“I take it the royal whelp is not dead yet?”
“He is still clinging to life like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. But to give the lad credit, he is going out in a blaze of glory. He began by confessing again, first in private to the bishops and then in public to anyone who cared to listen. I sidled in at the back, having never heard a royal confession. I have to say it was a great disappointment. He seems to have lived a very dull life, for he had no truly interesting sins to disavow, mainly boring misdeeds like betraying his old man and harrying monks and the like.”
“You’re being too hard on him, Ander,” Jago protested. “Naturally you’d find his transgressions tiresome when compared to yours. You’ll never find a priest corrupt enough or drunk enough to absolve you of your sins, but the rest of us do what we can.”
Ander dug Jago in the ribs with his elbow, but Sancho put a stop to the horseplay before it could escalate. “That does not sound like much of a ‘show’ to me-a dying man confessing to tedious sins.”
“Ah, but he was only getting started. Next he insisted that they garb him in a hair-shirt. Damned if I know where they found one. That bunch does not seem likely to carry hairshirts in their saddle bags, do they?”
“They must have borrowed Gerhard’s,” Pere gibed, and the Fleming kicked him under the table, but missed and got Ander instead.
“Swine,” Ander said, without heat. “I am not done yet, you cocksuckers. The fool then had them put a noose around his neck and pull him from his bed onto the floor and over to a bed of ashes he’d ordered them to make.”
This was met with exclamations and expressions of disbelief, but Sancho came to his cousin’s defense. “I believe it,” he said. “Our young princeling has quite a liking for high drama. It would not be enough for him to repent. He’d have to be the most remorseful penitent since Cain wailed that his punishment was more than he could bear.”
Gossip had it that Sancho was a renegade cleric and although he’d never confirmed it, the rumors persisted. This display of familiarity with Scriptures was too tempting an opportunity to resist and they began to heckle him with cries of “Father Sancho,” while Ander appropriated Pere’s henap and drained it in several gulps.
“Oh, and the Duke of Burgundy is making ready to depart,” he said casually, for he knew this was hardly newsworthy. The Count of Toulouse had ridden off the day before, and they’d known it was only a matter of time before Burgundy abandoned the sinking ship, too.
But for Sancho, this information was quite interesting. He’d been playing around with an idea, not sure if it was feasible. But it would require Burgundy’s departure for it to work. He wondered if he ought to confide in the others, then decided no, not yet. He’d take a little more time to think it over and then give them the good news that their prospects were not quite as bleak as they thought.
Hal’s friends knew he must be in acute discomfort, lying on the hard floor in a bed of ashes and cinders, and they were both awed and proud of him for making such a spectacular gesture of atonement. As the hours dragged by, he dozed fitfully, occasionally murmuring in his sleep. Once Will thought he said his wife’s name, but he couldn’t be sure. He was sitting cross-legged in the floor rushes by Hal’s side, with Peter and Rob keeping vigil nearby. Baldwin was slumped in the window-seat and Simon was trying vainly to console Benoit; the boy was huddled in Hal’s bed, his eyes so swollen with tears that he could barely see. Etienne de Fabri appeared from time to time, offering drinks and food that the knights always refused, for it did not seem right that they should enjoy what Hal was denying himself.
Hal stirred when bells chimed for None somewhere in the town, and Will at once leaned over to dribble a few drops of water upon his lips, the only liquid Hal would accept. As their eyes met, the corner of Hal’s mouth curved. “Sorry…” he whispered, “to take so scandalously…long to die. Geoff would say I’d be late…for my own funeral…”
That was too much for Rob and, choking back a sob, he fled. The others were ashamed to admit they, too, yearned to bolt, for the very air seemed oppressive, so saturated with sorrow that they felt as if they were breathing in tears. Seeing that Hal wanted to speak again, Will moved closer to catch his words.
“So much to regret…especially that I am…am making Richard king.” Hal tried to smile. “Could say it…it is killing me…”
“That is a very bad joke,” Will said thickly. Hal’s death would have repercussions that would echo from one end of the Angevin empire to the other, but he was not ready to think about that yet. For now the world had shrunk to the confines of this bedchamber, and time could be measured only by the faint beats of Hal’s heart.
When Hal drew a ragged breath, Will braced himself for the death rattle. But the younger man’s eyes were suddenly filled with urgency. “Cloak…” he mumbled, “fetch it…”
The men looked at one another in confusion. It was only when Hal said “cross” that they understood. Peter and Baldwin rooted around frantically in a coffer of his clothes until they found what he wanted, the mantle sewn with a blood-red crusader’s cross. They handed it to Will and he knelt, draped it around Hal like a blanket. Hal’s eyes traced the outlines of that crimson cross and he felt a surge of shame. He’d taken the cross so lightly, had sworn to go to the Holy Land more to vex his father than to honor the Almighty, and it seemed symbolic to him of a misspent life, yet another regret to take to his grave.
After a few moments, he indicated he wanted Will to remove the cloak. “Will…I entreat you…pay my debt to God…take it to the Holy Sepulcher for me…”
He’d just asked Will to make a pilgrimage on his behalf to Jerusalem, but the knight did not hesitate. “I would be honored, my liege, and shall do it gladly.”
A smile flitted across Hal’s lips. Summoning up the last of his strength, he moved his hand so that he could see the sapphire ring upon his finger, blessed token of his father’s forgiveness. “Remember me…” he said, as softly as a breath, and after that he did not speak again.
The man who would be known to history as the young king died at twilight on Saturday, the eleventh of June, on the festival of the blessed St Barnabas the Apostle. But the drama surrounding his death was just beginning.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
June 1183
Martel, Limousin
Will stumbled down to the great hall the next morning feeling as if he was coming off a three-day drunk. He’d slept badly, could not get rid of a sour taste in his mouth, and for once his celebrated appetite was flagging. He forced himself to eat some cheese and bread, though, for he knew it would be a long, difficult day. When the other knights came over to join him, he saw that they looked no better than he felt-their eyes bloodshot and bleary, their faces either abnormally pallid or oddly flushed-and it occurred to him that men could indeed get drunk on grief.
He was not surprised when they told him that the Bishop of Agen and Count Rotrou had departed, for a king’s death was like a sunset, and even his most loyal subjects would instinctively have their eyes already on the eastern horizon, anticipating the coming dawn. He was sorry to hear it, though, for he suspected they were in dire need of money, and they could have asked the bishop or the count for a loan. Peter and Rob soon confirmed his suspicions, reporting that Couraban had stolen the last of the spoils taken from Rocamadour, and they’d be lucky if they could scrape up enough to distribute the traditional alms expected when a highborn lord died.
Will could not regret the loss, for to use such ill-gotten gains for a noble purpose was still sacrilege in his uncompromising eyes. “We need to make plans,” he said, knowing that the burden of dealing with Hal’s death was going to fall squarely upon his shoulders. “I think we ought to take Hal to the monks at Grandmont. They can make his body ready for burial. After the king is notified, we can then take him to Rouen as he wished.”
It made sense to turn to the monks, and if they took a grim satisfaction in undertaking funeral preparations for the man who’d plunde
red their monastery, they’d earned that right. The knights were looking at Will with puzzlement, though, voiced by Simon when he repeated, “Notify the king? Surely the Bishop of Agen will do that?”
Will marveled at the naivete of the question, and Baldwin gave a derisive snort, saying, “Oh, yes, I am sure he’ll not spare his horse to be the first to tell the king. ‘Sire, I know I did my best to convince you that your son was lying, but it seems I was mistaken. Sorry, he really was ill, after all. And…well, he died.’”
Baldwin had just made a very effective argument for the bishop’s taking as long as possible to reach Limoges. No one volunteered to bear the news to the old king, though, and Will sighed. He was no more eager than any of them to face Henry, but he feared this duty would end up in his lap, too.
“Master de Fabri will know who can best do what…what must be done ere we leave Martel,” he said bleakly. He did not even want to think about the mutilation of Hal’s body-the removal of his eyes, brains, and entrails, the use of salt and spices to delay putrefaction long enough to reach Rouen. He knew the Church dwelt upon the corrupt nature of mortal flesh so that all good Christians would remember that nothing mattered but their eternal souls. That body above-stairs looked too much like the young king he’d served, though, for him to view it as just a husk to be discarded now that it was no longer needed.
Wishing fervently for enough wine to drown all memories of this week of horrors, Will got slowly to his feet, saying, “We’d best see about-” He stopped abruptly, then, at the sight of the men swaggering into the hall. Why were Sancho de Savannac and his cutthroats still here? That made no sense, and he did not like it, did not like it at all.
“Good morrow,” Sancho said cheerfully. He was accompanied by his chief henchmen, but as he approached, Will saw more of the routiers entering the hall behind him. Will had hung his scabbard on the back of a chair, and a quick scrutiny of his companions showed that most of them were not armed yet, either.
Acknowledging the outlaw tersely, Will started to move past him, saying that he had much to do. He was not surprised when Sancho barred his way. “You can spare a few moments for me, Sir William. We have a pressing matter to discuss. The young king, may God assoil him, died deeply in debt, alas, owing us a large sum of money.”
“You profited handsomely from your service to the king,” Rob said harshly. From the corner of his eye, Will saw that he and Baldwin were on their feet, too. Several of?
Etienne de Fabri’s servants had been moving about the hall, but they now showed the heightened awareness of prey animals and made an inconspicuous, speedy withdrawal.
“Not as handsomely as we were promised.” In answering Rob, Sancho kept his gaze unblinkingly upon Will. “But I am a reasonable man, do not want to add to your burdens in the midst of your mourning. I am willing to settle for a smaller amount. Pay us one hundred marks and we’ll consider the debt paid in full.”
There were indignant exclamations from the knights. Will shrugged. “You might as well ask for a thousand marks. We do not even have the money between us to pay for a Requiem Mass.”
“That is a pity,” Sancho said, shaking his head in feigned regret. “I suppose there is only one fair way to handle this, then. You will remain as our guest, Sir William, whilst your friends raise the money. Once it is paid, off you go with our blessings.”
Will studied the routiers with narrowed eyes, not liking the odds. Sancho’s cousin Ander and his lackeys Jago, Pere, and Gerhart had begun to fan out purposefully, hands on sword hilts. Even more troubling, other routiers had continued to saunter into the hall. Simon, always hot-headed, did not help matters then by calling Sancho a “lowborn churl” and declaring that they’d never agree to such brazen extortion.
Sancho’s smile was toothy, mocking, and sharp with menace. “Now, lad, let’s not be hasty. We know that you’re all redoubtable knights, celebrated on the tournament circuit. You ought to keep in mind, though, that we’ve bloodied our swords a time or two ourselves. And you might want to do a head count whilst you’re at it.”
Will was glad to see Baldwin and Roger were restraining Simon from doing anything mad. He’d made a quick assessment of their chances, concluding that resistance was not an option. They’d have to bluff Sancho into backing down.
“How does it serve your purposes,” he said coolly, “if we all end up dead?”
Sancho seemed amused by his challenge and Will realized that this was not a man who acted rashly or impulsively; he’d given careful thought to this ambush. “That would make it difficult to collect a ransom from you,” he agreed. “So we came up with a second plan should you balk at cooperating. If we cannot claim the renowned Marshal as surety for this debt, we will have to look elsewhere. Fortunately for us, there is always the royal corpse.”
The rest of his words were drowned out in an enraged roar of defiance coming from virtually every knight’s throat. Sancho seemed unperturbed by their fury, continuing as if he’d not been interrupted. “I daresay the old king will pay dear to get his beloved son’s body back for a proper burial. He might even offer more than a hundred marks.”
Will waited until he was sure his fury was under control. “Yes, he’d pay…and then he’d track you down to the ends of the earth, into the gates of Hell if need be.”
Sancho’s smile did not waver. “Yes, he’d likely hold a grudge. That is why I’d rather do this the easier way-by offering you our hospitality, Sir William. It is up to you, of course. But you’d best make up your mind soon. It is a hot summer’s day and it will not be long ere the royal corpse is too ripe to travel anywhere.”
Will glanced toward his friends, saw that Baldwin and Peter had reached the same grim conclusion that he had. “My first duty is to the young king,” he said, the calm voice belied by the fists tightly clenched at his sides. “I must escort his body to the monks at Grandmont. I will agree, though, to return and offer myself up as your hostage once this has been done. You have my sworn word on that.”
Ander, Jago, and Gerhart howled with laughter, their mirth stopping abruptly when Sancho nodded. “As I said, I am a reasonable man. And you are known to be an honorable one. We have a deal.”
The other knights gathered around Will, appalled, yet understanding they had no choice; even Simon could see that. But Sancho’s men were now the ones to be incredulous and angry. Lapsing into their thieves’ cant, a jumble of the lengua romana of Aquitaine seasoned with Basque and Catalan that enabled them to communicate privately in public, they began to protest vociferously. Sancho shouted them down.
“Enough! When have I not known what I was doing? I admit there are precious few men I’d trust to keep such a promise. The Marshal is one of them, mayhap the only one. This is a man who values his honor more than his life. Now you can argue whether that is an admirable virtue or a fatal character flaw,” he said with a grin. “But what matters is that it gets us our hundred marks. Who knows, I might even be willing to spare a few deniers to buy candles for the royal whelp’s soul!”
Henry had never suffered from ragged nerves, had always been at his best in a crisis. In the days following Hal’s message, though, he felt as if he were unraveling. He had more trouble than usual sleeping, had no interest in food, and most troubling of all, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. His thoughts were as skittish as unbroken horses, darting hither and yon as if he no longer had control of his own brain. Ostensibly, he was laying siege to the ville; in reality, his mind was roaming far afield.
Why had he not heard from Bishop Bertrand or Rotrou by now? They’d had more than enough time to get to Martel and then return to Limoges. What did their ominous silence mean? That Hal was truly ailing? Or had they ridden into a trap? Were they being held prisoner whilst Hal waited to see if the bait would be taken?
“My liege!” Geoff was bearing down upon him again and Henry strove for patience; who knew that sons could be worse than mothers? For certes, he’d never gotten such wearisome, constant solicitude
from his other lads.
“You are hovering again, Geoff,” he warned, and Geoff acknowledged the truth of the charge with an abashed grin.
“I am being a pest, I know,” he conceded, for he’d already been chiding Henry about venturing within arrow range and nagging him about taking a midday meal. “I was just going to suggest that you seek shelter from the sun. Your nose is turning red!”
“So is yours,” Henry pointed out, for Geoff had inherited his fair, freckled skin. Actually he was amenable to the idea, for the heat was unrelenting. By the Rood, how he loathed the Limousin! The spring had been miserably wet and cold, and now the summer was hellishly hot. So when Geoff gestured toward a nearby peasant’s hut, he followed willingly, ducking through the low doorway into a small, gloomy cottage that reeked of onions and cabbage and sweat. Straightening up, he found himself face-to-face with the fearful occupants, a bony, spare man of indeterminate years and his toilworn wife.
Henry had a rudimentary knowledge of Eleanor’s lengua romana, for he’d always had an excellent ear for languages; only Welsh had proved to be impenetrable. He summoned up enough of it now to assure the frightened couple that they’d not be harmed, and his gentle words and the promise of a few coins did much to allay their unease. He sat cross-legged, then, on the hard dirt floor, his body admitting what his pride could not-that he was tired down to the very marrow of his bones.
Ranulf soon joined them; he was another mother hen, Henry thought wryly. But he did not come empty-handed. He had several wineskins, giving Henry the one diluted with water and tossing the other to Geoff.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Henry invited, and Ranulf accepted the invitation, lowering himself stiffly to the floor beside his nephew, muttering that he’d likely need help getting up again. There were times when Henry felt that his fifty years were weighing him down like an anchor, but he was a stripling next to his uncle, for Ranulf would be sixty-five that November. Because he did not see the older man that often, the changes wrought by aging were more noticeable to him; Ranulf’s hair was now pure silver and his shoulders were stooped, his stride slowed by a touch of the joint evil. The essential core of the man was still intact, though-the impish humor and courage and awkward habit of truth-telling-qualities that Henry appreciated even more now than in his youth.
Devil's brood eoa-3 Page 73
