“It seems he has been serving two masters, my husband and his father. He was caught trying to send a confidential message to King Henry in England.” Marguerite dropped her eyes to the hands clenched in her lap. “Adam was concerned that my husband had taken up with what he called ‘highly suspect company.’ He particularly objected to the presence of the de Lusignans and several lords who’d taken part in the last rebellion against King Henry, men whom he suspected of aiding and abetting what he called ‘the current crop of rebels.’ It…it was not a letter that portrayed my husband in a favorable light.”
“Ah…I see. And the young king is irate?”
“More than that, Your Grace. I have never seen him so angry. He says that Adam has betrayed him, and he is set upon punishing him severely for his lack of loyalty. He and his household knights are trying Adam for treason even as we speak, and I greatly fear that he may well do something he’d regret for the rest of his life.”
“Has he forgotten that Adam de Churchedune is a cleric, and not subject to the king’s courts?” Bishop John spoke calmly, although his composure was belied by the sudden taut line of his jaw. “Surely there were men there who dared to remind your husband of that salient fact?”
“Yes, several spoke up, including Baldwin de Bethune and Will Marshal. But my husband is listening to others, to men who are urging him to make an example of Adam. They have made it sound as if my husband’s honor, his very manhood, is at stake…” Marguerite’s voice faded away, and when she looked up at the bishops, tears were brimming in the corners of her eyes. “Your Grace, you were the only one I could think of, the only one who might stop this madness ere it goes too far. When I left, they were clamoring for the death penalty!” Despite the summer sun, she shivered. “I may not know much of political matters, not like Queen Eleanor, but even I know how outraged the Holy Father would be, how angry King Henry would be. I entreat you, my lord bishop, do what you can, for poor Adam’s sake and for my husband’s sake, too.”
As they were admitted to the royal palace, John gave his companion a searching look. “Are you sure you want to accompany me? This could get very ugly.”
Salisbury nodded emphatically. “You know I was a witness to Thomas’s slaying. You may not know that I was amongst those who ran from his killers. The monks and his clerks fled, leaving him alone to face those brutes. Only one man, a monk who did not even know him, dared to come to his aid, and he paid a grievous price for his courage, had his arm all but severed.”
“Thomas would not have wanted others to die with him. Did he not warn the killers that they were not to harm any of his people?”
“He may not have asked it of me, but I asked it of myself, and was found wanting. I swore upon the Rood that it would not happen again.”
“Deus vult,” the other man said quietly, and then turned to a hovering servant. “Take us to the king,” he commanded, in a tone that would brook no refusal. They were led across the courtyard toward the great hall, where a large crowd had gathered under the open windows, jockeying for position, putting the bishops in mind of those eager multitudes who would turn out for a public hanging. Their own attendants cleared a path, aided by shouts of “Make way for the bishop!”
Inside, they were hit by a blast of hot, humid air. So many men had squeezed into the hall that they were trampling on one another’s feet, elbows jabbing into ribs, necks craning toward the dais. Bishop John moved forward with a ruthless will that would not be denied; the much smaller Salisbury slid into the space he created and followed, feeling, with an incongruous flash of humor, like a little skiff bobbing in the wake of a war galley.
Hal was seated on the dais, surrounded by knights and barons of Poitou. He looked very handsome and very regal, his good looks enhanced by his anger, giving him high color and a smoldering intensity that riveted all eyes upon him. Most of the men seemed to share his agitation; they looked either indignant or excited or both. The bishop did find a few somber faces, but not many. He wasted no time scanning the spectators, his gaze searching out the man at the center of this storm, the unfortunate Adam de Churchedune.
Adam had the stunned expression of a man unable to understand what was happening to him, the dazed disbelief of one realizing he was going to drown within reach of shore. “My lord,” he pleaded, “I am truly sorry if I have offended you, for that was never my intent. But you do not want to do this-”
“Yes,” Hal cut in, “I do! Your treachery deserves nothing less. The sentence of death stands.”
“That is a grim jest,” the Bishop of Poitiers said loudly, “but I assume it is a jest, nevertheless, for you cannot pass a death sentence upon this man.”
All heads swiveled in his direction. Adam spun around, stretching out his arms toward the bishop like a man grabbing for a lifeline. “Your Grace, I beg you to help me!”
Hal’s reaction was no less dramatic. He jumped to his feet, stood watching as the bishop moved toward the dais, his head high, his shoulders squared, feet planted apart, every line of his body communicating tension and defiance. “My lord bishop,” he said curtly. “What are you doing here?”
“Apparently stopping you from making a grave mistake, my lord king,” the bishop said, with equal coldness, and as hostile murmurings swept the hall, Salisbury felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Why had John taken such a harsh approach? Would they not have been better served by more conciliatory tactics?
“With all due respect, my lord bishop, you do not know what is occurring here, what this man has done. He has betrayed me, has been spying upon me and reporting back to my father! What could be more despicable than treachery like that?”
“I am not here to defend what he has done, my liege,” the bishop said, and Adam seemed to shrink before their eyes as the hope stirred by John’s appearance was snatched away.
Hal was momentarily thrown off balance. “Well,” he said, “I am glad to hear that.”
John had reached the dais by now. “Whether he is guilty of a betrayal is not the issue. It would seem to me that this is a matter best taken up with your lord father, but again, that is beyond my purview. My only concern is with the punishment you are threatening to inflict upon him. As I said, that cannot be.”
Hal began to bluster again. “That is not for you to say!”
“Yes, it is. Adam de Churchedune is not subject to the jurisdiction of your court. He is in minor orders and can be judged only by Holy Church.”
Hal scowled. “He is not a priest, has never taken holy vows!”
“That is irrelevant. The Church’s position has always been quite clear upon this subject. It matters not if a man is in minor orders or if he be one of the Pope’s own cardinals. In either case, he is to be judged by the Church and only the Church.”
The mutterings were becoming louder now, the antagonism needing only a spark to burst into flame. Salisbury moved over to stand beside his friend, wondering if the Church was to get two new martyrs. Hal knew the sentiment in the hall was with him, and that realization was both encouraging and daunting. “I say he is to be judged here and now and by me, the liege lord he wronged! Go home, my lord bishop. You are not needed here.”
John looked around the hall, his gaze so piercing that not all of the men could meet his eyes. “Have you forgotten that bloodstained floor at Canterbury Cathedral?” he demanded. “St Thomas died for the very principle that you would violate. His quarrel with the king began because he would not agree to let clerics be judged in royal courts. Do you truly think that I could stand aside whilst you defy the Church and defame the blessed martyr’s holy memory? I tell you that you shall not harm this man,” he said, thrusting his arm toward Adam in a gesture reminiscent of an Old Testament prophet. “If it is God’s Will that I die in his defense, so be it.”
The image he’d called up of the archbishop’s mangled and bleeding body had a sobering effect upon the men. Even those most eager to see Adam suffer for his sins were starting to have second thoughts. Salisb
ury took heart from the sudden silence and decided it was time for the voice of reason to balance his friend’s splendid defiance. Approaching the dais, he addressed Hal with all the polite persuasion at his command. “My liege, I remember you well from your time in Archbishop Thomas’s household. You are a good son of the Church, would not want to bring upon yourself the shame and infamy that engulfed your lord father after the archbishop’s murder.”
One of the de Lusignans saw that Hal’s resolve was weakening, and shoved his way toward the young king. “Do not heed them, sire. Your House has a proud tradition of holding your ground against the Church’s encroachments. Remember what befell an arrogant Bishop of Seez who dared to defy your grandfather, Count Geoffrey of blessed memory. The count’s men deprived him of what no priest needs-his manhood.”
But he’d gone too far. Hal did not want to be associated with so brutal a deed. “My grandfather denied that they were acting upon his orders,” he said, turning some of his frustration and thwarted fury upon the de Lusignan agitator. “Will Marshal always warned me that you de Lusignans were an untrustworthy lot. I ought to have paid more heed to him.”
The de Lusignans were as known for their fiery tempers as for their sharp double-dealing, and the man gave Hal a look now that was murderous. But Marshal had shouldered his way over to Hal’s side, and he did not want to be challenged to a duel by combat, for Will’s lethal skills and enduring grudge against the de Lusignan clan would make him a very deadly foe, indeed.
Hal glanced at Will, appreciating his silent support and remembering that Will had argued against this from the beginning. Wishing he’d listened, he came down the steps of the dais, putting a swagger in his step as he halted before the Bishop of Poitiers. “I like it not,” he said coolly, “but I will spare that wretch out of the respect I have for you, my lord bishop.”
Adam’s gasp was almost a sob. He sank to his knees like a man whose body no longer had the strength to support him, his breath wheezing like a broken bellows. Salisbury reached over and put a hand on that heaving shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. But the Bishop of Poitiers had yet to take his eyes from Hal.
“Do I have your word upon that, my lord king?”
There were more resentful mutterings at that. Hal’s brows drew together, his mouth tightening. But the bishop continued to look at him expectantly, challengingly, and at last he gave a grudging promise that he would not seek to execute Adam for his treachery. Glaring at the quaking figure of his vice-chancellor, he warned, “I will not forget, though. Nor will I forgive.”
It was one of those rare, perfect summer days, splashed with golden sun, cooled by errant breezes, the sky the brilliant shade of blue more often seen in September than mid-August. The gardens at Winchester were in full bloom, and Eleanor and Amaria were enjoying the fragrant scents, the flight of gossamer-winged butterflies, and the antics of the spaniel that was Henry’s recent gift to Joanna.
“Melusine!” Amaria called, seeking to stop the puppy from digging in a raised flower bed of scarlet peonies. When the little dog ignored her warning, she bent down and scooped it up into her arms, where it began to chew contentedly upon the lacings of her gown. “What an odd name for a dog. What made your daughter choose it, Madame?”
“Melusine was the name of the Demon Countess of Anjou,” Eleanor said, smiling. “Her husband was very happy with her, but he became suspicious when she rarely attended Mass and always left before the consecration of the Host. So one day he ordered four of his knights to step upon her mantle and hold her there. Whereupon she gave a fearful scream, revealed herself to be the Devil’s daughter, and flew out a window, never to be seen again. Harry has such interesting ancestors.”
“Speaking of the Devil,” Amaria said with a grin. “Is that not your lord husband amongst those riders who’ve just passed through the gatehouse?”
Eleanor was not surprised by Henry’s arrival, for Joanna had told her that he’d arranged to hold a church council at Winchester in order to spend time with her before she departed for Sicily. Eleanor was surprised, though, by what Henry did once he’d dismounted. After glancing across the bailey toward the gardens, he handed his reins to a groom and walked in her direction.
As he entered the garden gate, Amaria took Melusine and discreetly withdrew out of earshot. Eleanor seated herself on a turf bench and watched him approach. Coming to a halt a few feet away, he gestured toward Amaria and the puppy. “Is that the dog I sent Joanna?”
Eleanor nodded. “It was love at first sight. Guess what she named it? Melusine.”
Henry’s mouth curved at the corners. “I knew it was a mistake to tell her that story. Where is she? Inside at her lessons?”
“No, she went into the city. It seems that one of the nuns of St Mary’s speaks Tuscan, and has agreed to teach her a few phrases. I explained that each region of Italy has its own dialect and what they speak in Tuscany might not be understood in Sicily, but you know Joanna once she gets an idea into her head.”
“You did remind her that William is of Norman descent and his first language is French?”
“I did. But she has her mind set upon being able to ‘speak to my people,’ as she puts it.”
Henry’s smile was touched with sadness. “I hope the Sicilians appreciate how lucky they are.” He hesitated and then sat beside her on the bench. “Is she nervous about the marriage?”
“Of course she is, even though she’d never admit it. She did confess to some unease, though, when the Bishops of Troye and Capua arrived at Winchester to make sure she was pretty enough to satisfy their king.”
Henry felt a flicker of resentment even now. “I never heard of such a thing,” he said indignantly. “Royal marriages are matters of statecraft, a means of forging alliances. Yet William would have his men inspect Joanna as if she were a prize filly! He is fortunate I did not end the negotiations then and there.”
“I assured Joanna she had no cause for concern, and indeed, they were bedazzled by her. In truth, though, I can understand William’s concern. He may be allying with England, but he’ll be living with a flesh-and-blood woman. Is it so surprising that he’d prefer a pleasing bedmate? He is said to be quite handsome himself, so he and Joanna ought to have beautiful children.”
Henry could think of few subjects less appealing than envisioning his ten-year-old daughter as a man’s bedmate, and he was irked with Eleanor for discussing it so nonchalantly. “Joanna is a child herself,” he said sharply. “I just pray to God that her husband remembers that.”
Eleanor understood then. This was the father here in the garden with her, not the king. “Harry…Joanna will become his wife, but not his bedmate, not yet. You know that the Church frowns upon consummation of the marriage until the girl reaches a more suitable age, at the very least until she has her flux.”
“That sounds well and good-in theory. But how can we be sure that it prevails in practice?”
“We cannot,” she said, with unsettling candor. “But from what we know of William, he does not sound like a man who’d enjoy deflowering a little girl. We have to remember that we judged him to be a worthy husband for Joanna. We should remember, too, that self-interest encourages men to follow the Church’s teachings in this matter. A very young wife is more likely to die in childbirth, and the babe, too. Princes and kings know that, and do not want to put their heirs or their alliances at needless risk.”
“I know, I know,” he said impatiently, before admitting, “The husbands of our older girls seem to have taken their ages into account.”
For a moment, they thought of their absent daughters. Tilda had been wed at age eleven to the Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, a man more than twenty-seven years her senior, a man older than her own father. She’d become a mother three times already, but she’d not had her first child until she was sixteen. Her sister, named after Eleanor, but known now by the Spanish Leonora, had wed the King of Castile at an even younger age than Tilda or Joanna; she’d been just nine. She was only
in her fifteenth year now, and so far, they’d heard nothing of any pregnancies.
Eleanor was astonished that they were actually having a conversation that was not only civil, but easy and unforced, even intimate. “We have to trust him, Harry, to do right by Joanna.” Unable to resist adding playfully, “After all, he is called William the Good. Surely that is a cause for reassurance?”
“He’s called that because his father was known as William the Bad,” Henry said, with a faint glimmer of sardonic humor. “It is just that…that Joanna is so fair…”
“Ah, I see. You fear that he might be tempted by her beauty, tempted enough to ignore the reality-that she is still a child.”
“Are you saying it never happens?” he challenged. “I’d wager that Louis consummated the marriage on your wedding night, and you were all of…what, thirteen?”
Eleanor blinked in surprise. “Well, yes,” she conceded. “How did you know?”
“For God’s sake, woman, no man would sleep chastely in your bed, not even a born monk like Louis!”
He was on his feet now, beginning to pace as she watched him in amused amazement. “Careful, Harry, that sounds suspiciously like a compliment.” She was at once sorry for the gibe, not wanting to spoil this unlikely rapport.
He shot her a sharp look, but surprised her again by not stalking off. Was he that troubled by Joanna’s marriage? Or had he something else on his mind? She decided to take advantage of the fact that they were still talking, see if she could extract some information from him about their sons. “I hear that Richard has been very successful since he returned to Poitou,” she said, waiting to see if he’d respond.
“Yes, he has done well. I had a message from him just four days ago, telling me that he’d taken Angouleme and was sending the captive counts to me for judgment.”
Eleanor was delighted; she hadn’t known that Richard’s triumph had been so sweeping. “We have a son to be proud of,” she said, and their eyes met and held for a heartbeat or two before he glanced away.
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