“Well, well, if it is not one of Hal’s pet lapdogs! They’d have done better to send a priest, but after the raids on St Martial’s, Grandmont, and Rocamadour, even Hal’s own chaplain has likely taken to his heels.”
Rob was enraged to be dismissed so disdainfully, but his anger was muted by exhaustion, for he’d covered more than seventy-five miles in less than two days. “I am speaking God’s Truth,” he insisted. “The young king was stricken with the bloody flux, and he is not expected to recover.” But to his despair, he saw that his words were echoing into a void; no one was paying him any heed and he was ushered out again, knowing that he had failed Hal in his moment of greatest need.
Henry had lapsed into silence as the argument raged around him, no longer attempting to rebut the objections coming fast and furious from his two sons; with fine teamwork, Richard and Geoff were taking turns reminding him of that arrow deflected by his hauberk, the death of his stallion outside the walls of the ville, the ambush upon Maurice de Craon, the treacherous assault upon his envoys by Geoffrey’s men, the lies, the betrayals, the numerous breaches of trust.
It was Henry’s uncharacteristic reticence that attracted Ranulf’s attention. When had Harry ever been passive in the face of defiance? Why was he even bothering to hear them out if he was set upon trusting his faithless son yet again? And then Ranulf understood. Harry was not free of doubts, either. Once more he found his head warring with his heart. And with that realization, Ranulf saw a path opening up through this maze.
“My liege, may I have a moment alone with you?” he asked, and while Richard and Geoff seemed reluctant to trust Henry out of their sight, the others took hope from this, for all knew that if any man could get through to the king, it would be his uncle. Henry seized upon the opportunity to escape his sons’ hectoring and led Ranulf out into the garth.
Twilight was laying claim to the cite, and the sky was a deepening shade of lavender, spangled with stars and fleecy clouds the color of plums. It was such a beautiful summer evening that Ranulf and Henry walked in silence for several moments, as if reluctant to sully this hallowed peace with the feuding and bad faith of mortal men. Without speaking, they crossed the garth and, by common consent, entered a side door of the cathedral. It was empty save for a lone canon, who discreetly disappeared when Henry frowned in his direction. Pacing up the nave, they halted at last in front of the high altar, and only then did Henry look challengingly at the older man.
“You cannot tell me, Uncle, that you would not go to Morgan if you received such a message.”
“Yes, I would go,” Ranulf admitted, but refrained from pointing out that Morgan had never given him reason to distrust his word, for he knew that his nephew was painfully aware of his son’s failings. “If you do go to Martel, we may have to sneak out in the middle of the night,” he said, only half joking, for he could see Richard and Geoff locking Henry in his chamber rather than let him risk his life and his kingdom on Hal’s word of honor.
“ We? Take care with your pronouns, Ranulf, lest you find yourself accompanying me to Martel,” Henry said dryly, and was surprised when his uncle smiled.
“I will go with you, Harry-if you answer one question. Can you honestly tell me that you have no doubts or suspicions about the truth of Hal’s story?”
Several tall candles burned on the high altar, and Ranulf thought he caught the glimmer of tears in his nephew’s eyes. Henry did not reply, and they both knew that was an answer in and of itself.
Ranulf had gone back to the bishop’s hall to tell the others that Henry would not be taking Hal’s bait, not this time. Henry was never to know how long he remained alone in the church. Until this June evening at Limoges, he would have said that the most despairing, desperate moment of his life had been passed at Canterbury, kneeling before Thomas Becket’s tomb. Now he knew better. Eventually one of the canons appeared, coming to a sudden stop as soon as he saw the motionless figure of the king. Before he could retreat, Henry beckoned him forward, giving a terse one-sentence command that sent the man hastening out into the night.
The Bishop of Agen did not keep Henry waiting long. “Sire? How may I be of service? Is it your wish that we pray together?”
Henry doubted that he had God’s Ear these days, but he kept that blasphemous thought to himself. “I have another mission in mind for you, my lord bishop. I want you to ride to Martel at first light, see for yourself if my son is ailing. And if you find…if you find that it is true, tell him for me that he has my forgiveness, that he has my love.”
The bishop inclined his head, feeling so much pity for the English king that he was momentarily mute. Henry didn’t notice. Tugging at a ring on his finger, he pulled it free and pressed it into the bishop’s hand. “Give him this. It was my grandfather’s, passed on to me by my mother when I was invested as Duke of Normandy. Hal will recognize it as mine.”
“It will be done, my lord king,” the bishop said quietly. But as he withdrew, he was struck by a disconcerting thought. Whatever he found in Martel, he would be bringing grievous news back to the king. What would be worse-that Hal was truly on his deathbed or that once again he’d taken shameless advantage of his father’s trust, exploiting his love to lure him into a lethal trap?
Hal continued to grow weaker, but his knights were convinced he would cling to life until he could make peace with his father, for now that he no longer feared eternal damnation, he was obsessed with righting the wrongs he’d done, especially to Henry. In a way, this was a mercy, for he was so concerned with making amends and making a “good death” that he’d not had time to mourn all that he was losing. A man who’d lived utterly for the pleasures of today with nary a thought for the morrow was now consumed with regrets, able to focus only upon his yearnings for salvation and forgiveness, and his friends prayed fervently that he would obtain both.
Will was not alone in thinking it unlikely that Henry would come, and as the hours slid by, they were finding it harder and harder to maintain a cheerful pose in Hal’s presence, to keep his hopes alive even as his body wasted away. He was displaying a single-minded resolve that he’d never shown before; he’d worked out in his mind how long it should take Rob to reach Limoges and then to return with Henry, and when Friday dawned, his eagerness was painful for the other men to watch.
Rob arrived as Vespers was chiming in the town churches. So guilt-stricken did he feel that he’d been tempted to take his time on his return trip, rationalizing that he’d be sparing Hal great pain as well as himself. Was it not better for Hal to die still hoping for reconciliation than to know his father had not believed him? But he continued to spur his horse onward, driven by a sense of duty that was stronger even than his sorrow. When he dismounted before the Fabri manor, he was mobbed by the other knights. But after one look at his haggard face, they asked no questions. The king would not be coming. Did it matter why?
To their surprise and relief, Hal seemed to take the news better than they did. He listened without speaking as Rob stammered and stuttered and tried to put the best possible face upon Henry’s refusal, and then he said softly, “It would have taken Merlin to make it happen, Rob. Do not blame yourself.”
Will was not fooled, though, by Hal’s composure, and when Hal then whispered for his ears alone, “I did not deserve his forgiveness,” the older man could not bear it and, excusing himself, started for the stables, determined to ride to Limoges himself. When Baldwin and Peter learned of his intent, though, they were able to talk him out of it by pointing out that it was too late. Even if Will could somehow convince the king, Hal would be dead long before they could get back to Martel. For Will, it was the worst moment of a wretched week. He was naturally a man of action, and he was finding it intolerable to watch helplessly as the young king’s earthly hours trickled away like sands in an hourglass. But he must be at Hal’s deathbed, for it was the last service he could perform for his lord.
Hal had been sincere when he said he did not deserve forgiveness; there could b
e few epiphanies as dramatic as one brought about by the awareness of impending death. But no matter how often he told himself that his punishment was just and fitting, he was anguished by his father’s rejection. If the man he’d finally become in the last week of his life could try to accept Henry’s judgment, the boy he’d always been cried out for mercy, needing his father to bring light into the encroaching darkness of his world, to say he understood and the slate of his misdeeds was wiped clean-just as he’d done time and time again.
When Will burst into the chamber and saw Hal lying so still, his eyes flew to the dying man’s chest, holding his own breath until he reassured himself that Hal still breathed. Baldwin and Peter were keeping watch, and they started to warn him to be quiet, grateful that Hal seemed to be sleeping at last. Will ignored them and leaned over the bed. “My liege, a messenger has just ridden in, sent by your lord father!”
Hal’s lashes flickered. “Truly?”
“It is Bertrand de Berceyras, the Bishop of Agen, and his escort, the Count of Perche.” Will glanced at Simon and jerked his head toward the door. The knight hurried to open it and ushered the men into the chamber. They both came to an abrupt halt when Will shifted, giving them their first look at Hal. That was all it took to banish their suspicions, doubts, and misgivings.
Rotrou of Perche was particularly remorseful, for he’d been one of Hal’s allies during the first rebellion, and when his eyes met Hal’s, he flushed. Hal acknowledged their past with a wan smile. “Who’d have thought, Rotrou, that I’d get to Hell ere you did?” As the bishop approached, he said hastily, “That was a joke, my lord…and a bad one. Have…have you really come from my father?”
“Indeed, my liege.” Bishop Bertrand was so shaken by Hal’s shocking decline that he unfastened his own paternoster from his belt and placed it on the pillow next to Hal, then reached out and took the young king’s hot, dry hand in his. “King Henry bade me tell you that he freely and gladly grants you full forgiveness for your sins, and that he has never ceased to love you.”
Hal’s lashes swept down, shadowing his cheeks like fans as tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, although the bishop was not sure if it was meant for him, for Henry, or for the Almighty.
“I bring more than words,” he said and, taking a small leather pouch from around his neck, he shook out a sapphire ring set in beaten gold. He started to tell Hal that this was Henry’s ring, but saw there was no need, for Hal could not have shown more reverence if he’d produced a holy relic.
“He does forgive me, then!” he cried and gave the bishop such a dazzling smile that for a moment the ravages of his illness were forgotten and they could almost believe this was the young king of cherished memory, the golden boy more beautiful than a fallen angel, able to ensnare hearts with such dangerous ease. Then the illusion passed and they were looking at a man gaunt, hollow-eyed, suffering, and all too mortal. Too weak to do it himself, Hal looked entreatingly at the bishop, saying, “Please…”
When the bishop slid the ring onto his finger, he smiled again and closed his eyes. A hush settled over the chamber. The bishop directed an urgent low-voiced question to Will, and sighed with relief when Will assured him that Hal had been shriven by the Bishop of Cahors and that he’d made his last testament, for that was every Christian’s duty.
Death seemed very close to them at that moment. But then Hal opened his eyes and said faintly, “I would send a letter…my father…” And that spurred them all into action. Within moments, pen, ink, and parchment had been found, and the bishop insisted upon taking them himself. “I’ve never had so exalted a scribe…” Hal whispered, and as the bishop bent forward to hear him, he tried to tell Bertrand what he wanted to say, but the words would not come and he looked at the older man imploringly.
“We could begin with a quote from Scriptures,” the bishop suggested, and when Hal nodded, he paused to think of an appropriate verse. “ Remember not the sins of my youth, or my transgressions. What would you say then, my lord?”
Will was holding a cup to Hal’s lips. He swallowed with an effort, saying, “Tell him that I am so sorry for letting him down…that I was a bad son and a bad king…” Will tilted the cup for him again, and his voice steadied somewhat. “Tell him of my love. Entreat him to forgive my mother, not to blame her for my sins…Marguerite, ask him to provide liberally for my wife…And to pardon my allies, to blame no one but me…my brother, Viscount Aimar, and the good people of Limoges…I beg him to make restitution to the abbeys I plundered…I stole from God, am so sorry…ask him to provide for my knights…to make right my wrongs…”
Doubting that he had the strength to continue, the bishop said soothingly, “Very well done, my liege. I have it all, every word. It wants only your seal. I can say with certainty that your lord father will be proud you have shown such heartfelt repentance for your sins.”
Hal was not through. “I want to be buried…at the Church of the Blessed Mary in Rouen. If only my father could pay my debts…” They thought he was done speaking then, but he added, so softly he could barely be heard, “So many regrets, so many…”
The bishop’s vision was blurring with tears, and as he looked up, he saw that the other men were weeping, too. Will leaned over and gently pressed his lips to Hal’s feverish forehead. At the touch, Hal’s eyes opened again. “Will,” he said drowsily, “so glad you came…” He seemed at peace for the first time, and Will sought to console himself with that. But then Hal’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Jesu! Durandal…”
Will and Baldwin exchanged bewildered looks, having no idea what he was talking about. Peter did, though, and he said swiftly, “You need not fret, my lord king. We will see that it is returned, I promise.”
Hal’s lips twitched in what was almost a smile. “Good lad…I’d not want the Lord Roland to think me a thief…” His voice trailed off, his lashes fluttering down again, and after that there was quiet in the chamber, his knights wiping away their tears as they watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, counting the breaths that were so tenuous each one seemed likely to be his last.
Saturday was market day in Martel, and Amand’s tavern would usually be doing a brisk business. Not this Saturday. The locals were staying at home behind locked doors, almost as if the town had been invaded by a pack of hungry wolves. Amand supposed that, in a way, they had, for the young king’s routiers were always on the prowl for prey. He had just decided to lock up and go home when the door banged open and some of those God-cursed coterels swaggered in. His stomach, delicate in the best of circumstances, lurched and he had to swallow the aftertaste of his morning’s breakfast, but he managed a sickly smile and gave Modette a push when she did not move.
Glaring at him resentfully, she waited till Sancho and his companions seated themselves at a trestle table facing the door. When they ordered wine, Amand hurried over to pour from one of the large casks and sent the reluctant Modette back with four full henaps, praying that these dangerous customers would drink and depart without smashing up the place, maltreating Modette, and stealing his meager profits, but not expecting to be so lucky.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sancho told the sullen serving maid, for flirting was an ingrained habit with him, even when he was in a sour mood, as he definitely was this noon. It was bad enough that the royal whelp was dying, but he was dying deeply in debt, and some of those deniers ought to have been theirs. Not only were they not going to be paid, but the war would likely sputter to a halt now that the rebels no longer had Hal to rally around. It had occurred to Sancho that with the dying king’s knights so busy mourning his approaching death, it would be an opportune time to help himself to whatever was left of their Rocamadour booty. But that had occurred to Couraban, too, and the hellspawn had beaten him to it, riding off yesterday with the last of their abbey plunder.
The men with him were his trusted lieutenants, forming the core of a band he’d led for several years, and he could be more candid wit
h them than with the rest of their company, so they were aware of their financial woes. They did not appear overly concerned, though, for they had confidence in Sancho’s cunning and were sure he’d come up with something.
When Pere said as much, Sancho shrugged off the compliment, but he never took their support for granted. They were a motley lot, he supposed, for they did not even have a shared language. He and his cousin Ander were Basques, Pere was a Catalan, Gerhard a Fleming, and Jago…God alone knew what mongrel blood ran in that one’s veins; most likely his own mother had not known. But what they had in common was stronger than their differences, for they were Ishmaels, condemned to live on the fringes of society, scorned even by the same lords who paid for their services. This hostility had forged a strong sense of solidarity, an us-versus-them mentality that often stood them in good stead. Sancho knew, though, that their loyalty depended upon his ability to produce, to keep their ventures profitable, and Hal’s death was undeniably a setback.
A squeal from Modette interrupted his brooding. She’d brought more wine to their table and Gerhard’s arm now snaked around her waist, pulling her down onto his lap. The other men paid her no heed as she squirmed to free herself, her eyes narrowing to slits when his hand groped under her skirt. Just then Ander entered the tavern, though, and she took advantage of Gerhard’s momentary distraction to slip from his grasp, hastily putting distance between them as Amand looked on in dismay, fearing she’d expect him to speak up for her. Modette knew better, though, than to depend upon that frail reed, and impaling him with a contemptuous look, she began to back toward the door leading into their storeroom.
She had some good fortune then, in a life that had been singularly lacking in it. Ander brought news they found so interesting that she was forgotten, even by Gerhard. Pulling up a stool, Ander yelled to Amand for wine before saying, “Well, you missed quite a show, mates. I am surprised they did not charge admission, it was that good.”
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