Devil's Brood (51 page)

“To make his own mistakes, no matter how costly. I know that would not be easy for you, but you have no choice, not any longer. You made Hal a king, and now we must live with it.”

“‘Live with it’?” he echoed incredulously. “Is that what you’d have told Adam de Churchedune?”

“I regret what happened to Adam de Churchedune as much as you do. But if you’d not set him to spy upon Hal—”

“Here it comes! I am only surprised it took you so long. Hal nearly executes a man, nearly causes a dangerous rupture with the Church, and of course it is somehow all my fault!”

“I did not say that! But surely you must see now that you made a mistake, that putting a spy in Hal’s household was not the approach to take.”

“What I see is that I was right to worry about him, that I was right to think he needs supervision, that he is not to be trusted with a king’s authority or with men’s lives!” Henry was flushed, bitterly disappointed that this was her response, that he’d turned to her in his despair and she’d used it as a weapon against him. “I should have known better,” he said and, swinging about on his heel, he strode from the garden, not looking back.

O
N SEPTEMBER
8
,
Joanna sailed from Southampton for Barfleur, accompanied by her uncle Hamelin, the Archbishops of Rouen and Canterbury, and the Bishops of Ely, Évreux, and Bayeux. Henry had provided for her so extravagantly that it took seven ships to transport her and her party. Upon her arrival in Normandy, she was met by her brother Hal, who escorted her into Poitou, where Richard was waiting. He accompanied her through Aquitaine to the port of St Gilles, where she was formally turned over to the Bishop of Siracusa, and bade farewell to her brother, uncle, and most of the English prelates. On November 9, she sailed for Sicily.

A
STORM WAS THREATENING
and the Bishop of Worcester and his companions were relieved to reach Nottingham’s great castle before it broke. They hastened to dismount in the middle bailey, glad to turn their mounts over to waiting servants. Upon being told that the king was in the great hall, they headed in that direction. Roger noticed, though, that his sister’s steps were lagging, and gave her a curious glance.

“You are not nervous, Maud?”

“Now why ever would I be nervous?” she said tartly.

“Well, I can understand your unease,” he commiserated, “especially after the dire fate of the Poitevin rebels.”

Maud came to an abrupt halt. “‘Dire fate’? I thought Harry pardoned them!” Realizing then that she was the victim of brotherly humor, she jabbed Roger in the ribs with her elbow. “Very amusing.”

“I thought so,” he said cheerfully. “You are being foolish to worry, Sister. Harry has been remarkably merciful to rebels, forbearing to charge them with treason as he well could have done. Instead, he chose to follow the teachings of Our Saviour and offer forgiveness.”

Not to Eleanor, Maud thought, knowing that the queen was celebrating Christmas alone at Winchester. Her anger toward her former friend had cooled, mitigated by her son’s reprieve and her sense of fair play; she did not think it right that Eleanor alone should be the one to suffer for that ill-advised rebellion. She said nothing, though, knowing that Roger did not share her sympathies, and followed him into the hall.

It was overflowing with highborn guests and princes of the Church, all eager to display their loyalty and enjoy the splendors of the king’s Christmas Court. Henry was upon the dais, but not seated, a hardship on his less energetic subjects since they could not sit unless he did. He turned as Roger ushered Maud toward him, and for an uneasy moment, she could not tell what her reception would be. But then he said, “Welcome, Cousin Maud,” and gathered her into a quick embrace.

Maud had not feared being penalized for her son’s treason, for Roger had been able to convince Henry that she’d played no part in it. She had feared, though, that their friendship might have been irretrievably damaged, and she was greatly relieved to find it was not so. “I wanted to thank you again,” she said warmly, “for the kindness you’ve shown Hugh. He told me that he has been fully restored to favor, and you even plan to entrust him with a mission to Ireland in the spring.”

“Some people might argue that sending a man to Ireland is hardly a mark of royal favor,” Henry said dryly. “You owe me no thanks, Cousin. What’s past is past.”

Maud didn’t agree, but she knew he did not like profuse expressions of gratitude and after a few moments of idle talk, she graciously excused herself so that she could discover where she and her ladies were being lodged. Roger stayed on the dais with Henry, asking who else was expected at Nottingham.

“The Bishop of Norwich is due any day now from Sicily: I’d sent him ahead of Joanna to convey gifts and good will to William. I got word this week that she will be celebrating Christmas in Naples, for the poor lass was so seasick during the voyage that it was decided she needed time ashore to regain her strength.” Henry, who was never seasick, sounded both sympathetic and bemused. “Once she feels up to it, they will resume the journey to Sicily, but they’ll be traveling by land to make it easier for her.”

Henry waved away a servant who was offering wine, but Roger snared a cup. “Willem is here, though not for long. He has taken the cross and plans to accompany the Count of Flanders to the Holy Land come the spring. Hamelin is here, and Johnny, of course, and Geoffrey, too. But Richard is in Bordeaux, and Hal and Marguerite are holding their Christmas Court in Normandy at Argentan. Oh, and Geoff just arrived yesterday,” Henry said, and when Roger asked how Geoff’s studies were progressing in Tours, he grinned. “Well enough, he says. I can only hope he is spending more time in the university library than in the town taverns!”

Roger grinned, too; he’d done his own studies at Tours and he remembered the secular attractions quite vividly. Seeing that they were relatively alone, none within immediate earshot, he said quietly, “How is the Lady Rosamund faring?”

“I have not seen her since October, when I stopped at Godstow on my way from Windsor to meet the Scots king at Feckenham. She looked very frail to me, Roger, although she insists she is well and in good spirits.” Henry paused. “It is not easy to admit, but she seems content there, at peace.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Roger said; he’d spared more than a few prayers in the past nine months for the soul of Rosamund Clifford, a sinner who’d repented before it was too late. “I hear you are holding a council at Northampton next month. Shall I attend?”

“I think you’ll want to, Cousin. Amongst other matters, I plan to restore their lands to your nephew Hugh and his irksome ally, the Earl of Leicester. Saving a few strategic castles, of course.”

“That is good news, indeed! Maud will be delighted. Why did you not tell her that earlier?”

Henry shrugged. “You know how women are. She’d have squealed and kissed me. You are not going to do that, are you?”

“No, although of course I’d want to,” Roger said gravely, paying Henry back in his own coin, which he acknowledged with another grin. Roger was debating whether he ought to make any mention of Hal and his outrageous treatment of a man of God when Henry was informed that a messenger had just ridden in from the nunnery at Godstow.

“Send him in,” Henry ordered, before saying to Roger, “How is that for timing, Cousin?” He recognized the man being escorted toward the dais, one of Prioress Edith’s servants who’d delivered letters from Rosamund in the past. He’d always had an excellent memory for names and faces and it stood him in good stead now, recalling that the courier was called Edwin.

“You need not hurry back to Godstow, Edwin,” he said expansively. “You might as well linger for a few days and enjoy the festivities. I expect that—”

He cut himself off so abruptly that Roger turned in his direction. Henry read faces well and the man approaching was a study in utter misery. Kneeling before Henry, he mutely held out his letter, never meeting the king’s eyes. Henry glanced down at the seal; it was not Rosamund’s, belonged to the prioress. He froze, making no attempt to take the letter.

Roger glanced from one to the other and then reached for it himself. Surprised by the depth of sadness he felt, he looked at his cousin in silent sympathy, waiting until Henry could bring himself to take that letter and get confirmation of what he already knew.

S
O FAR HIS STAY
at Nottingham had been a great disappointment to John. He’d been looking forward to it eagerly, for his tenth birthday would occur two days after Christmas. Best of all, his father had told him that Nottingham Castle was his.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it seemed to him that the Lord of Nottingham would be the center of attention, or at least the object of more deference than he usually received. That did not happen. His father remained the focal point of all eyes, and any leftover honors were claimed by his brother Geoffrey, newly returned from a successful campaign in Brittany. Once more John was overlooked, forgotten.

Worse was to come. Yesterday his father had gotten bad news. John did not know what it was, for he’d not dared to ask. He’d tried to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, thinking they might know, but they would fall silent as soon as they caught sight of him. He feared that his father would not be in the mood for celebrating the Christmas revelries, much less his birthday. He’d been promised a surprise, but now he wondered if his father would even remember.

Nottingham had been a huge letdown. What he found most disquieting, though, was his father’s withdrawal. He’d made few public appearances and when he did, he was remote and aloof. John’s world had suffered such dramatic upheavals in the past three years that he often felt as if he were a leaf borne on the wind. He’d not liked the abbey of Fontevrault very much, but at least it was familiar and there he felt safe. John never felt safe anymore. Too much had changed, too fast. His mother and father had gone to war, his brothers all siding with her. After that, she was in disgrace, a prisoner whom he’d not seen in more than three years. If a queen could fall so far, anyone could. She’d been a glamorous stranger to him, but he’d been proud that she was his mother, and he missed her even though he did not understand how he could miss someone he’d seen so infrequently.

He did not miss Richard and Geoffrey; he’d not spent much time with them and when he did, they’d teased him mercilessly. Hal had been kind to him once, on those rare occasions when they met, tousling his hair and calling him “Sprout” but not in a mean way; a few times he’d even played with John. That had all changed since his fight with their father. Now when he saw Hal, his brother was brusque, dismissive like Geoffrey and Richard. Hal seemed angry with him, but he did not know what he’d done.

Joanna had been more than his companion at Fontevrault. She’d been his rock, but now she’d gone away and he might never see her again. Without Joanna, he had only his father, and ever since his father had gotten his bad news, he’d been there and yet he was not there. John could not explain it, could only sense it, and it frightened him. His feelings for his father were complicated. He was very proud to be the son of Henry Fitz Empress. But he never felt that comfortable with Henry. He’d watched his father’s fits of rage, watched other men cower before him. He’d never yelled at John, but John was always afraid that he would. Joanna was the only member of his family with whom he felt completely at ease, and he missed her very much.

He’d been wandering about all morning like a lost soul, trying to find some way to entertain himself. In late morning, he’d ventured up to his father’s chamber in a tower of the inner bailey, but he’d lost his nerve at the last moment and started back down the stairs. It was dark and the stone steps were slick, well worn by countless feet, for this part of the castle was over a hundred years old. John was carefully making his way down when he heard the voices below him. It was a man and a woman, and he caught his breath when he recognized the male voice. It was his brother Geoffrey. He could guess what they were doing by the way they were laughing, but he had no idea who the woman was. She could be a serving maid of the castle or a maid servant of one of the guests or a lady’s handmaiden or even a lady, he supposed; most of the barons had brought their wives and they’d all brought large entourages. He hesitated, not sure what to do next. If Geoffrey caught him, he’d get his ears boxed for certes. But the temptation to eavesdrop was irresistible, a chance to learn more about the things men did with women and mayhap even their father’s bad news, for Geoffrey must surely know.

The girl giggled, saying breathlessly that they must stop, for someone could come along at any moment. Geoffrey murmured something too softly for John to hear, then suggested they go to his chamber where they could be assured of privacy. She protested that she could not risk it, startling John when she mentioned her husband. It had to be someplace safe, she insisted, and after mentioning several places and then rejecting them as too dangerous, she announced in triumphant tones that she knew where they could meet—in the stables when the grooms went to their midday meal in the hall. Geoffrey seemed less than enthusiastic, pointing out that it would be colder than a witch’s teat and he’d likely freeze the body part she was most interested in, but she laughed huskily and murmured she’d warm him up soon enough. There was more laughing, low and intimate, and then John heard their footsteps descending, fading away. He’d sank down upon the steps, but now he came quietly to his feet, his eyes shining, for an idea had come to him, a daring idea that was as appealing as it was scary.

B
EFORE HE COULD THINK BETTER OF IT,
John trudged through the snow of the outer bailey to the stables and waited until no grooms were about to clamber up the ladder into the loft. There he burrowed deep into the hay, making himself a secure, hidden nest. He thought it most likely that Geoffrey and the girl would choose to come up into the loft, too, but even if they stayed below in one of the empty stalls, he’d still be able to watch. He knew what a risk he was taking, shivered to think of his brother’s anger if he were found spying on them. But he could not resist this chance to watch while they did it, whatever it was that men and women did. He had a fairly good idea, having watched dogs humping, but imagining was not the same as actually seeing for himself. The thought even crossed his mind that this might be something to hold over his brother’s head, that if ever Geoffrey threatened to give him a thrashing, he could make a threat of his own, mentioning the girl Geoffrey had been groping in the stairwell, the one with a husband.

It was warmer beneath the hay than he’d expected, and he began to feel so comfortable that he was soon yawning. The night’s storm had awakened him well before daybreak and he’d been unable to go back to sleep, listening to the eerie wailing of the wind and thinking it sounded like a pack of hungry wolves. Curling up like a cat, he yawned again, feeling drowsy. He hoped they’d come soon.

He must have fallen asleep after that, for he awoke with a start, not remembering for a moment where he was. It all came back to him, though, when he heard their voices. Peering from his hideaway, he could barely make out their figures, for the loft was filled with shadows, as dark as night in the far corners. As he listened, he realized that they’d already done it, and he felt a sharp pang of disappointment, angry with himself for sleeping through it. He could not go anywhere, though, until they did, so he settled down to wait, consoling himself with the thought that they might do it again.