Devil's Brood (65 page)

A
PALLID WINTER DAWN
had not yet dispersed the night shadows, and a few stars still glimmered along the horizon. Because it was so early, the castle was not yet astir, and Will’s leavetaking was witnessed only by a small group of friends and a few sleepy-eyed guards. Baldwin de Bethune and Simon de Morisco were doing their best to act hearty and jovial, making bad jokes and pretending that this morn was no different from any number of past departures. Will appreciated the effort, just as he appreciated their attempts to reassure him that his future still shone brightly, that Christendom was full of lords eager to snap him up like a starving trout. The practical part of his nature knew that they were right; he’d have no trouble finding a place in another great household. But that knowledge did not blunt the sharp edges of his newfound awareness—that he was thirty-five years old, with no lands or wife, cast aside by the man who’d been his friend, his liege lord, his lodestar.

He was not going alone, accompanied by his squire, Eustace de Bertrimont, and a few fellow knights who’d pledged themselves to his banner when it was flying high and were unwilling to abandon him now that his luck had soured. As he looked about at these loyal men, he could not help remembering how proud he’d been the first time he’d fought in a tournament as a knight banneret, leading his own company of men. That had been at Lagny, the tourney held after the young French king’s coronation. Was that truly only two years past? It felt like a lifetime ago.

When his eyes began to burn, he awkwardly embraced his friends, submitted to their equally clumsy hugs, and swung up into the saddle. With their farewells echoing in his ears, he and his small party rode toward the gatehouse and out onto the drawbridge. The dawn continued to lighten, and a brisk wind sent clouds scudding across the sky. It would be a good day for travel. Spurring his stallion, he settled into an easy canter, not allowing himself to look back, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

H
AL NO LONGER HAD QUALMS
about going ahead with the conspiracy. When he’d asked the Almighty for a divine sign, he’d not expected what he’d gotten. But the wrathful chapel altercation with his brother had dispelled his doubts. Aquitaine was worth fighting for, and Richard deserved to be defeated and shamed if any man did. Their father had to believe that Richard was the one in the wrong, though, if they hoped to keep him out of it, and so Hal was grateful for his brother’s fiery, impulsive nature. If Richard had been more calculating, he’d have said nothing until he’d assembled his proof and then set up an ambush. As it was, Hal had the opportunity to plan his own response, and by the time the confrontation came, he was ready for it.

Summoned to Henry’s bedchamber, he found his father and Richard waiting for him. Richard was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, looking both defiant and expectant. Henry shared none of his son’s anticipation; he looked tired and troubled. “Come in, Hal,” he said. “Your brother has made some grave accusations against you. For all our sakes, I hope he is mistaken. These charges are too serious, though, to be dismissed out of hand. I thought it best that we discuss this matter in private. But if there is truth to his claims…”

Richard shot Henry a resentful glance. Could the old man make it any plainer how eager he was to believe Hal’s denials? “Hal has been conspiring with my vassals against me,” he said coldly, for he was determined to be matter-of-fact, not to let Hal bait him into losing his temper. “I do not know who was the instigator, whether he came to them with honeyed promises of a lenient lordship or whether they sought him out first. It does not really matter, does it? What does is that they have engaged in treason, scheming to depose me as Duke of Aquitaine and put Hal in my stead.”

Hal regarded him calmly. “Have you any proof of this, Richard?”

“Yes, I do have proof,” Richard said, with a smile like an unsheathed dagger. “I have a witness, one of the household knights of Viscount Aimar of Limoges. He is willing to testify that his lord met with you on numerous occasions, that you have been conspiring together to stir up a rebellion against me, and that you have involved others in your plot—including Joffroi de Lusignan, and those habitual rebels, the Taillefer brothers. So…deny it if you dare!”

After Richard accosted him in the chapel at Caen, Hal had been dreading this moment of reckoning. But now he found that he was actually enjoying himself, so confident was he of the stratagem he’d devised during those bleak days at the Christmas Court. “You are right, Papa. These are indeed serious charges, and I welcome the chance to respond to them. But not here. I want it done in public, before witnesses of unimpeachable probity, so that Richard cannot twist my words to suit his own ends.”

Hal stifled a smile, gratified by the startled reactions of his father and brother. Sounding highly skeptical, Richard demanded to know when this would take place, and Hal did grin openly then, thinking that if suspicions were fuel, Richard would be a flaming torch. “The sooner the better,” he said agreeably. “This afternoon, if it pleases you.”

“It pleases me,” Richard said grimly, and Henry looked from one to the other in utter dismay, singed by the heat of the hostility burning between them.

T
HE CASTLE’S GREAT HALL
was the site for the drama Hal was about to stage. The royal family and the most honored of their guests had been ushered onto the dais. Henry was flanked by the Archbishops of Canterbury and Dublin. Geoffrey, Constance, Richard, Marguerite, Heinrich, and Tilda were seated nearby, and behind them stood Henry’s natural son and chancellor, Geoff, the Bishop of Le Mans, and several of Henry’s trusted advisors, including Willem and Maurice de Craon.

Catching Marguerite’s eye, Hal winked, and she smiled, if rather wanly. He was amused to see that his father and brothers had retreated behind their inscrutable court masks, a clear indication that they were curious and uneasy, unsure of his intentions. That was exactly how he wanted them to be—slightly off balance. He was sorry that he’d not been able to warn Geoffrey beforehand, but it could not be helped. Glancing about the hall, he let the suspense build until all eyes were upon him, and then he raised his hand for silence.

He felt that rush of excitement that he imagined a player must feel the first time he stepped onto a stage and took command; he’d always thought that acting must be great fun. “Those who wish me ill have been spreading rumors about my loyalties.” Ostensibly speaking to Henry, he was also playing to the audience, and many of them noticed that his eyes had lingered upon his brother Richard when he spoke of “those who wish me ill.” Richard certainly did, and his mouth set in a hard, thin line.

“These accusations are baseless,” Hal declared. “I would not have you harbor any doubts about that, sire.” Taking the cue, his chaplain came forward, knelt before him, and held out a book bound in fine calfskin, beautifully illuminated in gold leaf, borrowed that day from the Bishop of Le Mans. Putting his hand upon the book, Hal said solemnly, “I swear upon the Holy Gospels that my fidelity to you is as true and steadfast as my faith in Christ the Redeemer. I further vow that I will be loyal to you, my liege, for all the days of my life, and show you the honor and obedience due you as my father and my king.”

It was hard for Hal to read his father’s expression, but the scornful twist of Richard’s mouth needed no translation.
Let him smirk; the hellspawn was about to get the surprise of his life.
“I realize that oaths can be broken,” he continued, thinking that his father had broken more than his share of them. “But I want there to be perfect trust between us from now on, and to prove my sincerity, I shall be utterly honest with you, my lord father. My brother Richard has accused me of plotting with his liegemen against him. I do not deny it. I did indeed enter into a pact with the disaffected barons of Poitou and the Limousin.”

The stunned expression on Richard’s face was quickly followed by one of triumphant wariness. Geoffrey simply looked horrified. But Henry had blanched, like a man bleeding from an internal wound. Hal ignored the murmur sweeping through the audience, and kept his eyes upon his father’s face.

“I am sure that none here are surprised by the anger and resolve of the lord duke’s barons. They have chafed for years under his heavy-handed rule, charging that he tramples their cherished traditions into the dust, that he makes free with their women, and imposes his will by force and violence. How could I not sympathize with legitimate grievances like that? But it was not sympathy that drove me into this conspiracy. It was his treachery. He has fortified a castle at Clairvaux, which lies within the holdings of the Count of Anjou—and all know it. Can you imagine his outrage, my lord father, if I’d intruded into Poitou and dared to put up a castle in his domains? It was this threat to the sovereignty of Anjou that stirred me to action, for I would not willingly cede so much as a shovelful of Angevin dirt to the Duke of Aquitaine!”

There was so much commotion in the hall now that Hal had to raise his voice to be heard over the clamor. “My only regret is that I did not come to you first, my liege, as soon as I learned of his perfidy. I ask you now to take the castle at Clairvaux from my brother and keep it in your own hands, so that peace may be restored to our family.”

H
AL WAS PLEASED
with the outcome of his dramatic declaration, for all had gone as he’d expected. Richard was infuriated. Henry’s attention had been diverted from Hal’s wrongdoing to his brother’s encroachment into Anjou. He’d impressed people, particularly the clerics, by his willingness to swear upon the Holy Gospels. His own knights were inspired by his boldness, and Richard’s men were suddenly on the defensive. He did feel a prickle of remorse that Marguerite was so proud of his candor, knowing she believed that the conspiracy was now part of the past, but he assured himself that he’d make her understand when the time came.

The only surprise was that Geoffrey had not sought him out afterward for an explanation. He’d have liked to think that Geoffrey had instinctively understood what he was doing, but that unguarded, shocked expression on his brother’s face argued otherwise, and as the evening wore on, he went looking for the Breton duke, to no avail. It was only when he found Geoffrey’s squires, Jehan and Morgan, flirting in a window-seat with the castellan’s fetching daughter that he learned Geoffrey and Constance had departed some time ago.

H
AL STILL MARVELED
that his brother seemed to enjoy such a satisfying sex life with the prideful, sharp-tongued Constance, but he could imagine no other reason for their abrupt withdrawal from the hall. After bounding up the stairs to their private chamber, he made sure to knock loudly on the door and waited until he heard Geoffrey call out, “Enter.”

He was half expecting to find them in bed, but they were still fully dressed, seated together by the hearth. Smiling, he greeted his sister-in-law warmly before asking if he could borrow her husband for a brief time.

“You may speak freely in front of Constance.”

Hal blinked, for he could not imagine trusting Constance the way he trusted Marguerite. He had no real interest in his brother’s marriage, though. “As you will,” he said affably. “I thought you might have some questions for me.”

“Did you, indeed?” Geoffrey’s eyes had always been changeable, but now they were as grey as flint and just as welcoming. “Unfortunately, they’re questions I ought to have asked you last summer at Limoges. You were so busy instructing me how Richard and I would captain our arks that we never got around to discussing your own views on seamanship. A pity, for it would have been useful to know that you were a believer in lightening the load when you ran into rough waters. At the very least, it would have prepared me when you chose to push our allies over the side. I can only wonder why you did not throw me overboard, too—unless you’re saving me for a particularly severe storm.”

Hal was genuinely shocked by the accusation and, then, offended. “Jesus God, Geoff, I’d never do that! You’re my brother.”

“So is Richard,” Constance pointed out coolly, and Hal gave her the sort of vexed look that she was accustomed to receiving from his father.

“I can understand that you are unhappy with me, Geoff,” he said, striving to sound apologetic even though he thought Geoffrey was being needlessly contentious. “I ought to have alerted you to what was coming. But I had no time, truly I did not. You know about my chapel quarrel with Richard. I had to find a way to deflect his accusations. As for ‘pushing our allies over the side,’ that is absurd. Richard already knew they were conniving against him. Nor did I mention any names.”

Geoffrey and Constance exchanged a meaningful glance, one that spoke volumes without a word being said. “Richard
suspected
they were conniving against him,” Geoffrey pointed out, “but he did not know for certes—not until you helpfully made a public confession. Do you truly think Aimar and the others will be pleased with the work you’ve done this day?”

Hal shrugged. “It does not matter whether they are pleased or not. They’ll still be keen to ally with me, for where else can they go?”

Geoffrey was silent for a moment. “I cannot decide,” he said slowly, “whether you’re a complete fool or an utter cynic.”

“Look, Geoff, we had to put Richard in the wrong. Well, I’ve done that and quite adroitly, I think. Now the pressure will be on him to yield that accursed castle. In all honesty, can you envision him doing that?”

Geoffrey was still frowning, but he had to shake his head at that. “No, I cannot,” he admitted.

“Exactly! And when he balks, we both know Papa’s temper will catch fire, as it always does when his will is thwarted. I’ve proven my good faith by confessing freely to my part in the plot. Now it will be up to Richard to prove his, and when he refuses, he’ll become the legitimate target for our father’s wrath. Once Papa is publicly defied like that, how likely is it that he’d go racing to Richard’s rescue?”

“Not likely,” Geoffrey had to agree. “You do make a plausible argument, I’ll grant you that.”

“Of course I do. I’d given this careful thought,” Hal insisted, apparently unaware he’d just contradicted his earlier claim—that he’d not had time to consult Geoffrey. “As for Aimar and the others, leave them to me. I’ll smooth their ruffled feathers easily enough.” Crossing to Constance’s side, he kissed her hand with a flourish, and departed with a jaunty bounce in his step, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

It was quiet for a time after he’d gone. Constance was the first to break the silence. “You cannot ever trust that man, Geoffrey.”

“I know. But then I trust no one, darling.”

She arched a brow, but did not make the obvious response, the one that most women would have asked, and because she did not, he amended his statement. “Except for you, of course.”

“You’d have to say that,” she pointed out, and when their eyes met, they both laughed.

R
ICHARD HAD COME
in grudging answer to the king’s summons, but he was in no conciliatory mood, unable to understand how his father kept allowing himself to be taken in by Hal’s act. “You may as well save your breath,” he warned, “for I will not give Clairvaux up.”

Henry had been expecting just such a response. “Why did you decide to fortify the castle at Clairvaux?”