Sharon Penman: Devil's brood

G EOFF HAD INSISTED UPON ACCOMPANYING his father’s body into the church, but his knights had gathered in the guest hall to quench their thirst, ease their hunger, and fortify themselves for the night’s vigil. They found, though, that most of them had little appetite. Renaud de Dammartin was one of the few able to eat with relish, and one of the few, too, to dare to broach the subject of their uncertain prospects as men who’d been on the wrong side of a bitter internecine war.

“Do you think Richard will attend the funeral?” he asked, stabbing a chunk of bream with his knife.

“I do not know,” Will said honestly. “I sent him word, and now it is up to him.”

Renaud drained his wine cup before sighing melodramatically. “A pity,” he said, “that my lordship of Lillebonne Castle should be so brief. I was looking forward to having my own hunting preserve.”

The other men could not help feeling a sense of personal loss, too, midst their mourning for Henry. Their hopes of the promised heiresses and wardships and grants had died with the king, and that disappointment might be the least of their troubles. Their eyes sought Will, for he had the most to fear. Not only had he lost a great heiress and a king’s favor, he’d bested Richard in combat, inflicting a public humiliation upon a man no less prideful and hot-tempered than his sire. At least Will already had the manor of Cartmel, given to him by Henry upon his return from the Holy Land. Assuming that Richard let him keep it.

Maurice de Craon had less to fear, for he was a powerful baron in his own right, and therefore not as vulnerable as Henry’s household knights. He’d eaten little, absently crumbling a piece of bread as he regarded the Marshal. “We might as well speak candidly,” he said. “You are the most likely to suffer from the new king’s displeasure, Will. I want you to know that I would be pleased to offer you horses or money, whatever you need to get through the bad days ahead.”

“I cannot offer you as much as Lord Maurice,” Baldwin said quickly, “but all I have is yours, Will.”

Several others chimed in, touching Will with their loyalty and generosity. But he could not help feeling shamed, too, that he should, at this time in his life, be dependent upon the charity of friends. He knew he’d not have to beg his bread by the roadside, could always find a place in the Count of Flanders’s mesnie. But it would not be easy to become a landless knight again, not at his age.

“I thank you, my lord, thank you all. But I cannot accept, not knowing if I could repay you. I shall put my trust in the Almighty, as I’ve always done.” He cocked his head then, listening. “They are pealing the bells for Vespers,” he said, getting to his feet. The others did, too, following him back toward the abbey church for evensong.

The office of the Dead Service known as the Placebo had ended, but the abbey church was still full. The nuns were kneeling by the funeral bier, set up before the high altar, and many of Henry’s knights had also lingered to pray. Morgan said a prayer for Geoff, too, asking the Almighty to give him strength, for his grieving was painful to see. He was admiring the elegant marble columns and domed roof, thinking this was one of the most beautiful churches he’d ever seen, when Henry’s squire Hugh came dashing into the nave. He paused by Morgan long enough to gasp out, “He is here!” before hurrying to warn Will and the others. Morgan spun around to see Richard framed in the nave entranceway.

The men hastily made their obeisances, but he acknowledged only the Abbess Gillette and the Archbishop of Tours before continuing on into the choir and halting by the candlelit bier. For a time, Richard gazed down at his father, and then he knelt. Barely long enough to say one pater noster, some thought indignantly. Richard’s face was inscrutable, a mask of royal reserve. Rising to his feet, he did not speak to his brother Geoff, who was kneeling on the other side of the bier. He did signal to Will Marshal and Maurice de Craon, though, gesturing for them to follow him as he strode through the door leading out into the cloisters.

Although Compline had been rung, summer daylight was not easy to rout and was still holding the night at bay, so the men had no need for torches or lanterns yet. Richard was regarding Will in silence, grey eyes giving away nothing. “The other day you intended to kill me, Marshal, and would have had I not deflected your lance with my arm.”

Maurice started to speak, thought better of it. Will’s nervousness was washed away by the rising tide of his indignation. “My lord duke, it was never my intent to kill you. I am still strong enough to direct my lance where I want it to go. Had I wished, I could have struck you instead of your horse. And I cannot repent of that, for it ended the pursuit of the king.” He raised his head, then, meeting Richard’s eyes steadily, bracing for the worst. But the duke’s mouth was curving, ever so slightly, at the corners.

“You are forgiven, Marshal. I bear you no malice.”

“I am gladdened to hear that, my lord,” Will said, knowing Richard must be able to see his relief, but too thankful to care.

Richard was looking over Will’s shoulder. Turning, Will saw that some of the knights had followed them out into the cloisters and were hovering at a discreet distance. They came forward quickly when Richard beckoned to them.

“That is true for the rest of you, too,” he said. “You have nothing to fear. Loyalty to the king is an admirable trait, not one I’d want to discourage.” And now that inkling of a smile was unmistakable. “Indeed,” he continued, “I value men such as you more highly than those who abandoned my father to be on the winning side.” Glancing back toward Will then, he said, “After the funeral on the morrow, I want you to leave at once for Sarum. I will have letters for you to deliver to my lady mother and others, naming her as regent until my return to England. I want it known that her wishes are to be obeyed in all matters.”

Will was promising that he would when there was a stir and some of the men parted to let Geoff pass. “My lord duke,” he said coldly, managing to make his very formality sound insulting. “I am gratified to hear that you are following the noble example set by our father in showing magnanimity to defeated foes.”

“Brother,” Richard said, and he somehow turned that fraternal greeting into an insult, too.

Geoff’s eyes softened as he glanced toward Will and the other knights. “I think you should know that our lord father gave the lady of Pembroke and Striguil to the Marshal in recognition of his steadfast and admirable loyalty.”

Richard looked over at Will, and then shook his head. “No, he did not give her to the Marshal. Rather, he promised her to him. I am the one who will give her to him, sure that she will be safe in his hands.”

Will dropped to his knees. “Thank you, my lord!”

“Sire,” Renaud prompted, “the king your father made gifts to the rest of us, too.”

Richard’s gaze moved from face to face. “I will honor his promises. You need not fear. Now I would take my leave of the lady abbess and my lord archbishop. I shall pass the night at Saumur, will return on the morrow for the funeral.” Richard started to turn away, then paused. “Bury richly the king my father, Will.”

Eleanor’s relative freedom had been curtailed once Richard declared war on Henry. She no longer had such easy and unquestioned access to visitors, her household was reduced, and surveillance was once more intrusive. Her confinement was not as stringent as in the early years of her captivity, but she very much resented these new restrictions, saying bitterly to Amaria that she felt like a hawk with clipped wings, cruelly kept from flight within sight of the sky.