Sharon Penman: Devil's brood

Upon his arrival at Chinon, Henry found a delegation of Canterbury monks awaiting his return. They were feuding with their archbishop and, undeterred by war and rebellion, they’d managed to track him down to seek his support in their quarrel. Henry once would have been amused by the ludicrous incongruity of it, but now he was past finding humor in anything, and after promising curtly to dictate a letter to the Canterbury chapter, he took to his bed.

One of his men had remained behind to be given the list of those who’d disavowed allegiance to him and could not be punished, not returning to Chinon until after nightfall. Henry had refused to eat, speaking little and staring into some dark vista that only he could see. But he showed a flicker of interest when Roger Malchael was ushered into his bedchamber.

“You have the names of those who betrayed me, Roger? Read them to me.”

Geoff and Will frowned, not wanting Henry to deal with still more misery in his weakened state. But there was nothing enfeebled about Henry’s will, and they knew better than to object. Roger was already obeying, approaching the bed and breaking the seal on the parchment roll. Once he looked down at the list, though, he sucked in his breath before glancing up at Henry in dismay.

“May Jesus Christ help me, sire! The first name written here is Count John, your son!”

Henry jerked upright in the bed, then fell back, gasping. “I do not believe it!”

“I am sure Roger has misread the name,” Geoff said swiftly, but Will said nothing, standing apart and watching sadly as the last act of the tragedy was played out.

“Let me see it,” Henry demanded and Roger obeyed, looking as stricken as if he were handing over a draught of lethal poison. For a long time, Henry stared down at John’s name without speaking, and then he crumpled the list in his fist, let it flutter into the floor rushes. When Geoff tried to offer comfort, he muttered, “Say no more,” and turned his face away from them, toward the wall.

That night Henry’s fever flared even higher, and he lapsed into delirium. Geoff stayed by his side, putting wet cloths on his burning skin, fanning him and flicking away the flies; it was too hot to close the windows. Will and Morgan and Maurice de Craon also kept vigil at his bedside. Most of the time they could make no sense of his feverish mumblings, but occasionally he said something intelligible, and when he did, they winced and fought back tears, for he was cursing his sons, cursing himself and the day he was born, in his anguish mumbling over and over, “Shame on a conquered king.”

Wednesday evening, he surprised them by regaining his senses. He whispered words of love to Geoff, calling him his “true son,” and asking that a ring be bequeathed to his son-in-law and another one to Geoff. But when Geoff urged him to confess so he could be absolved of his sins, Henry closed his eyes again, saying nothing. Geoff began to sob, and the other men were just as distraught, appalled that Henry was putting his immortal soul at risk.

Deliverance came from an unlikely source. Renaud de Dammartin had been watching from the shadows, so quiet that the others had assumed he’d fallen asleep. But now he rose and approached the bed, leaning over to whisper something in Henry’s ear. Henry’s lashes flickered, and he looked at the young knight, then murmured his son’s name. Geoff bent over, listened intently, and straightened up with a radiant smile.

“Yes, Papa, I will!” Turning toward the others, he said joyfully, “He wants to be shriven!”

At Henry’s own request, a bed was made up for him before the altar in the chapel of Ste Melanie, and he was carried down the stairs and across the bailey by his son and knights. There he made his confession, his voice so faint that the archbishop had to put his ear close to Henry’s mouth, and was absolved of his sins, while outside the chapel, Geoff leaned against the wall and wept.

It was Will who eventually pulled Renaud aside, demanding to know what he’d said to change the king’s mind. Renaud gave Will an enigmatic look and then grinned. “You really want to know? I asked him if he wanted to be trapped in Hell for all eternity with Richard.”

Will didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He shook his head, managed a bemused smile, and then started back toward the chapel, for he wanted to keep vigil with Geoff. But his steps began to flag, and instead he swung about and disappeared into the shadows of the vast yew tree in the middle bailey, where he grieved privately and alone for his dying king and for his young lord, who’d also joked in those final moments of his mortal life in that stifling chamber at Martel.

Henry’s delirium soon returned, and he did not speak coherently again, dying the next day after a hemorrhage that stained his bedding with dark blood. He was fifty-six, had ruled almost thirty-five years as King of England and even longer as Duke of Normandy and Count of Anjou.

July 1189

Fontevrault Abbey, Anjou

The nuns had never seen their self-possessed abbess so fretful. Gillette’s position was one without parallel in Christendom, for she ruled over no less than four monasteries, including the male priory of St Jean de l’Habit, the priory of St Lazare, which had been founded to treat those unfortunates afflicted with leprosy, and the priory of Ste Marie-Madeleine, which offered sanctuary and salvation to women who’d sinned and repented. Only at Fontevrault were men subject to the authority of a woman, and there had been occasional discipline problems caused by resentful or rebellious monks in the early years.

But these minor scandals had ceased during the kingship of Henry Fitz Empress, for he had taken a keen, personal interest in the welfare of the Angevin abbey. And Abbess Gillette had soon shown herself to be a fair but firm mother superior, rising through the ranks from cellarer to mistress of novices to grand prioress and eventually to the ultimate office. There was no doubt, though, that she was now faced with the most daunting challenge of her nine-year reign.

There could be no greater honor than to have their abbey chosen for the burial of a king, particularly one who’d been such a generous patron of Fontevrault. Henry had exempted them from royal taxes, conferred an annual stipend, founded one of their sister houses in England as penitence for the murder of St Thomas, entrusted the nuns with the education of two of his children, and provided in his will for a bequest of two thousand silver marks. He deserved a royal funeral that was one for the ages, but they had neither the time nor the resources for such a majestic pageantry. They’d gotten word only that morning that the king was dead.

It was a meager and melancholy funeral cortege that made its way from the castle at Chinon. It was with great difficulty that Henry’s men had found for him the trappings of sovereignty, for much had been left behind at Le Mans. They were deeply distressed that they were unable to dispense alms to the poor, and to Will Marshal, there was a dreary familiarity about the straitened circumstances, evoking painful memories of Hal’s unhappy death. They moved slowly in the summer heat, bearing the funeral bier upon their shoulders, somber crowds gathering by the roadside to watch them pass. They were not yet within sight of Fontevrault when they heard the tolling of the abbey bells, and then the wind brought to them the melodic sound of prayer. The nuns were coming out to meet them in solemn procession, with flaring torches and pealing bells and the sacred music of the Benedictus, reverently chanted by the sisters and monks as they advanced to welcome the king to his last resting place. And Will and Geoff, who’d been anguishing over the selection of Fontevrault, knowing that Henry had wanted to be buried at Grandmont, felt a sweet sense of relief, sure now that they’d chosen well for him.