Will was accustomed to being Hal’s confidant, basking in their friendship even though he knew it had cost him the good will of the old king; Henry blamed him for failing to curb Hal’s whims and reckless spending. Will did not think that was fair, but he accepted that kings were often unfair and there was naught to be done about it. What he could not accept was the sudden change in his status. Hal no longer sought his advice, no longer wanted his companionship. It was as if the last twelve years had never been.
It had begun that autumn when Will noticed Hal’s preoccupation, his moodiness. He’d always believed that his duties involved more than protecting Hal from an enemy’s lance, a foe’s sword thrust; he was often called upon to protect Hal from himself. He’d encouraged Hal to reveal the source of his distraction, and finally it had all come spilling out—the blandishments of the Poitevin lords, his hunger for lands of his own, and his loathing for his brother Richard. Will had been appalled once he realized Hal was entangling himself in such a lethal spider’s web, and he’d spoken out forthrightly against it, with a blunt candor that kings did not often hear. Hal had been furious and ever since their quarrel, he’d kept Will at a distance. Will did not even know if he still intended to follow through with this folly. In his despair, he’d considered approaching the queen, but he’d soon abandoned that idea; Marguerite was not cast in the same mold as her mother-in-law. All he could do was to wait—for Hal’s temper to cool, for his common sense to reassert itself. What he would do if neither happened, he did not know.
It was not until his friends came to him on a rain-sodden December night at Caen that Will learned what was being said behind his back—that he was guilty of far worse than arrogance or pride, that he was seeking to cuckold his lord, to seduce Hal’s lovely young queen. Accustomed as he was to the spite and jealousy that thrived in the artificial atmosphere of a royal court, he was dumbfounded by such baneful rancor, for he was being accused of the greatest crime a man could commit against his liege lord.
Baldwin de Bethune, Simon de Marisco, and Peter de Preaux had agonized over warning him of the stories being circulated, at last deciding that it was more dangerous for him not to know. They watched Will now with sympathetic eyes, bracing themselves for the questions to come.
“How did you find this out?” he asked at last, and they explained that the conspirators had tried to win over one of Hal’s friends, Raoul de Hamars, hoping that he’d take the tale to Hal. But Raoul had scoffed at the story, and instead of warning Hal, he’d chosen to warn Will’s friends.
“At least all are not willing to believe the worst of me. Who are these men who slander me so foully?”
They were reluctant to say, fearing an even greater scandal, but Will was insistent and they were forced to reveal that the ringleaders were Adam d’Yquebeuf and Sir Thomas de Coulonces. Just as they’d feared, Will at once announced his intention of challenging them to combat, vowing to clear his name—and the queen’s—with the power of his strong right arm.
“You cannot do that, Will! If you proclaim yourself innocent of adultery, you’d be spreading the scandal even farther, making sure that all who’d not heard the rumors now know of them. That would do you no good, would shame the queen—and the king.”
Will’s shoulders slumped, for he realized Baldwin was right. Surely Hal could not know of this. If he had, would he not have acted? Would he not have punished the men who’d dared to slander his queen? But Will discovered that he still had to ask. Looking from one face to the other, he finally blurted it out. “Does Lord Hal know of these rumors?”
None of them seemed in a hurry to answer him. “We are not sure,” Simon admitted. “Raoul de Hamars agreed to find out more, and reported that after he’d refused to pass the story on, they got one of Lord Hal’s pages drunk and convinced him it was his duty to tell the king. Supposedly Hal laughed it off, forcing them to take more drastic action, and they then came to him, swearing on their honor that it was so.”
Seeing Will’s look of dismay, Baldwin said hastily, “We do not know if that truly happened. It is only what Raoul was told when he went out drinking with Thomas de Coulonces.”
Will fell silent. He’d assumed that Hal’s coldness was due to their quarrel, to his disapproval of Hal’s grand schemes for claiming Aquitaine. But what if he’d been wrong? What if Hal had heard these vile accusations and believed them?
“What will you do?” Simon asked, and Will could only shrug.
“I do not know…yet.”
T
HE CASTLE CHAPLAIN
accompanied Hal into the church of St George, and Hal feared that he’d continue to hover, but he excused himself at once, promising to make sure the king would not be disturbed during his prayers.
“Thank you, Father Matthew,” Hal said with a smile, sighing with relief when he was finally alone, for that was a rarity in his life; even more than his father, he seemed to be a magnet for all eyes. Usually he enjoyed such attention, but this Christmas Court at Caen was different and he longed to escape the constant scrutiny, to have time to himself without any demands being made upon him. Realizing that a church ought to be a good place to find solitude, he’d decided to take refuge there, although he did intend to pray, too; he was in God’s House, after all.
Hal had always loved Christmas. Not this year. Part of the reason for his discontent was being thrown into such close proximity with Richard. His brother’s glowering presence made it impossible for him to ignore his misgivings, reminding him that he had to make a decision soon. Did he commit himself irrevocably to the rebels in Aquitaine or did he step back from the cliff’s edge? The trouble was that he did not truly know what he wanted to do. Well, he knew he wanted Aquitaine, but he was not sure he wanted to fight to the death for it. And after his talk with Geoffrey, he’d realized how naïve he’d been, how shortsighted. How could he have been so certain that their father would stand aside whilst two of his sons destroyed the third?
For that was what it would come to—Richard’s destruction. Only death could make his brother accept the loss of Aquitaine. And would Maman forgive him for that? She’d always had an inexplicable fondness for Richard. No, it would not be as easy as he’d first thought. He did not want to alienate or hurt his mother, nor did he want to fight his father again. But how could he walk away from such an opportunity? If he held Aquitaine, he’d no longer be answerable to his father for every denier he spent; he’d finally have enough money to reward his liegemen, to attract the best knights to his banner, to buy a stallion without fretting about Papa’s dour disapproval, to indulge Marguerite as she deserved.
That was why he’d again asked his father for Normandy, for it would be the perfect solution to his dilemma, giving him his own duchy without any of the risks that taking Aquitaine entailed. But of course Papa had balked. When had he ever listened to reason? And now the vultures were circling for certes. Aimar of Limoges had turned up in Caen, ostensibly to prove he was honoring the summer’s peace, but in reality, to remind Hal of his commitment to the rebels. He’d even brought news that Richard had obligingly given them the ideal excuse for attacking Aquitaine; he’d begun to build a castle at Clairvaux, in an area that was under the sway of the Counts of Anjou. Hal was not surprised that Richard should be poaching in his woods. He was surprised, though, that he was not better pleased about it, for, as Aimar had been quick to point out, he was now the wronged one, justified in protecting his own domains. But because Richard had given him a legitimate grievance, he felt even more pressured to take action. Soon all of Christendom would know of Richard’s encroachment into Anjou, thanks to that impudent poet. According to Geoff, Bertran de Born had written one of his mocking verses about Clairvaux, claiming it shone so brightly that the young king could not help but see it.
It seemed to Hal that the fates were conspiring to force him into making a decision ere he was ready, and he yearned for another opinion, one dispassionate and dependable. But he, who’d always had friends beyond counting, had no trusted confidant when he most needed one. He could not consult Geoff, for his brother would be scornful of his inability to make up his mind. In that, Geoff was like Richard, both of them strangers to doubts or forebodings. None of his knights could be relied upon, either. They’d tell him what they thought he wanted to hear or they’d be unable to keep such a secret and blab it all over creation.
Nor could he turn to the two people he most trusted, his wife and Will Marshal. He’d hinted to Marguerite of his intentions, and mere hints had been enough to alarm her greatly. No, he could not confide in Marguerite and that created problems, too, for she wanted him to take her to the holy shrine of Our Lady at Rocamadour in southern Aquitaine once the winter weather broke. She’d learned that barren women often conceived after making a pilgrimage to Rocamadour, and she’d been both hurt and bewildered by his refusal. Nor could he explain that Aquitaine might well be at war by the spring.
And Will had let him down badly, acting for all the world as if he were about to commit high treason in attacking Richard. At the time that he most needed Will’s support, the knight had lectured him about his duty to his father and liege lord, droned on about fidelity and sworn vows and nonsense like that. It was particularly infuriating because Will knew how shabbily Papa treated him, knew, too, what a swine Richard could be. Hal’s tempers rarely lasted long; he’d never been one for holding grudges. But so great was his disappointment that he’d found it difficult to forgive Will. Then, just when he’d decided to let Will back into his good graces, those idiots had come to him with their absurd accusations.
He had been outraged, both by their suspicions and the terrible timing. Here he was about to make the most important decision of his entire life, and he was supposed to deal with tawdry gossip like this? He’d ordered them from his chamber after warning them not to repeat such vile rumors. But somehow he found himself blaming Will, too, for his unwitting part in this farce. All he wanted was enough time to consider all his options without being dragged into his household’s petty squabbles or being nagged by his wife about that damnable pilgrimage. Was that so much to ask?
Apparently so, for he’d yet to find a peaceful moment at Caen, not with Marguerite sulking and Aimar lurking and Will acting put-upon and Geoff wanting to lay plans and Richard strutting around as if he were the incarnation of Roland and poor Tilda grieving over Maman’s absence and his father refusing to heed any voice but his own. He was sorry he’d let himself be talked out of going to the Holy Land. At least there it would be simple enough—fight the infidels and protect the sacred city of Jerusalem from Saladin and his Saracen hordes.
By now Hal had convinced himself that few men had suffered the burdens he was expected to bear. A pity he could not stay here in the hushed quiet of the church, for it seemed a world away from the chaos and turmoil of his life. It occurred to him then to ask the Almighty for guidance, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of that before. Feeling more cheerful, he approached the high altar, knelt, and prayed for a sign, for some manifestation of God’s Will, so that he would know what the Lord wanted him to do. He was just getting to his feet when a clamor erupted outside, the door slammed, and his brother Richard stalked into the church, trailed by the flustered priest.
“My liege, I am sorry!” the priest stammered. “I told the lord duke that you were at your prayers, but he would not wait.”
“Do not distress yourself, Father Matthew. The lord duke is not known for his good manners. In fact, they are so deplorable that some suspect he was raised by wolves.”
“Whereas you are the veritable soul of courtesy,” Richard jeered. “You’d be sure to ask ere you borrowed a man’s dagger to stab him in the back, and I daresay you’d wipe it clean afterward.”
“What are you babbling about now, Richard?”
“Did you think I would not find out? I know about your treacherous double-dealing with my vassals, know about your visit to Limoges this summer. You gave the monks a banner for their abbey, one with
Henricus Rex
inscribed in gold thread. What else did you give them, Hal—a promise that you’d be a far more benevolent liege lord than me?”
“I’d hardly have to tell them that,” Hal said coolly, “as anyone with eyes to see knows it already. I’ve even heard it said that Fulk Nerra would have been a more benevolent lord than you. Is this what you are whining about, my visit to Limoges? Need I remind you that Limoges is on the way to Péreigueux? You might as well complain that I stopped in St-Denis on a journey to Paris!”
“My lords…” the priest began timidly, but they ignored him utterly, glaring at each other with such hostility that he was thankful swords were not worn at the Christmas Court.
“Your conspicuous sojourn in Limoges was only the beginning of the trail,” Richard snapped. “I assumed that you’d conspire as carelessly as you do everything else and, indeed, you covered your tracks very sloppily. You’ve been meeting with malcontent lords from the Limousin and Poitou for some time now, offering a sympathetic ear for their complaints and—”
“That is my great crime—feeling sorry for your ill-used barons? I freely admit to it. I feel sorry for anyone who has to suffer your foul tempers, Little Brother. But that hardly constitutes proof of conspiracy and rebellion.”
“Ere I’m done, I’ll have enough proof to convince even your wife. And when I do, I’ll make a formal protest to our father. If he gives me no satisfaction—and I rather hope he does not—I will deal with you myself, and you’ll not find me as forgiving as he is. You can wager the surety of your soul on that.”
“As entertaining as your rants always are, I have no more time to waste with you.” Hal started to brush past his brother, but Richard grabbed his arm.
“We are not done here!”