“As entertaining as your rants always are, I have no more time to waste with you.” Hal started to brush past his brother, but Richard grabbed his arm.
“We are not done here!”
Hal swung around and brought the stiffened edge of his hand down upon Richard’s wrist, breaking his brother’s hold. Richard lunged forward just as the priest desperately flung himself between them. Both of the king’s sons were much taller than he, and he found himself crushed between them, his nose buried in Richard’s mantle, unable to see their faces but feeling such tension in their bodies that he was terrified there’d be blood shed in his church, for he’d remembered that they’d be carrying eating knives.
“My lords, please…” he pleaded, but they were exchanging curses, calling each other names so vile that he doubted they’d even heard him. They did hear, though, the astonished exclamation from the direction of the door, and they stepped back, allowing Father Matthew to breathe again as they confronted two of their father’s most distinguished guests, the Archbishops of Canterbury and Dublin.
The Archbishop of Canterbury was a mild-mannered individual, utterly unlike his predecessor, the fiery Thomas Becket, not one who’d be eager to rebuke the king’s sons. Fortunately for Father Matthew, the Archbishop of Dublin was made of sterner stuff. “What sort of outrageous behavior is this?” he demanded, striding down the nave so swiftly that his cope billowed out behind him, giving him the appearance of a ship under full sail. “Would you spill blood in God’s House? For shame, my lords, for shame!”
Hal recovered his poise first, patting the priest apologetically on the shoulder as he moved to greet the prelates. “You are quite right, my lord archbishop. There is no excuse for our bad behavior, and I beg your pardon. I will be sure to confess this transgression to my chaplain so that he may impose a suitable penance.”
Watching as his brother pacified the archbishops, Richard shook his head in disgust. He knew he should keep silent, but he’d been watching Hal perform these conjuring tricks as long as he could remember, and as Hal started up the aisle with the clerics, his bitterness spilled over. “You could rob a man blind in broad daylight and then somehow make it seem as if he were the one at fault. But if you meddle again in Aquitaine, all your smiles and pretty compliments will not save you. Nothing will!”
Hal could recognize an opportunity when he was presented with one, and he paused at the door, then turned without haste, and looked back at his furious brother. “You put me in mind, Richard, of a cuckolded husband bewailing his wife’s infidelity, when he is the one who drove her into another man’s arms.” And confident that he’d gotten the last word, he departed the church with the archbishops, leaving Richard standing by the high altar, fuming, but vowing that Hal would not get away with his treachery, not this time.
On the day after Christmas, Henry was obliged to hold a hearing to adjudicate a bizarre incident that had happened during the Christmas feast. As a silver basin of scented water was borne to the king’s table so that he and his guests might wash their hands before the meal began, William de Tancarville, a highborn Norman baron, had rushed forward, forcibly seized the basin, and insisted upon carrying it to Henry himself, refusing afterward to surrender the basin to Henry’s indignant chamberlain. De Tancarville did not lack for enemies, and protests were made, resulting in the next day’s session. Henry had no liking for de Tancarville, for the baron had been one of the first to defect to Hal in the rebellion of 1173, but he accepted the man’s passionate defense: that as the hereditary chamberlain of Normandy, it was his sole privilege to attend his duke on ceremonial occasions.
While Hal had been amused by the fracas in the hall, he was fidgeting and squirming in his seat as he listened to de Tancarville proclaim his right to retain custody of the silver basin, for it had occurred to him that Richard might see this as the ideal forum to charge him with subverting his rule in Aquitaine. He was reasonably confident that Richard did not have convincing evidence yet, but his brother might well choose to make a public scene after their confrontation in St George’s chapel. He was relieved, therefore, when the proceedings were finally concluded, and Richard’s window of opportunity slammed shut. But before Henry or any of the lords could withdraw, Will Marshal strode toward the center of the hall and declared, “My lord king” in a clear, carrying voice.
Henry sat down again reluctantly, wondering why he could not enjoy one peaceful Christmas without any drama or strife. But then he saw that the king being approached was Hal, and he settled back to watch, as did the rest of the men in the hall.
“Sire, hear me.” Will was very nervous, more uneasy than he’d ever been before a tournament or a battle, but when he spoke, his voice revealed none of his inner turmoil. “I have been unjustly accused of a vicious and vile act of treason. I am here to defend myself before you and your noble father and these assembled lords and barons. Have the men who accused me come forward and agree to meet me in combat. I will fight three of them in turn, and if I am defeated in any contest, I am willing to forfeit my life, for I would not want to live if I could not clear my name.”
As soon as Will stopped speaking, the hall was utterly still. Hal could feel every eye upon him, and he felt a sudden flare of anger, resentment that Will should pick this inopportune moment to make his overwrought, theatrical challenge. Will made it sound as if he were not in control of his own household knights. His father was watching him with an enigmatic expression, and Geoffrey looked puzzled, but Richard was smiling faintly, and that smile was enough to arouse all of Hal’s suspicions. Had Richard put Will up to this? They’d always been too friendly for his liking. For that matter, Will was de Tancarville’s cousin. Could that odd event have been deliberately staged to give Will this chance to appear before the king’s court? If he allowed the trial by combat, this would drag on for three days, delaying their departure from Caen. Was that what Richard had in mind? Was he seeking time to produce witnesses, a Poitevin baron that he’d coerced into making a confession?
“I do not know what you are talking about, Marshal,” he said sharply, “and I will not have my household disrupted with petty personal quarrels. There will be no trial by combat. Now let that be an end to it.”
Will looked at him gravely, and to Hal’s discomfort, he felt heat rising in his face under that unblinking regard. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, and that seemed to break the spell. But instead of withdrawing, Will turned and knelt before Henry.
“Sire, I can no longer remain at court. I beg you to grant me safe conduct through your domains.” Henry was glad to do so, wishing he could rid himself of all of Hal’s knights, and Will bowed stiffly, then departed the hall, holding his head high and paying no heed to the buzz of questions and conjecture that swirled in his wake.
Will Marshal’s actions had created a furor, and for the rest of the evening, there was no other topic of conversation, for Will was a star on the tournament circuit, and all thought it odd that Hal would have parted with such a redoubtable knight. Most of the men did not know what Will had been accused of, for the rumors had not spread much beyond Hal’s household. Shaken by Will’s challenge, for none of them wanted to meet him on the field, the conspirators kept quiet, doing their best not to call attention to themselves. The paucity of facts did not discourage gossip, though, and it seemed to Hal that there was not a soul in Caen who did not have a theory about Will’s fall from favor, and every last one of them was eager to expound upon it at great length.
Hal discovered now that there was a drawback to the sort of popularity he’d long enjoyed. He was well liked by virtually everyone and greatly admired for his tournament successes, but men felt free to approach him with a familiarity they’d not have dared to show his father or Richard. Much to his annoyance, he found himself having to deflect obtrusive questions, avid curiosity, and speculation that he considered both unseemly and presumptuous. Pride kept him from making an early departure from the hall, but when he was finally able to withdr
aw to his own chambers, he was weary and thoroughly out of sorts.
But in his bedchamber, Hal found that an unpleasant evening was about to get much worse. Marguerite had excused herself after they’d eaten, pleading a headache, but she was still fully dressed, and her face was so pale and drawn that he felt a pang of guilt, for he’d been so consumed with his own troubles that he’d not had a thought to spare for her.
“Sweetheart, you do not look well at all. Shall I send Benoit to summon a doctor?” Glancing around the chamber, he noticed for the first time that neither his squires nor Marguerite’s ladies were in attendance. “Where did the lads wander off to?”
“I dismissed them.” Marguerite startled Hal by crossing the chamber and sliding the bolt into place. She stayed by the door, arms folded tightly across her breasts. “I must know, Hal. Do you believe that gossip about Will Marshal and me?”
Hal was shocked. “Jesu, you heard that?”
“Agace came to me, believing-correctly-that I needed to know. It did not occur to me that you credited it, though-not until today.”
“Sweetheart, of course I do not believe it!” He moved swiftly to her side, but when he put his arm around her, her body remained rigid in his embrace. “Never for a moment did I think there might be any truth to it. I swear that to you, Marguerite, upon the soul of our dead son, may God assoil him.”
He could feel some of the tension go out of her shoulders, but when she gazed up into his face, her blue eyes were still shadowed with anxiety and uncertainty. “You do believe, though, that Will made improper advances to me. And he did not, Hal, that I swear, too, upon our son.”
“Marguerite, there is no need for this. I know Will would never betray me like that.”
Then why did you let him leave your court in disgrace? Marguerite did not voice the question, even though it burned on her tongue. Instead, she allowed herself to take a moment of comfort in her husband’s arms, clinging to him as her refuge in a world gone mad.
Hal kissed the tear tracks on her cheeks, murmuring love words and endearments. But after a time, he said, “Sweetheart, why did you not come to me about this? I never dreamed that you’d heard these vile rumors. Why did you not tell me?”
“Because I know you’ve been troubled and uneasy in your mind about something and I did not want to add to your worries,” she said, surprising herself by how readily the lie came to her lips. In truth, she’d been waiting for him to take action, to banish the culprits from his court, and she still did not understand why he’d not done that.
“Hal…if you believe Will to be innocent of these charges, why are you still so displeased with him? What has he done that you cannot forgive?”
“It is not important,” he insisted, and he sought to stop further questions with kisses. But for once, she was not as compliant. Stepping back, she searched his face intently and then repeated her question. Hal was momentarily at a loss. He did not like lying outright to her, considered that a more serious marital offense than lies of omission.
“Tell me,” she pleaded. “We promised there’d be no secrets between us, not like your parents. It has long been obvious to me that something is wrong, and I’ve been waiting for you to confide in me. I can wait no longer, Hal. I want to know now, tonight.”
He was both surprised and amused by her sudden assertiveness. But he was touched, too, and he realized that he did need to talk about his concerns. At least with Marguerite, he could rely upon her utter loyalty. Leading her over to the bed, he sat down with her, and after a brief hesitation, he began to speak. There was a relief in being able to speak candidly about his ambivalence, and he ended up telling her more than he’d initially intended. By the time he was done, she knew it all-the conspiracy with the lords of the Limousin and Poitou, the dazzling prospects offered by the capture of Aquitaine, his overtures to Geoffrey and her brother, Philippe, his temptations and his misgivings, even his chapel altercation with Richard.
“So,” he concluded, “now you know.” He waited expectantly, but she stayed silent, and her head was lowered, hiding her face from him. “Marguerite?”
“What do you want me to say?” When she glanced up at last, her eyes reminded him of the way Will had gazed at him in the hall, the silent reproach of a dog unable to understand why it had just been kicked. “Why, Hal, why must you risk so much?”
“Because there is so much to gain!” He was on his feet now, needing to move as he sought to deal with his disappointment. “You sound just like Will, but I expected better of you, Marguerite. You’re my wife, and if I cannot rely upon your heartfelt support, then I am truly alone midst my enemies!”
“Of course I support you! It is just that…that I fear for you, too, beloved.”
Her eyes were shimmering with tears, and he was quick to take her in his arms. They clung together with an urgency that revealed their shared misery more than words could have done, for they’d failed each other and on some level, they both understood that-Hal let down by her tepid response, Marguerite horrified by his intrigues and planned betrayals. Hastily shedding their clothes, they fell into bed. Their lovemaking was intense, ironically given an impassioned edginess by the very fears they were trying to escape. Afterward, Hal had no trouble sliding into an exhausted, sated sleep. Marguerite was not so lucky.
She lost track of the time, but she heard Hal’s squires enter and bed down, heard church bells pealing in the distance, heard dogs barking, all the familiar sounds of night. But there was nothing familiar about her world, not anymore. She gently stroked Hal’s tousled fair hair, and he murmured her name in his sleep, instinctively reaching out for her warmth and softness. Her throat was so tight that it hurt, for she was determined to choke back her tears. Oh, my beautiful boy, what have you done? She had no memories of a life without Hal. She still loved him dearly, would love him until she drew her last breath. But it was as if their roles had reversed, for she suddenly felt so much older and wiser than he. Watching him sleep, she found herself wondering if the Almighty, in His Infinite Wisdom, had taken her son because her husband would always be as he was now, a charming child adrift upon stormy seas.
A pallid winter dawn had not yet dispersed the night shadows, and a few stars still glimmered along the horizon. Because it was so early, the castle was not yet astir, and Will’s leavetaking was witnessed only by a small group of friends and a few sleepy-eyed guards. Baldwin de Bethune and Simon de Morisco were doing their best to act hearty and jovial, making bad jokes and pretending that this morn was no different from any number of past departures. Will appreciated the effort, just as he appreciated their attempts to reassure him that his future still shone brightly, that Christendom was full of lords eager to snap him up like a starving trout. The practical part of his nature knew that they were right; he’d have no trouble finding a place in another great household. But that knowledge did not blunt the sharp edges of his newfound awareness-that he was thirty-five years old, with no lands or wife, cast aside by the man who’d been his friend, his liege lord, his lodestar.
He was not going alone, accompanied by his squire, Eustace de Bertrimont, and a few fellow knights who’d pledged themselves to his banner when it was flying high and were unwilling to abandon him now that his luck had soured. As he looked about at these loyal men, he could not help remembering how proud he’d been the first time he’d fought in a tournament as a knight banneret, leading his own company of men. That had been at Lagny, the tourney held after the young French king’s coronation. Was that truly only two years past? It felt like a lifetime ago.
When his eyes began to burn, he awkwardly embraced his friends, submitted to their equally clumsy hugs, and swung up into the saddle. With their farewells echoing in his ears, he and his small party rode toward the gatehouse and out onto the drawbridge. The dawn continued to lighten, and a brisk wind sent clouds scudding across the sky. It would be a good day for travel. Spurring his stallion, he settled into an easy canter, not allowing himself to look back, keeping hi
s eyes on the road ahead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
January 1183
Le Mans, Anjou
Hal no longer had qualms about going ahead with the conspiracy. When he’d asked the Almighty for a divine sign, he’d not expected what he’d gotten. But the wrathful chapel altercation with his brother had dispelled his doubts. Aquitaine was worth fighting for, and Richard deserved to be defeated and shamed if any man did. Their father had to believe that Richard was the one in the wrong, though, if they hoped to keep him out of it, and so Hal was grateful for his brother’s fiery, impulsive nature. If Richard had been more calculating, he’d have said nothing until he’d assembled his proof and then set up an ambush. As it was, Hal had the opportunity to plan his own response, and by the time the confrontation came, he was ready for it.
Summoned to Henry’s bedchamber, he found his father and Richard waiting for him. Richard was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, looking both defiant and expectant. Henry shared none of his son’s anticipation; he looked tired and troubled. “Come in, Hal,” he said. “Your brother has made some grave accusations against you. For all our sakes, I hope he is mistaken. These charges are too serious, though, to be dismissed out of hand. I thought it best that we discuss this matter in private. But if there is truth to his claims…”
Richard shot Henry a resentful glance. Could the old man make it any plainer how eager he was to believe Hal’s denials? “Hal has been conspiring with my vassals against me,” he said coldly, for he was determined to be matter-of-fact, not to let Hal bait him into losing his temper. “I do not know who was the instigator, whether he came to them with honeyed promises of a lenient lordship or whether they sought him out first. It does not really matter, does it? What does is that they have engaged in treason, scheming to depose me as Duke of Aquitaine and put Hal in my stead.”
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