin said nothing, though, for even when feeling Death’s hot breath on the back of his neck, he could not blame his brother; it would be like rebuking the Almighty. But his eyes were brimming with silent reproach, and even Henry’s self-confidence was not immune to the force of that mournful gaze. He’d long ago learned that a king’s chess game was played with the lives of other people. Men had died to make him England’s sovereign, and more would die in defense of boundaries he alone defined. It was a great and fearful power-having the right to sanctify bloodshed-and it did not bear close inspection, for otherwise it could never be invoked.
Getting abruptly to his feet, Henry stumbled as the deck rolled and maintained his footing by sheer will and some luck. “I can no longer stand the stink in here,” he said, feeling the need to offer an excuse. It was true that the stench was execrable, for no one could empty the vomit-filled buckets overboard until the storm subsided. But it was also true that he was escaping the mute misery in his brother’s teary, accusing eyes.
As he emerged onto the deck, he was hit in the face by the wind, sleet pelting his skin like flying needles. Sailors scrambled across the slanting deck, struggling to tighten one of the shrouds dangling loosely from the mast. The man at the windlass was spinning the spokes, cursing as his frozen fingers slipped off the wheel. Henry dodged as a burly figure skidded toward him, recognizing the ship’s master only when he was close enough to touch. The man turned on Henry with a snarl, realizing just in time that this intrusive passenger was the king. He could not order Henry off the deck, but neither could he indulge in the niceties of court protocol when his ship’s survival was at stake. Thrusting a wet coil of rope into Henry’s hand, he tersely told the king to tie himself to one of the windlass’s posts ere he was washed overboard.
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