Sharon Penman: Devil's brood

“Yes, sire, I know.”

“And my barons and vassals are cravenly keeping away, fearful of offending a rebel duke and the false, shameless whelp who sits on the French throne. But you did come, Will.” Henry had to pause, overcome with gratitude and affection for these loyal, courageous, honorable men. “I am grateful beyond words to you,” he said huskily, “above all to you, my dearest son. I pray that the Almighty grants me enough time to reward you as you deserve, with the archbishopric of York.” His cracked lips twitched in what was almost a smile. “Even though I know you have never burned to take holy orders.”

“I want only your return to health and prosperity, my lord father,” Geoff managed to get out before his throat closed up.

“At least I can reward the rest of you,” Henry murmured, “and nothing has given me greater pleasure than what I do now.” A scribe had been standing off to the side, ready to capture the king’s words with pen and ink. One by one, Henry called upon the young knights who’d shared such adversity with him, and made grants and conferred wardships and heiresses upon them. He bestowed the castle and forest of Lillebonne upon Renaud de Dammartin, rendering that cocksure young man speechless for once. He gave a Marcher castle to his Welsh cousin Morgan. He rewarded Peter Fitz Guy and the other knights who’d stayed with Hal at Martel. And then he shocked them all by giving to Baldwin de Bethune the rich heiress Denise de Deols, whom he’d once promised to Will.

“No, Will, I am not growing forgetful in my old age,” he said, smiling at the dumbfounded expression on the Marshal’s face. “I have another highborn lady in mind for you.”

Will had quickly recovered his aplomb, for he was courtier as well as soldier, and he assured Henry that he asked no more than to enjoy the king’s favor, a courteous and blatant falsehood that amused them all, including Henry. But he was growing very tired, and so he did not tease Will by dragging out the suspense. “It is my great joy to bestow upon the Marshal the hand of Isabella de Clare, heiress of Richard Strongbow, Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Striguil and Leinster.”

Will gasped and his friends forgot for a moment that they were at a king’s sickbed. They cheered and thumped him boisterously on the back, excited by his great good fortune, for Isabella de Clare was the richest heiress in England, would bring Will vast estates in England, Normandy, Wales, and Ireland. They soon subsided, though, realizing the insensitivity of celebrating Will’s bright prospects when the king’s were so bleak. Will had begun to stammer his thanks, but Henry stopped him.

“You served my son well,” he said softly, “just as you’ve served me. Hal would have wanted me to do this for you.” And Will had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat, for Henry’s words had conjured up a beguiling ghost, his manifest flaws expunged by death, handsome and dashing and forever young.

On the first of July, the Archbishop of Tours arrived to give Henry an eyewitness account of the capture of his city. He was also able to tell them what had happened in Le Mans after they’d fled. It had not been sacked, most likely due to the duke’s orders, he reported diffidently, nervous at having to say anything complimentary about Richard under the circumstances. All of Henry’s Welsh routiers had been massacred, save only those who’d retreated into the castle and withstood a three-day siege. The fire damage was not as great as first feared, he said, hoping that might give Henry some comfort, but seeing that it did not.

Geoff and Will begged Henry to let the archbishop shrive him of his sins, for they greatly feared that he might die before he could atone for his blasphemy on the hill overlooking Le Mans. But Henry refused, for he was not yet ready, either to forgive the Almighty or to ask His forgiveness. As his fever continued to spike, he found himself drifting back in time, although his memories were fragmented and random, flashes of his boyhood and his garden courtship of the beautiful French queen, whispers of past triumphs and echoes of unhealed sorrows. His father and Eleanor and Hal wandered through his dreams, as did Thomas Becket, miraculously young again, the king’s chancellor and loyal friend, laughing and telling him that the lucky man was one who died without regrets. Upon awakening, Henry found that his face was wet with tears, for he had regrets beyond counting. One of his greatest was that he’d not have the chance to explain to John why he’d never taken any measures to secure the crown for him. You could not have held it, lad, not against Richard, and your kingship would be as brief as it was bloody. He’d wanted to spare his son’s pride, but now he wished he’d been more forthright, sought to make John understand. He was beginning to worry about him, for John’s whereabouts were still unknown nigh on three weeks after the retreat from Le Mans. Geoff and Will had not seen him at Alencon, and while Henry thought he was likely safe in Normandy, the silence was one more burden to take to his grave.

The next day Henry had more visitors, the Count of Flanders, the Archbishop of Rheims, and the Count of Blois riding in under a flag of truce. “Do you wish to see them, Papa?” Geoff asked. “Shall I bring them up to your chamber?”

“No,” Henry said and only when he tried to rise did his son realize he was not refusing to see the men, but unwilling to see them at his sickbed. Geoff argued against it in vain, insisting Henry did not have to do this. By now Henry had managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Yes, Geoff, I do,” he said, and beckoned for Hugh to help him dress.

Henry felt no surprise when they seemed so taken aback as he limped into the hall; by now he was used to having people react to his appearance with poorly concealed shock. “I know,” he said, sinking down into the chair that Will was holding out for him. “I look like a corpse that is overdue for burial. So spare me the solicitous queries about my health and tell me why you are here.”

Thibault of Blois and the archbishop seemed disconcerted by such candor, but Philip of Flanders gave Henry a grimly approving smile. “Fair enough,” he said and leaned across the table. “We never wanted this war, Cousin. We ought to have been halfway to Jerusalem by now, but Philippe has the bit between his teeth. I fear he’s in danger of getting drunk on battlefield glory, blissfully unaware that he is drinking from Richard’s cup. We have been urging him to make peace, without success. And yes, I know I seem like an unlikely peacemaker. But my vow to take the cross apparently means more to me than his does to Philippe. And it is not in any of our interests to have the balance of power turned on its head like this. An overly mighty French king is no improvement over an overly mighty English one.”

Henry could believe them, for all three men had been involved in rebellions against Philippe during the early years of his reign, years in which he’d come to the boy’s rescue time and time again. No one ought ever to doubt that the Almighty had a sense of humor. “Then if you bring no peace offers, what exactly do you have for me, Cousin?”

Once Philip would have relished this moment, but he discovered now that he could take no pleasure in Henry’s defeat and humiliation. “Philippe and Richard wish you to come to Colombieres the day after tomorrow,” he said, doing his best to transform a command into a request.

Henry was not misled, knew full well that this was no invitation. “Tell the French king and the Duke of Aquitaine that I will be there.”

They’d brought out a stool to assist Henry in mounting, for he’d adamantly refused to use a horse litter. His squires stood by, as it was obvious to them that he’d still need help in getting securely into the saddle. Geoff waved them aside, though.