Sharon Penman: Devil's brood

“I believe that was indeed your last visit, my liege,” he confirmed, all the while marveling at the vagaries of fate. He had devoted much of his life to a history of his abbey and his times, and he wondered what future historians would make of the improbable story of Henry Fitz Empress and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

A great heiress and a great beauty, she’d wed the young French king at thirteen, easily winning his heart, for he’d been pledged to the Church at an early age, would have happily served the Almighty if his elder brother had not died in a fall from his horse, and he retained a guileless innocence, a monkish simplicity that was ill suited to the worldly sophistry of the royal court. Their marriage had been neither happy nor fruitful, for they were as unlike as fire and milk. In fourteen years of wedlock, Eleanor had given birth to only two children, both daughters, and when their union was finally dissolved on the grounds of consanguinity, the true reason was her inability to give him a male heir.

Barely three months later, she had shocked their world by wedding Henry, then Duke of Normandy, who was nine years her junior. Louis the king was horrified that so dangerous an adversary as Henry should have access to the riches of Eleanor’s Aquitaine, and Louis the man was mortified and hurt that Eleanor should have defied him by choosing such an unsuitable husband, one ambitious, bold, clever, and lusty. Their swift, secret marriage had led to war with France, and Louis’s humiliation was complete when Henry needed but six short weeks to send his army reeling back across the border, and but two years to claim the English crown. Eleanor then proceeded to salt Louis’s wounds by giving Henry five sons and three daughters, losing only William to the deadly perils of childhood.

At least Louis had the consolation of envisioning his daughter as Queen of England. But even that had not gone as planned. Two years ago, Henry had mortally insulted Thomas Becket by allowing the Archbishop of York to crown his fifteen-year-old son, a coronation that Becket had futilely forbidden. But in the chaos and confusion, Marguerite had not been crowned with her young husband, giving Louis yet another grievance against his Angevin rival.

A sudden clamor turned Henry’s attention from the abbey to the town below them. The streets were winding and narrow, accommodating the hilly terrain, and he could only catch glimpses of riders and horses. But then the wind found a fluttering banner of red and gold and he smiled. “My son is riding into Avranches,” he announced. “I should have known from the cheers.” He glanced toward the abbot, wanting to share his pride and pleasure with his friend. “You’ve not seen the lad for years, have you, Rob? Wait till you see how he’s grown-already taller than me and he’s just three months past his seventeenth birthday!”

Others had followed Henry onto the battlements: his uncle Rainald, his cousin Roger, his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and Hamelin de Warenne, his half brother. Hamelin was the illegitimate son of Henry’s father, Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, taken under Henry’s wing after Geoffrey’s untimely death. Hamelin had flaming red hair, an open, freckled face that made him seem much younger than his thirty years, an impulsive nature and, thanks to Henry, a very wealthy wife who’d brought him the earldom of Surrey. His affection for Henry was equaled only by his awe, and he beamed now to see his elder brother in such good spirits.

“Does Hal know why you summoned him to Avranches?”

Henry shook his head. “He thinks he is here just to swear to those agreements I am making with the Church.” Seeing Abbot Robert’s puzzled look, he explained, “I have a surprise in store for the lad.”

Below them, men were riding into the castle’s inner bailey. There was no need to point out the young king. Everything about him-the spirited grey stallion and ornamented saddle, the costly mantle of fine scarlet wool, the white calfskin gloves studded with pearls, the stylish pointed cap with a turned-up brim embroidered in gold thread, the gilded spurs attached to his boots with red leather straps-proclaimed him to be of high birth and one of God’s favorites. He’d been blessed, too, with uncommonly good looks, tall and well formed, with vivid blue eyes and gleaming golden hair, cut short around his ears, one lock allowed to curl fashionably onto his forehead. Catching sight of his father up on the battlements, he doffed his cap in a gesture both graceful and dramatic, and Henry grinned.

Staring down at this handsome youth, Abbot Robert blurted out, “If he is not the very image of Count Geoffrey!”

“He has my father’s coloring for certes,” Henry agreed, “and his sense of style. He has my father’s ready wit, too. Did you hear, Rob, what he said at his coronation feast? To honor him, I myself carried the great boar’s head dish to his table. The Archbishop of York commented that it was not every prince who was served by a king. And Hal said, quick as a flash, ‘Yes, but it can be no condescension for the son of a count to serve the son of a king.’”

Abbot Robert did not see the humor in that flippant remark, but he laughed dutifully because Henry was laughing. As he had been no admirer of Count Geoffrey of Anjou, though, he hoped that Hal had inherited nothing from his grandsire but his striking good looks.

Swinging easily from the saddle, Hal soon joined his father up on the battlements, choosing to climb a wooden ladder rather than gaining access to the ramparts by entering the keep. Spotting William Marshal, the head of Hal’s household knights, Henry beckoned for him to come up, too, and then gathered his son into a welcoming embrace. After exchanging hugs with his kinsmen, Hal courteously greeted the justiciar and Abbot Robert, who gave him credit for having much better manners than Count Geoffrey.

“Tell him, Brother,” Hamelin prompted, nudging Henry in the ribs, and Hal was instantly alert.

“Tell me what?”

Henry feigned a scowl at Hamelin’s impatience, but he was not one for waiting, either. “I have a surprise for you, lad.”

Hal had retained a child’s love of surprises, but some of his father’s surprises had seemed more like ambushes. Moreover, he did not like to be called “lad” now that he was a man grown and an anointed king. “What?” he asked, with more wariness than anticipation.

“Marguerite is here.”

Hal blinked in disappointment. He’d known Marguerite for most of his life; they’d been wed when he was five and she was two and a half. He tended to think of her as a little sister, when he thought of her at all. “Oh?” he said politely, wondering what he was supposed to say.

“Well, her presence is but half of the surprise. It is my intention to have her crowned this summer at Winchester. Archbishop Rotrou will preside and your cousin Roger has agreed to take part, too,” Henry said, with a playful smile at Roger. “And because of the furor that Becket caused about your coronation, I have decided that you will be crowned again-a gesture of good will toward the Church.”

Hal’s interest was now fully engaged; he loved pageantry and rituals and revelries. His first thought was that they could hold a tournament afterward, but he decided not to share that idea with his father, knowing that Henry disapproved of tourneys as frivolous, wasteful, and a threat to the public order. His next thought was even better: the realisation that his coronation would be the ideal opportunity to achieve a long-delayed desire.

“And I could be knighted, too!”

Henry was already shaking his head. “No, lad, not yet. You know I think Louis ought to be the one to knight you. That would mean a great deal to him and go far toward mending the breach between us.”