A memory stirred for Willem. “I remember. The young man who was spying upon the French king for you. His name was…Luc, no?”
“Well, that is the name he was using,” Henry said, with a faint smile. “He has not been at the French court for well over a twelvemonth, though. His mother was born in the Limousin, and after she was widowed, she chose to return to her family in Limoges. She took ill last year, and Luc hastened to Limoges to look after her until she recovered. He’d intended to return to Philippe’s service, but when he discovered that one of his cousins was a household knight of Viscount Aimar’s, he thought that might be a better place to fish than Paris and arranged to be taken on, too.”
Henry smiled again. “I suspect he was finding life rather dull at Philippe’s court, whereas the Limousin was bound to be a fertile ground for intrigue and rebellion, which is mother’s milk to him. I am surprised that he did not discover Hal’s plotting, for he misses little and my son plays at conspiracy as if it were a game of camp-ball. I can only assume that Aimar was more careful.”
Geoff looked away lest his father see his anger, for he knew his was an expressive face. He did not have a forgiving nature, as he’d be the first to admit, and he’d never forgiven his half brothers or the queen for their betrayal. He was an admirer of Richard’s battle skills and he thought that Geoffrey was showing a deft touch in his dealings with the Breton lords, but he had no use whatsoever for Hal, was one of the few at court who was utterly immune to the young king’s charm.
When Luc was escorted into the chamber, Willem had to remind himself that nigh on nine years had passed, for the younger man seemed to have kept time at bay; he looked much as he had when Willem had last seen him, on the road to Rouen. He still put Willem in mind of a wolf masquerading as a domestic dog, sleek and supple and dangerous.
Stepping forward, Luc knelt at the king’s feet. Henry’s welcoming smile faded as he got his first look at Luc’s face. His agent was so somber that he knew at once something was very wrong. Gesturing for Luc to rise, he braced himself for yet more bad news. “What have you come to tell me?”
“What I wish could have been done by someone else, my liege,” Luc said in a low voice, and when his dark eyes locked with Henry’s grey ones, the older man was chilled by what he saw in them-pity. “My lord king, there is no easy way to say it. Your son has betrayed you.”
Henry’s relief was so great that he laughed aloud. “You need not tread so carefully, Luc. I already know of my son’s scheming with the Viscount of Limoges and the others. The young king made a full and public confession at my Caen Christmas Court.”
Luc sighed and then shook his head. “You do not understand, my liege. I am not speaking of the young king, but of your other son, the Duke of Brittany.”
Henry was incredulous and, then, enraged. “That is a lie!”
Luc faced his anger without flinching. “My lord king, do you truly believe I would give you such grief if I were not sure? I ask you only to hear me out.”
Henry was regretting his flare of temper. Luc had earned better than that. He was mistaken-obviously-but he was not lying. “Speak, then,” he said. “I will listen.”
“The lord duke arrived in Limoges last week,” Luc began, and Henry could not help interrupting.
“I know that, Luc. I sent Geoffrey to Limoges, instructing him to persuade Aimar and the other barons to meet me next month at Mirebeau. So there is nothing suspicious about his presence there.”
“I know his peace mission was the public reason given for his arrival in Limoges. But what troubled me from the first was that Aimar and the others welcomed Lord Geoffrey more like an ally than a mediator. I had no proof, nothing to go on but my instincts. They’ve served me well in the past, though, and so I kept my eyes open and my ears pricked. The duke is a cautious man, not one to boast of his shifting alliances, but I got lucky. I happened to overhear him instructing a courier, and so I trailed inconspicuously after them into the stables. He gave the man a sealed letter, told him that it must be delivered to Lord Raoul de Fougeres without delay and warned him of the urgency of his undertaking.”
“I do not find it strange that he’d be sending a message to one of his Breton barons,” Henry said, but he was now sounding more defensive than defiant, for he, too, put a great deal of trust in Luc’s instincts.
“It could well have been utterly innocent,” Luc admitted. “I knew only that I wanted to get my hands upon that letter, and so when the courier rode out, I followed him. I did not expect to get a chance to steal it until that evening, but the fool stopped in a Limoges tavern on his way out of town, and put away enough wine to need to relieve himself in an alley nearby. I slipped in behind him and clouted him ere he even knew I was there.”
Luc would normally have digressed from his account at this point, explaining there was a spot behind the ear that could render a man unconscious ere he hit the ground, for Henry was interested in esoteric facts like that. Now, though, he knew better, for the king’s color was taking on a waxen hue. “I took his purse and ring, too, to make it look like a robbery, and I am sure that was how he explained it to the lord duke when he eventually woke up, doubtless conjuring up three or four brigands against whom he’d struggled fiercely.”
When Henry said nothing, Luc reached into his tunic and withdrew a rolled parchment. “You’ll recognize the lord duke’s seal, sire. He tells Raoul de Fougeres to dispatch the routiers they’d hired, saying war is imminent and he expects Lord Richard to take the offensive and strike first, so the sooner the routiers can reach the Limousin, the better.”
Henry was still silent, but when Luc held out the letter, he took it. Glancing down at the elegant, slanting handwriting, he recognized it at once as his son’s. Keeping his gaze upon that damning document, he said huskily, “You’ll be well rewarded for this service, Luc, but that can wait. For now, you’ll be wanting a meal. Tell my steward to see that you’re fed and then to find you a bed, and a wench, if you want one.”
“Thank you, sire,” Luc murmured, and backed out of the solar. Geoff and Willem had sat frozen, finding it almost as hard as Henry to credit the spy’s revelation. They exchanged troubled glances, neither knowing what to say. But as the door closed behind Luc, Henry raised his head.
“Find my son, Willem,” he said. “Fetch him here straightaway.”
“ So you claim you knew nothing of Geoffrey’s treachery?” Henry’s eyes bore into Hal’s, and there was such icy accusation in his voice that his eldest felt heat rising in his face.
“Jesu, of course I did not!” Hal insisted, with all the indignation he could muster. “Had I suspected Geoffrey was so vulnerable to Aimar’s blandishments, I’d have come to you in private and argued against sending him to Limoges.”
“How can I doubt you when you’ve always been so devoted to my interests?” Henry said, with sarcasm that cracked like a whip.
“Papa, I understand that your nerves are on the raw after getting such news. But it is not fair to blame me for what Geoffrey has done. We’re not even that close. If he’d been planning this beforehand-and I doubt that he was-he’d hardly have confided in me, not when he was planning to usurp my place in the rebel plot. It is true that you addressed my grievance by taking Clairvaux from Richard.” Hal paused and then smiled wryly. “But in all honesty, any peace between Richard and me is likely to last as long as a whore’s chastity vow. Sooner or later, he’ll start lusting after Angevin lands again. When he does, I’d like to be able to rally his barons to my side, and what better way to do that than to put forward my own claim to Aquitaine?”
There was a certain wayward logic in Hal’s argument, something persuasive in his candid admission that he’d not ruled out making another try for Aquitaine if circumstances warranted it. Seeing Henry’s hesitation, Hal swiftly pressed his advantage. “So why would I want to see Geoffrey as the new Duke of Aquitaine? If Geoffrey held both Brittany and Aquitaine, that would give him far too much power for my comfort. I tru
st Geoffrey more than Richard, but then I’d trust the Saracen chieftain Saladin more than Richard.”
Henry turned to the table, poured a cup of wine, and let the liquid trickle down his throat. But he knew that all the wine in the world would not wash away the foul taste in his mouth. Sitting down in the closest chair, he looked from Geoff to Willem, then back to Hal. “Why do you think this was not premeditated?”
“Because I know how persuasive Aimar can be, Papa. If he seduced women the way he seduces allies, he’d have sired enough bastards to populate an entire city. In fairness to Aimar, he has just cause for loathing life under Richard’s reign. It shows you how desperate they are that they turned to Geoffrey now that I am no longer available. And in fairness to Geoffrey, I daresay they bedazzled him with their promises; Aimar is good at that. He’d never expected more than Brittany, and that comes with a price-having to put up with Constance. How many younger sons would not have been tempted by the riches of Aquitaine?”
“You make a curious defense of your brother, Hal, by pleading his weakness and greed.”
“Who amongst us is without sin, Papa? As far as I am concerned, much of the blame rests with Richard, for Geoffrey would not have gotten himself entangled with Aimar if Richard had not pushed them into rebellion.” Hal was surprised to see how much his father seemed to have aged in a matter of hours, and he found himself wanting to offer some genuine consolation. Moving to Henry’s side, he knelt by him so their eyes were level and said earnestly, “You ought not to take this too much to heart, Papa. You are not the target here-Richard is. I hope you’ll bear that in mind and, for once, let him reap what he has sown.”
Henry looked into Hal’s eyes, saw sincerity and sympathy and an utter inability to understand that Geoffrey’s double-dealing was putting their entire empire at risk. “I am glad we had this talk,” he said wearily. “I want you to tell my council and court that Geoffrey has gone over to the rebels. They’ll have to know…”
“I will do it now,” Hal promised, getting lightly to his feet and letting his hand drop to Henry’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Glancing toward the other men, he said, “Willem, Geoff? Do you want to come with me?” Again, that rueful smile surfaced. “I know how tattered my credibility is in some eyes, and none would doubt either of you.”
When Willem rose, Geoff had no choice but to rise, too. Wishing he had the power to see into his brother’s brain, he regarded Hal with poorly concealed antagonism. He was willing to admit that Hal’s performance had been convincing, but that was the trouble; he suspected it was a performance. Henry gave no indication of wanting him to stay, and so he followed the others to the door. But then he looked back, and what he saw caused him to catch his breath as if he’d taken a blow, for, thinking himself alone, Henry had leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
By the time he found Willem, Geoff was seething, so flushed and distraught that he looked as if he were at risk for an apoplectic fit. “Have you heard?” he demanded. “Hal has offered to go to Limoges to coax Geoffrey into abandoning the rebels, and my father has agreed to let him!”
“I know,” Willem said morosely, “but for God’s sake, lower your voice, Geoff, or they’ll be able to hear you in Saumur.”
“I think my father has lost his mind,” Geoff said, but in more circumspect tones. “How can he trust Hal on such a mission? Let’s assume he is not already in this plot up to his neck, though that takes more faith than I have. How is he supposed to bring Geoffrey back to the fold? He has as much backbone as a hemp rope, and like as not, Geoffrey will talk him into joining the rebellion!”
“You do not have to convince me, Geoff. I agree with you.”
“Then you must go to my father, make him see that this is a great mistake. I tried, but he’d not hear me. Mayhap if you voiced your concerns, too-”
“I already have, to no avail. He would not heed me either.”
Geoff’s breath hissed through his teeth, and his chest heaved as he sought to get his temper under control. “Why?” he asked simply, and Willem had no answer for him.
“I do not know,” he confessed. “I remember the way Harry was ere he did penance at Canterbury. You were not with us, then, Geoff, but he sailed in a gale that the Devil himself would have shunned. It was almost as if he were leaving his fate up to the Almighty, leaving it to God to choose whether he prevailed or not. It may be that he is doing that again.” Willem shook his head and repeated, “I just do not know.”
None of that made any sense to Geoff. “What can we do?”
Willem’s shoulders slumped. “We can pray that his trust in Hal is justified.”
Hal crossed the chamber and embraced his father, which he’d not done in years. “You will not be sorry, Papa. I’ll not let you down,” he promised. “When all this is done, you’ll have no reasons for regrets.”
“Go with God, Hal,” Henry said softly, not moving until the young king had departed the chamber. He went, then, to the window, flung the shutters open and, heedless of the cold, gazed down into the castle bailey. Hal soon emerged and started toward his men, who were already mounted. Catching sight of Willem and Geoff, he veered in their direction. Henry could not hear what was being said; he assumed Hal was bidding them farewell. Willem, ever the courtier, was responding courteously, but Geoff was glowering, looking rather like Richard in one of his rages. Henry knew they were distraught over his decision to let Hal go after Geoffrey. It was not something he could explain, though, for it was neither logical nor wise in light of Hal’s past history. It was not the king who was setting Hal loose; it was the father. His head and heart were at war, and he could no longer endure the uncertainty. He had to know if his eldest son could be trusted, and this was the only way to find out. If Hal let him down, it could not be more painful than Geoffrey’s betrayal, for he’d never seen that coming. At least there’d be no surprise if Hal confirmed his fears and betrayed him, too. Better he knew the worst, for then he could deal with it.
Hal was mounted now on a prancing grey stallion. Glancing up, he saw Henry and waved jauntily before riding out. Henry stayed at the window, not moving until long after Hal was no longer in sight.
For months, Hal’s emotions had been swinging back and forth like a pendulum in a high wind. Never had he felt so conflicted, so confused. Whenever Richard had the upper hand, he’d burned to bring his brother down, furious and frustrated that his chance for rebellion was slipping away. But whenever Richard had taken a misstep and fallen from their father’s favor, he’d been beset by doubts, feeling as if he was being pressured into making a decision ere he was ready. He’d departed Angers in high spirits, confident and eager for what lay ahead. The trip had been long enough, though, for misgivings to creep back in, and as he approached Limoges, he felt more like a hostage to fortune than the commander of his own fate.
Limoges was actually two cities, the ville, which held the great abbey of St Martial and the viscount’s castle, and the cite, site of the bishop’s palace and cathedral. Each was enclosed within its own ramparts, and, as was so often the case, the rivalry between the ville and the cite was not good-natured. As they were coming from the north, Hal reached the ville first, and he drew rein once they neared the Montmeiller gate, saying a silent prayer that he’d made the right decision and asking the Almighty to send another sign that it was so.
The gates were open and they were close enough now to see the people thronging the narrow streets, waving and cheering. Hal and his men rode into a warm welcome, found themselves acclaimed as heroes by people eager to throw off Duke Richard’s yoke. Hal was already popular in Limoges, for he’d always been generous with his spending and alms-giving, and now he was hailed as their savior, the man who would deliver them from Richard’s harsh rule.
Hal’s spirits soared and he acknowledged the acclaim with grace and a shower of coins. This was clearly a good omen, a portent of success to come, and he forgot the qualms that had been nagging at him in recent days. He hadn’t b
een lying when he’d assured Henry that he’d have no reason for regrets, for he honestly believed that all of their problems would be resolved if only he could gain control of Aquitaine. The duchy’s deep coffers would allow him to support his household in kingly style, no longer dependent upon Henry’s miserly pension, and that would be bound to improve their relationship, eliminating the worst bone of contention between them. Once Richard was defeated, all would be well.
Ahead lay the viscount’s castle, and he saw his brother and Aimar standing in the gateway, watching his triumphant procession. With banners streaming in the wind, escorted by the enthusiastic citizenry, Hal reined in before them, swung to the ground, and embraced Geoffrey, then Aimar.
“An imaginative touch,” Geoffrey said dryly, looking to the conspicuous white flag of truce, and Hal grinned, sure that he was where he was meant to be, doing God’s Work and soon to have the power that a king ought to wield.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
February 1183
Gorre, Limousin
The village was a scene of devastation. The houses that were not charred ruins had doors smashed in, their contents ransacked by men in search of booty. Some of the soldiers were sleeping in these cottages, finding them more comfortable than their tents, and the stench was rank, for routiers rarely bothered to dig latrines. A few bodies lay where they’d fallen, those villagers who’d not fled in time. Piles of entrails were strewn about, what was left of livestock butchered for food. The animals that were not needed by the camp cooks were dead, too, for one of the aims of a chevauchee was to wreak havoc upon an enemy’s lands. Even the cemetery had not been spared, some of the graves dug up by men hoping to find that the more prosperous burghers had been buried with rings or other valuables.
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