BY FEBRUARY OF THE New Year, it was widely known on both sides of the Channel that there had been a monstrous quarrel among King Henry and his sons, and as a result the young king and Count Geoffrey of Brittany were aligned against their brother Richard, who now found himself attacked from all sides. Limoges was in armed revolt against him, and Aquitainian vassals as far south as Toulouse threatened to follow its example.
The young king and the Count of Brittany, fortified with a contingent of Breton troops and a large band of routiers, marched swiftly to Limoges and there made common cause with the rebel forces. None of Duke Richard’s vassals came to his aid, and for the first time since he had taken over the duchy, he appeared to be in real danger of losing control. Rumors abounded that the count of Burgundy and the count of Toulouse were waiting on the sidelines like jackals, hoping the Plantagenets would destroy one another so one of them could claim the duchy for himself.
In Salisbury, Eleanor heard of these horrifying events direct from the chancellor of England when he returned from Angers. Beside herself with worry, she could hardly bear to think of the agonizing spectacle her family was presenting to Europe: two Plantagenet sons fighting a third while their father switched from one side to the other. Of course, it had not been Henry’s intention for Harry and Geoffrey to make war on their brother, but how could he have failed to realize that in their eagerness to defeat Richard the two would naturally end up on the side of the rebels? Then Henry had put himself in the humiliating position of being forced to come to Richard’s aid or face the possibility of losing Aquitaine to the insurgents. If only she could talk to her sons, Eleanor felt certain she make them listen to reason. Helpless to act, she wanted to scream her frustration aloud.
In mid-February, Geoffrey the chancellor came to see her at Winchester Castle. Eleanor was in the great hall, virtually alone at the high table and picking at the remains of her supper, when she saw him enter with the steward. Stiff with cold, his fur-lined mantle was dotted with flakes of melting snow, and he wore a grim expression.
“Warm some food for the chancellor,” she told the steward, rising from her seat and leading Geoffrey over to the central hearth, where huge logs flamed in a bed of smoldering embers. “Sweet Marie, is it more bad news?”
He nodded as he pulled off half-frozen leather gauntlets then held his reddened hands over the fire. “John the marshal arrived in England last sennight, Lady, and informed me that reinforcements were being mustered in Normandy and the king has ordered him to call out the knight service here as well.” Geoffrey removed his cloak and warmed his back.
“So it will be war.” Eleanor steeled herself. “Where is King Henry now?”
“On his way to Limoges with only his household knights.”
Although it was what she would expect Henry to do, her heart leapt in fear. “But that is madness. Why didn’t he wait for reinforcements to arrive in Angers?”
“They could take weeks to muster, and even longer here. Channel crossings are unpredictable in winter.” Geoffrey sighed. “According to the marshal, Duke Richard is being sorely pressed, and time is of the essence in this matter.”
“Where are the French sisters at the moment?” It was not the question she meant to ask.
“Queen Marguerite and her husband were estranged, as I informed you earlier, and she would not go to Angers with him. Apparently she left for Paris when she heard her husband was on his way to Limoges. Princess Alais, however, was still in Caen, so King Henry ordered the marshal to take her back to England with him. She is now at Windsor and considered a hostage.”
“A hostage?” Alais’s name still brought a flutter to Eleanor’s heart. But she no longer suffered from the excruciating pain and rage that had crippled her wits.
Servitors brought in fresh platters of smoking meat, wildfowl, a thick pottage of greens, and a wheaten loaf.
“And a valuable one. Now there is war between Harry and Richard, who will King Philip support?” Geoffrey spread his hands. “His sister Alais’s betrothed, the duke of Aquitaine, or his sister Marguerite’s husband, the young king? Both are his vassals: one his brother-in-law, the other his future brother-in-law. Alais could be a useful pawn in any future negotiations.”
This was true. Her personal feelings had no place in the matter, Eleanor sternly reminded herself. A squire poured wine into her goblet, but she could not drink. “Does anyone know the whereabouts of William Marshal since my son so foolishly accused him?”
“No.” The chancellor nibbled at a slice of wildfowl. “But he is sure to turn up at Limoges sooner or later. In truth, he will be faced with a painful dilemma. He has sworn homage to two kings. The young king is his liege-lord, but he has forced him from his service; William is also liegeman to King Henry, who commands his loyalty as well. Whom does he serve without forfeiting his honor?”
“Such a choice would test Solomon himself.” Eleanor signed herself. “But I can tell you what William will do: He will go to him who has the greatest need.
Night had fallen. Black clouds chased one another across a starless sky hiding the moon. A sudden wind sprang up and Henry shivered in the chill March air as he stared up at the high walls, half shrouded in darkness, that surrounded Limoges. No light was visible from the town and it was impossible to tell if any archers or men-at-arms lurked atop the battlements.
“Do not get too close, Your Grace,” a voice called out. It was Baldwin, captain of a banneret of ten knights from Chinon that he had picked up on his way to Limoges. “You make an easy target. Remember what greeted us two days ago?”
“A hail of stones and arrows, but that was at noon with the sun shining. Now it is dark.”
“Not when the clouds pass. Please stay out of bowshot range.”
“Stop fussing like an old woman.” Henry did not move. “I have been trying to negotiate peace terms ever since I arrived, but my sons will not even acknowledge my presence. Now I intend to draw attention to myself until one of them does.”
Lowering his shield, Henry lifted the bullhorn swinging from a cord around his neck and bellowed, “Here is Henry, lord of Aquitaine! I demand to speak to my sons. At once.”
He waited, but there was no response and no one appeared. After several moments had passed, Henry raised the bullhorn once more. Just then a ray of moonlight silvered the battlements. A heartbeat later an arrow whistled through the air, piercing a corner of Henry’s mantle and missing his shoulder by mere inches. Stunned, he looked up; framed in one of the embrasures an archer, who had not been there an instant earlier, withdrew a longbow. Behind him there was another figure clad in armor, then both vanished. For a moment he thought he recognized—no, it must have been a trick of the moonlight, but Henry had the fleeting impression that the second figure was his son Count Geoffrey.
“À Chinon, À Chinon, come to your lord,” cried Baldwin, blowing three clear notes on his hunting horn to sound the alarm.
A group of knights, arms raised, swords in hand, rushed around the side of the castle, followed by archers and men-at-arms. Within moments the knights encircled Henry, surrounding him with their shields and shouting threats and curses up at the parapets. Archers notched arrows to their longbows, which they aimed at the battlements.
“Milord duke, look at this!” An archer on his knees searching the ground held something aloft in his hand. He rose and showed it to Henry.
“A quarrel!” Henry stared disbelieving at the square-headed bolt. A quarrel could penetrate mail and the lacerating wound it made was frequently fatal, whereas the puncture made by a sharp-pointed arrow or lance might only maim.
“To use a quarrel against an enemy leader is against all the principles of chivalry,” said Baldwin in a shocked voice.
Henry felt a chill run through him, and knew a wolf had walked over his grave. “It must have been loosed in error.”
Richard appeared a few moments later. “No crossbowman would dare shoot a quarrel without direct orders,” he said when he heard what had happened. “An evil purpose lies behind this, and well you know it, my lord.” He crooked a finger and one of his men came running. “Tell my archers to prepare their staves and start boiling a cauldron of pitch to every brazier. I intend to shoot a host of flaming arrows over the parapets.”
“No!” Henry held up his hand. “Do you want to turn Limoges into a funeral pyre? Let me continue my efforts to settle this peacefully.”
“Isn’t it obvious that my brothers are not interested in peace?” Richard’s voice was edged with impatience. “Their intention is to destroy both of us and take my duchy into their possession.”
“And you, my son?” Henry raised his brows. “What is your intention?”
Even in the semi-darkness Henry could see Richard stiffen. “If I wished to kill you, my lord, I would not do it in stealth and darkness with a quarrel! And if we are to speak of intention, who was it sent my brothers after me?”
“And who is it that now comes to your rescue? Mea culpa, I spoke in the heat of the moment at Angers! God knows I am paying for it now.” Unwilling allies, Henry knew that he and Richard had no choice but to put up with each other. “I still think we can settle matters with your brothers.”
“Settle with them?” Richard threw up his hands. “God’s teeth, they just tried to murder you!” He turned on his heel and stalked away.
Henry glanced again at the evil-looking quarrel in his hand then walked slowly toward his pavilion set some distance back from the walls. Sweet Jesu! Could Richard be right? Did one or both of his sons truly want to destroy him?
The next morning at first light Baldwin entered Henry’s tent to announce that the young king had sent a herald and was asking for a temporary truce in order to have converse with his father.
“Yes, I agree to a truce and I will see my son.” Henry felt a vast wave of relief spread through his body. Now all would be explained and peace terms offered. “Tell one of the men to bring us some food and another stool.”
But when Harry, clad in mail and armed with a sword, presented himself at the pavilion door there was something about the boy’s manner that set the hairs to prickling on the back of Henry’s neck.
“Lay aside your sword, my son, and let us break our fast together.”
Harry shook his head. “I must get back to the castle. I only came to explain that—that the arrow shot at you last night was the work of an inexperienced archer who did not know at whom he was shooting.”
Henry scrutinized his son. Pale and puffy-eyed, he would not meet his father’s direct gaze. “It seemed to me the crossbowman had a steady hand and a keen eye. He came dangerously close to hitting his target. With no arrow but a quarrel.”
Color suffused his son’s face. “Well, I was not there, so I have no direct knowledge of this matter. In any case, it was a mistake.” His glance darted hither and yon about the pavilion.
“I have been asking for a parley for a fortnight now,” Henry said firmly. “There must be an end to this strife lest rebellion spread through all Angevin lands once again. I thought you had learned your lesson, my son. You and Geoffrey, Richard, and myself must meet and agree on peace terms.”
“Geoffrey and I are here at your orders, Sire, my father.”
“Orders I now regret. But I did not command you to involve yourselves with the rebel faction in Aquitaine, or make common cause with Richard’s—and my—enemies!”
“You must face the truth, my lord: Richard and his vicious rule will no longer be tolerated by the true patriots of Aquitaine. If you will withdraw from his camp, a parley might be possible.”
“True patriots of Aquitaine” sounded like one of Bertran de Born’s nimble phrases. Henry rose wearily from his stool. “I came to Limoges to reason with you, my son, not to hand over the duchy. I beg you to arrange a parley.”
His son swallowed. After a long pause, a smile began to form at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I will do what I can.” His smile widened and Henry could see him summoning all his charm. “In truth, I will even try to get the rebel barons to submit to you.”
This was such a sudden volte face that Henry was reminded of the old saw: Those who have honey in their mouths have stings in their tails. “And if they refuse to submit?”
Harry turned on his heel and left without a reply. Although nothing in this interchange inspired trust, Henry, swallowing his frustration, made continued efforts to arrange for a parley.
But a fortnight later nothing had been accomplished. One morning at the end of March, Henry rode as usual to the city walls. This time only the unexpected rearing of his horse saved him. The stallion caught the shaft meant for him square in the neck. Thrown to the ground but unhurt, Henry was shaken to the core. His knights shouted defiance while Richard’s archers sent a hail of return arrows over the walls. Dazed in mind, bruised in body, and deeply mourning the noble beast who had served him so well, Henry allowed himself to be led back to his pavilion.
Did his sons really want to kill him? He refused to believe it. Yet what other explanation was there? Every attempt at reconciliation ended in violence. Almost at the end of his tether and no longer thinking coherently, he lay down on his pallet while his body squire pulled off his boots. After a few moments he fell into a troubled sleep only to be awakened a short time later when Richard burst into his tent clad in his hauberk and armed with a sword.
“My spies tell me that Bertran de Born has at last emerged from his lair and is openly calling for Flanders, France, even Normandy, to come to the aid of my brothers,” Richard fumed.
“Normandy? My seneschal in Rouen will only listen to—”
“To the duke of Normandy?” White-faced with rage, Richard kicked violently at a wooden stool. “There are two dukes, in case you have forgotten, and your vassals have sworn homage to both!”
Staggered by this reminder of his folly, Henry sank down onto another stool. “Normandy will remain loyal to me alone.” Hoping he sounded more certain than he felt, he said, “I told you that I have called out the full knight service of England, and any day now bannerets from Maine and Normandy will—”
“Then where are they? Waiting for us to be murdered? Or captured and held for ransom?”
The following afternoon Harry again asked for a truce. This time he removed his mail and stayed in Henry’s pavilion for two days. He kept insisting that he was making progress with the rebel barons but was so short of funds he could hardly feed his men. Harry’s allowance had been stopped and Henry had ordered that no treasurer in Normandy, Anjou, or Brittany send funds to his two sons.
With a fixed smile on his face, Harry managed to avoid answering direct questions despite Henry’s probing. Nothing the boy said rang true. Although Henry urged his son to listen to reason, he stopped short of accusing him of what he now strongly suspected: Harry was there not only to wheedle money from him but also to keep him occupied while something far more ominous might be taking place. He sensed that the boy was concealing a growing anxiety and only sheer nerve was holding him together. His heart ached with love for this golden youth who had so often disappointed and betrayed, and who, at this very moment, was probably privy to, if not the originator of, a plot to destroy his father. The number of times Harry had required his forgiveness defied number.
“Give it up, my son,” he said for the third or fourth time, taking Harry’s hand in his. “Surrender your forces and come back to the fold. Let us make a new start. No good can come of this heedless course you have set for yourself.”
For a moment—Henry could have sworn it—he saw the boy hesitate, and his fingers gripped his father’s hand. In the flickering horn lantern that lit the pavilion Henry thought he saw tears in the gold-green eyes. Then Harry withdrew his hand.
“I do not know what you mean.” He turned away with a gay laugh that rang hollow in Henry’s ears.
Heavy-hearted, Henry retired for the night. “God rest you, my son.”
“And you, my father,” came the whispered reply.
When he awoke the followig morning before prime, Harry was gone. Henry pulled on his clothes, rushed outside, then stopped short. Through the dawn mist Richard and William Marshal were striding toward him. Henry was so relieved to see William, he threw both arms about the knight’s tall frame.
“God be praised! God be praised!”
“I have been at the Shrine of the Three Kings in Cologne and heard what was happening in Limoges only recently. I came as soon as I could.” William bowed his head then silently handed him a sealed parchment.
Henry broke open the seal and quickly scanned the contents. “You want official permission to pass through my lines to rejoin my son, despite his unpardonable behavior toward you?”
“My place is with him, if it please Your Grace, if he will have me back.”
“Harry will have you, William ;right now he cannot afford not to. You have my blessing in this.”
“It is just possible I may be able to make the young king see reason.”
“The matter has gone well beyond reason.” Richard’s voice was filled with menace. “The problem is no longer confined to my brothers and the rebel vassals. The unpaid routiers are now the main difficulty, for they are no longer under anyone’s control.” He turned to Henry. “I sent one of my men to investigate and your suspicions were justified, my lord. While my older brother was trying to beguile you, Geoffrey was allowing the routiers to plunder the shrine of Saint Martial in order to placate their greed.”
“Sweet Jesu!” Henry felt the blood drain from his face and crossed himself.
“Reports have also reached me that the townsfolk are very angry and starting to turn against Harry and Geoffrey. We have only to maintain the siege, and Limoges will eventually offer complete and total surrender. My treacherous brothers will end up destroying themselves.”
“I wonder, Your Grace,” William began in a tentative voice. “Would your sons sue for peace if they were free to do so? Perhaps fear of the mercenaries prevents them.”
“That is indeed a possibility.” Henry paused as a thought struck him. “In the event they do want an honorable way out of the trap they have set for themselves, they can always take the cross in the cathedral of Limoges and immediately be invested with all the rights of a crusader. When you see them, propose this as your idea, not mine.”
Henry felt gratified at the look of awed respect that crossed William’s face. “Remind my sons that the pope guarantees the safety of all lands and is obligated to reinstate any and all privileges to every returning crusader. This would ensure these hotheads a safe passage out of Limoges, for no man would dare raise a hand against one who has taken the cross.”
“I will let you know if I am successful, Your Grace.” William smiled and bent his knee.
Less than a sennight after William Marshal joined the young king, Henry was elated to hear that Harry at least had taken the cross in the cathedral. But two days later William sent him a message that Geoffrey and Harry had secretly slipped out of the town with their routiers to raid Angoulême, and that he was going after them.
“But that is unconscionable after he has made a holy vow to take the cross,” Henry said.
“Even if Harry has taken this vow in earnest, it is unlikely the routiers will permit him to leave for the Holy Land without first receiving their wages,” replied Richard. “And if he cannot pay them, he must permit them to pillage and plunder.”
The next morning Richard entered Henry’s pavilion with the news that well before cockcrow Count Geoffrey and the young king had returned after their sortie in Angoulême. When they tried to reenter Limoges in company with their routiers, they were prevented by a mob of angry townsfolk led by the viscount of Limoges. He declared that his people would continue to defend their city against Duke Richard but no longer wanted Harry to reign over them.
“My brothers and their mercenaries were forced to retreat with stones and curses hurled after them.” Richard smiled his satisfaction. “The Limousins have at last discovered Harry’s true nature.”
“These people do not seem unduly eager to have you return as their duke either.” Stung by Richard’s self-righteous attitude, Henry felt his usual compulsion to defend Harry. “I have it on good authority that you are hated as duke of Aquitaine.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Richard sent him a cold glance. “There are two dukes of Aquitaine, my lord. Let us not put it to the test as to which one of us is the more hated.”
Checkmate. A tense silence followed. Henry opened the door of the tent and walked outside, where a bright sun was rising over the horizon into a deep-blue sky. After a moment Richard joined him. A squire brought them thick strips of roasted pig on freshly baked bread which bakers smuggled daily out of the city for an exorbitant price, and in silence they seated themselves on the ground.
“Sometimes I think these southern barons will never tolerate anyone to rule over them,” Richard said as he blew on the hot pork. “Even my mother had difficulty, and because she is one of them has an intuitive understanding of these people.”
Henry nodded. “I freely admit I have never really liked or understood the Aquitainians.”
“Nor I.”
“You surprise me.” Henry raised his brows. “Your mother told me more times than I care to remember that you were a true Aquitainian, the very image of your great-great-grandfather, Duke William the Ninth of cherished memory.”
“So I am given to understand. In truth—” He stopped short, then suddenly burst out, “Of course you know that this much vaunted ancestor was regarded mainly for his gifts as a troubadour, his defiance of Holy Church, and his conquest of women! There is not a single shred of evidence to indicate that he won a single battle, defeated an enemy, or ever acquitted himself in an honorable manner!” There was a note of outrage in his voice. “How can I be compared to this—this frivolous libertine?”
Repressing a desire to laugh, Henry wondered what Eleanor would say when he told her how her son really felt about her beloved grandfather. When he glanced at Richard out of the corner of his eye, his face was red and he was staring down at the ground in an agony of embarrassment. Henry felt an unexpected wave of sympathy.
“Well, for what it may be worth to you, I never thought that you were remotely like the notorious Duke William.”
“You didn’t?” Richard lifted his head and gave him a suspicious glance.
“No indeed. In my opinion, it is your Norman great-great-grandfather that you most resemble.”
“The Conqueror!” The word was uttered in a hushed tone barely recognizable as Richard’s. The fierce blue eyes became luminous and his face swelled with pride. “Do you—I mean, you really think I am like the great Conqueror?”
Henry, who could not remember the last time he had touched his son, felt moved to give him a playful punch on the arm. “Haven’t I said so? How far does the apple fall from the tree, eh?”
They smiled at each other. It was a moment of rare accord.
Over the next fortnight news trickled in from William Marshal that Harry and Geoffrey were wandering through Aquitaine allowing their routiers to burn and plunder the countryside. Even though their own reinforcements were finally starting to arrive, Henry knew he and Richard dared not leave the siege to take action, as more renegade troops had joined the rebels in Limoges. Then a startling rumor reached the camp: Harry and Geoffrey had had a major falling out; the young count had returned to Brittany, taking his Breton knights with him, and Harry’s behavior was growing worse as he careened through the duchy with demonic abandon. Caught in the grip of a terrible inevitability, Henry did not know where to turn. His beloved son was racing down a dark, tortuous road that could have but one end. And there was nothing he could do. Nothing.
One evening in early May, as Henry was making ready for sleep, he heard the sound of hoof beats galloping into the camp and ran out of his pavilion. Under the starlight a horseman was just pulling his lathered mount to a stop. He slid from the saddle and when he pulled off his helm Henry recognized him as one of Harry’s Angevin knights. Richard and a score of knights, squires, and archers also emerged from their tents to gather around him.
“I bring evil tidings,” the knight gasped, kneeling before Henry. “The young king—” he stopped, unable to go on.
Henry motioned to a squire. “Bring him some wine.”
Chest heaving, the knight told them that on Ascension Day Harry had met with the count of Toulouse and duke of Burgundy, who, initially favorable to his cause, were now refusing to join his banner. “Furious and mouthing threats, the young king then rode on to the holy village of Rocamadour.”
In his mind’s eye Henry saw a picture of Rocamadour perched on a rocky height in the Dordogne and reached only by climbing steep and narrow steps. He steeled himself for what was to come.
When the wine arrived the knight drank off half the flask before continuing. “The young king and his mercenaries plundered the shrine of Saint Amadour—” Tears spurted from his eyes. “William Marshal and those of us attached to the young king’s household had been against looting of any kind, but we could not stop the young king or his savage routiers.” He paused for breath. “They removed silver and other treasures—” He stopped, his lips trembling.
“Dear God, the sword of the great paladin Roland is housed in that shrine.” Richard’s voice was aghast. “They did not carry away Durandel?”
Stunned silence turned to cries of outrage from the knights, squires, and archers. Every man present knew by heart the legend of the paladin Roland, who had died defending his lord Charlemagne. On the eve of his last battle Roland had dedicated his famous sword to the Virgin and, after his death at Roncevaux, Durandel was taken to Rocamadour, where it had been enshrined for four hundred years. Whoever stole this symbol of knighthood, revered by every knight in Christendom, would be anathema, branded by the mark of Cain.
“The young king took the sword, my lord duke.” The knight bowed his head. “He held it aloft and laughed when he put his own in its place.”
A deathly pall fell over the assembled group. Richard was the first to break the silence.
“My brother has become a wolf’s head, a brigand knight, and every man’s hand will be raised against him. I swear to Almighty God and all His saints that I will personally avenge the theft of Durandel. Let all here bear witness to my oath.”
While voices rang out, the knightly messenger lifted his head and stared at Henry. He tried to speak, but no words came.
“There is more, isn’t there?” Henry felt his heart constrict.
“The young king left Rocamadour after sext,” the knight began in a low voice. “It was a day of intense heat and within a few hours the young king developed a burning fever and could not go on. We were near the village of Martel, so we stopped there and took him to a blacksmith’s hut.”
Henry lifted his arm as if to ward off a blow.
“By the next morning he had a bloody flux of the bowels and William Marshal ordered me to leave at once for Limoges.”
“Does he . . . Is he . . . My son still lives?” Henry forced himself to ask.
“Yes, but he is now mortally ill. As I was leaving, the young king called me to his side and begged me to ask that you go to him so that he might see you once more. He seeks your forgiveness if Your Grace will grant it.”
“Yes, yes, I will go at once. Saddle my horse. Richard, you must stay here and maintain the siege. I will need a few knights only—”
“No! It is too dangerous, my lord.” Richard scowled. “This may be just another ruse.”
There was a vehement chorus of agreement.
“As God is my witness it, is no ruse.” The knight signed himself. “My lord duke, by his own request your son lies on a bed of ashes clad only in a hair shirt. He begs you to come and give him the Kiss of Peace.”
“He may have recovered; his routiers may attempt to harm you—anything is possible,” Richard said, glaring at the knight.
There was another clamor of agreement. Wracked by doubts, Henry felt as if he had plunged into an abyss. What should he do? He stumbled back into his pavilion; the knight and Richard followed him. Time and again he had trusted Harry; time and again he had been betrayed. Faced with the most bitter choice of his life, he dared not take the chance. He sank down on a stool and put his head in his hands.
“Find me a prelate,” he said to his body squire.
The squire left at a run. Henry could not bear the thought of his son lying so near death, alone, stricken with remorse. Shortly thereafter a Limousin bishop entered his tent.
“I charge Your Grace with this mission,” Henry murmured, slowly drawing a jeweled ring from his finger. “Go to Martel, give my son this ring—” His voice broke. After a moment he continued: “With this ring goes my love and a full pardon for his grievous misdeeds. I forgive him freely with all my heart. May God assoil him.”
“Harry no longer deserves your protection and love,” Richard growled, and stormed out of the pavilion as if all the fiends of hell were after him.
For the next sennight Henry ate little and slept less. On the Friday in Whitsun-week, he was making a circuit of the walls when he began to feel faint. It was noon and he assumed it was the heat of the sun beating down on his helm. Henry dismounted and, sighting a peasant’s hut, asked the man who was milking a goat under a lean-to if he might take refuge inside.
Out of the noon glare the faintness passed. A few moments later the man entered with a wooden bucket of goat’s milk. Henry was drinking from the bucket when Richard appeared in the doorway.
“A monk has just ridden into the camp. He will speak only to you, so I assume—” He did not finish his sentence
“Bring him to me.” Henry waited outside the hut, bracing himself for what he had known would come.
The monk appeared and bowed his head. “It is with great sorrow that I must inform Your Grace that on Saint Barnabas Day, God claimed your son.” He signed himself. “The young king was attended by monks and prelates from nearby monasteries who came to his side when they heard he lay near death. He made a full confession and begged forgiveness for his sins. Then he and all his knights received Holy Communion.”
Richard snorted. “No matter how undeserved.”
The monk turned to Richard. “God allows the grace of repentance, my lord duke, just as he allows free will. Your brother made a true Christian end.”
“And the mercenaries? Did they also receive Holy Communion?” Richard’s voice was edged with scorn.
“No. They fled just before the young king died, taking all their plunder with them.”
“I shall hunt the whoresons down like the beasts they are if they remain on my lands.” Richard’s lips drew back over his teeth. “So in the end all my brother’s crimes were for naught. He died as he lived: penniless and ridden with debt.”
Henry barely listened to this exchange. My son is dead, he repeated to himself over and over. The doomed boy whom he had loved was no more. But the words could not penetrate his heart. He had lived through this moment so often in his thoughts that it no longer felt real.
“With his last breath the young king beseeched you, my lord duke, to make atonement in his stead for all the sacrileges he has committed against the holy shrines of Aquitaine,” the monk continued. “In addition he asked that you show his mother compassion and forgiveness and release her from confinement.”
Henry started violently. Release Eleanor? He saw knights, men-at-arms, archers, squires starting to gather around them.
“Where is William Marshal?” asked Richard. “Why did he not come with this news?”
“He has left for the Holy Land.” The monk signed himself again. “As the young king lay dying he asked that the cloak marked with the cross he took at Limoges cathedral be given to William Marshal. Then he charged him to bear it to the Holy Sepulcher to fulfill the vow he had made.”
Incredulous, Henry rocked back on the heels of his boots.
“The young king died in Sir William’s arms, kissing the ring you sent him.” The monk reached into the scrip at his belt and handed the ring to Henry, whose fingers clutched this last thing his son had touched.
There was the sound of sobbing and, to his surprise, Henry saw that there was now a large crowd of townsfolk who must have gotten wind of the news and left the safety of Limoges to hear the tale in full. Many faces were wet with tears, yet only a short time earlier these same people had driven the young king away with stones and curses. Unaccountably, they had already forgotten the evil he wrought, remembering only the charm, the generosity, and the golden promises he had dangled before them.
Henry felt he would go mad if he stayed there another moment. A mist swam before his eyes and he pushed and shoved his way through the throng. Almost falling, he ran to where he had left his black destrier, hauled himself into the saddle, and started to spur his horse forward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Richard running by his side and felt him pulling at the reins.
“My lord—” Richard sounded as if he were choking. “Father—”
Had his second son ever called him Father? Even as a child? He could not remember. From the remote point whence he now viewed the world, Henry looked down at his son’s flushed face as he struggled to speak.
“You have another son to replace—no, no, not replace—you have another son who will try to fill the void—” Richard’s voice strangled on the words.
At great cost to his pride, Richard was reaching out to him, a gesture he had never made before. But he could not respond. Four sons had been granted him. Three were left, and this one now running beside him probably the best of the lot. But with Harry’s death, Henry felt his hopes dwindle and his vision of a golden posterity fade. With a supreme effort, he forced himself to hold out his hand in an attempt to accept what was being so tenuously offered. With a will of its own, the hand fell back on the reins. The effort was too great; the distance too far to go. His horse trotted forward. Richard’s stricken face was left behind; the moment come and gone like a dream. And Henry had nothing left in his heart, not even regret.