Devil's Brood (80 page)

T
HE ENGLISH QUEEN WAS
back at Sarum, and Amaria was pleased by the move, welcoming any change in the predictable ebb and flow of daily life. On this sun-splashed June afternoon, she was enjoying the hustle and bustle of market day, held on the open ground below the castle’s East Gate. Accompanied by a servant to tote her purchases, she’d spent several pleasant hours browsing among the booths, buying needles and thread, a vial of rosewater, scarlet ribbons, almond oil, the hazelnuts that her queen liked, and several jars of honey. It was wonderful to have enough money for impulse and luxury buys; Amaria was very appreciative of the queen’s rise in status. In good spirits, she bought candied quince from a vendor and included the delighted young servant in her generosity.

Some of her cheer began to dissipate as they headed back toward the castle, for the queen’s chamber was no happy place these days. Eleanor had lost so much weight that her face looked drawn and pinched, and Amaria had to urge her to eat. Her days were long and her nights were worse. Amaria ached, too, feeling her pain and fear, and sympathizing with her rage. Had she been free, she’d have sailed for her homeland weeks ago, recklessly plunging into the very midst of war as she sought to end this fratricidal strife between her sons. Because she remained tethered to her husband’s will, she unleashed much of her frustration and fury upon his absent head, speaking of him with more bitterness than Amaria had heard from her in years. Amaria did what she could, provided an audience for her rants and prayed earnestly that the king would soon restore peace to his domains and his family. Other than that, they could only wait for word from the Limousin.

She paused to exchange greetings with some of the townsmen streaming back into the castle; she’d discovered, to her amusement, that she was a source of considerable interest to the inhabitants of Sarum—the person closest to that legendary being, Eleanor of Aquitaine. They soon parted ways, the villagers heading off toward the homes nestled under the castle walls and Amaria and her young helper continuing in the direction of the keep and royal palace.

As soon as they passed through the gatehouse into the inner bailey, Amaria sensed that something was wrong. The courtyard was usually like a hive for humans, with servants and soldiers and visitors milling about in raucous confusion, dogs getting underfoot and chickens squawking and horses eager to reach the stables and their waiting feed. Now, though, an eerie silence greeted Amaria. A few people were out and about, but they were also acting oddly, clustered together in small knots and conversing in the hushed tones usually heard only in church.

The boy felt it, too, glancing around uneasily as if he expected to find the castle under attack at any moment. Just then one of the maidservants spotted them. “Dame Amaria, we’ve been looking all over for you! It is just terrible…The queen’s son is dead! He was stricken—”

But Amaria was no longer listening. Lifting up her skirts, she began to run.

S
HE ARRIVED,
panting and flushed, in the queen’s chamber only to find it empty. For a moment, she stood, irresolute, and then realized that Eleanor might be in the chapel of St Nicholas. It was accessible from the royal apartments, but she paused for a moment before she entered, trying to collect her thoughts. She was not truly surprised, for she’d long feared that this would happen. Men might laud Duke Richard for his utter fearlessness, but not the women who loved him.

As she’d expected, she found Eleanor in the chapel, standing by one of the windows. Her face was partly in shadow, one cheek dappled with the deep rose hues of the panes above her head for the sun was setting the stained glass afire. She turned at the sound of footsteps upon the tiles, and Amaria bit back a cry, for the queen could have been a stranger. She seemed to have aged years in just a few hours, and Amaria had never seen her look as she did now—vulnerable, frail, and defeated.

“My lady, I am so sorry!” Amaria’s words ended in a stifled sob as she came to a halt, stretching out her hand in a tentative gesture of comfort that fell short, her fingers just brushing the sleeve of Eleanor’s gown.

“I wanted to pray for his salvation,” Eleanor said dully, “but I do not think the Almighty is listening to me, not anymore…”

Amaria was momentarily mute, for she’d never known such despair herself; even when she’d lost her own babies, she’d not lost her belief in God’s Mercy. She looked at the queen, her eyes blurring with tears. But she had to ask, had to know the worst if she had any hope of consoling this stricken woman. “Madame…was he shriven?” And when Eleanor nodded, she leaned against the wall, weak with relief. “God be praised! Surely that…that must be of some comfort, my lady. So often men die in battle without confessing their sins beforehand, and Duke Richard was…” She stopped then, for Eleanor was looking at her blankly.

Eleanor felt as if her brain was no longer working as it ought, and it took a moment or so until she understood the meaning of Amaria’s words. “It is not Richard. It is Hal.”

Amaria was astounded. Richard’s death would have made more sense, for he gambled with his own mortality on a daily basis. But Hal? He’d seemed to be one of Heaven’s favorites, blessed and beloved, not a man whose life would be cut short with such fearful finality. “H—how?”

Eleanor shook her head, not yet able to talk about it, just as she was not ready to think about the political consequences, what Hal’s death would mean to Richard. For now she was a mother whose child had been cruelly taken from her and nothing else mattered. Her shoulders slumping, she leaned her forehead against the sun-burnished stained glass, closing her eyes against the glare.

“My poor Hal,” she whispered. “He so wanted to be a king and he was never more than a pawn…”

T
HE QUEEN’S NIGHTS
had been so troubled that Amaria had gone to see the village apothecary, and after consulting him, purportedly for her own sleeplessness, she purchased a sleeping draught of henbane and black poppy. She returned to the castle with a lighter step, for it helped immeasurably to know the Countess of Chester was there. Maud was familiar with the blighted, desolate landscape of grief. She, too, had suffered the loss of a son. And she could be candid with the queen in a way that Amaria could not. Amaria thought she could already see an improvement in Eleanor’s spirits and she blessed the countess for being such a loyal friend.

As she entered the queen’s chamber, she found Eleanor seated by the open window, reading a letter, and Maud playing with the cat. Maud smiled at Amaria, beckoned her over, and related that the queen had just gotten a letter from the Duchess of Saxony. “It is bound to comfort her,” she said softly, “hearing from her daughter.” Amaria was not so sure; what if Tilda had more bad news to disclose? Cleo was curled up contentedly in Maud’s lap and, lulled by her benign demeanor, Amaria ventured to pet her, only to have the feline flatten her ears and spit. Maud told her not to take it personally, explaining that cats were given to whims and unpredictable behavior, but to Amaria, she sounded faintly smug, the way people who never got seasick commiserated with those who did.

Glancing up from the letter, Eleanor said, “My daughter writes that Viscount Aimar surrendered his castle a fortnight ago. Harry razed it to the ground and Aimar was compelled to forswear further revolts, but Tilda thinks he got off lightly. The other rebels have gone to ground, too.” For a moment, her eyes held Maud’s and the same thought was in both their minds: that the rebellion had died when Hal drew his last breath. Eleanor swallowed with a visible effort and lowered her gaze to the letter. But then she stiffened in disbelief. “God in Heaven!”

When she looked up again, she was shaking her head in amazement. “Tilda says that as Will Marshal and Hal’s knights carried his bier north, crowds gathered by the roadside to watch, weeping and mourning. A leper and a woman suffering from hemorrhages claimed to be cured after touching his bier.” They were equally astonished, and she held up her hand to forestall questions. “Wait, there is more. When the funeral cortege halted at the monastery of St Savin, people said they could see a beam of light shining down upon the church. And as they approached Le Mans, a cross was seen in the sky and another beam of light enveloped the bier. The citizens of Le Mans were convinced they’d seen a miracle, and they seized Hal’s body, insisting that he be buried in their city. Will and the knights protested, to no avail, and he was interred in their cathedral next to Harry’s father.”

The other women were dumbfounded. Naturally they believed in saints and miracles, but neither one could envision Hal as a saint. Could they say so forthrightly, though, to his mother?

Eleanor had resumed reading, continuing to shake her head at the contents of the letter. “Tilda says the townspeople of Rouen were outraged, threatening war with Le Mans if Hal’s body were not re-interred and buried in their cathedral as he wished, and to keep the peace, Harry has had to order it done.” Looking up, she said with a sad smile, “Hal would have been amused by the furor, and even more amused to hear himself proclaimed a saint. His ambitions never rose higher than a kingship.”

Amaria was emboldened to confess that she did not understand any of it. She got her answer from Maud as the countess said dryly, “Saints are valuable commodities, Dame Amaria. Holy relics attract pilgrims. And saints are even more useful for political purposes. Cousin Harry could contend with his rebellious archbishop, but he had no chance whatsoever against the Holy Martyr.”

Turning her attention again to the letter, Eleanor drew a hissing breath. “Do you remember the Archdeacon of Welles, Maud? Harry sent him to me with word of Hal’s death, knowing that he had always been sympathetic to my plight. It seems the good archdeacon is one of those promoting Hal’s sanctity. According to him, I already knew of my son’s death, for I’d had a dream in which he wore two crowns, and I told Archdeacon Thomas that these dual crowns could only mean eternal bliss and everlasting joy. The archdeacon has been commending me in his sermons for ‘fathoming the mystery’ of my dream and for accepting Hal’s death with such discernment and strength.”

Amaria was now thoroughly confused, but not Maud, who said with a frown, “You’d best write to Harry and assure him that the archdeacon has a vivid imagination. If you wish, I will write to him, too, and tell him that I was present when you first learned of the archdeacon’s claims.”

“That is not needed, Maud, but I thank you. Harry will know without being told that I would not have said this.” Seeing Amaria’s bewilderment, Eleanor said, with a thin smile, “Harry’s foes learned well from Archbishop Thomas’s martyrdom. If they can convince people that Hal was a saint, that puts Harry in a very poor light, indeed. And whilst I admit that there have been times when that would have given me great satisfaction, if Harry is tarnished by this…this foolishness, then so is Richard. And Harry knows I would do nothing to undermine Richard’s authority in Aquitaine.”
He has enough troubles there as it is.
But this thought remained unspoken, for not even to Maud would Eleanor confess her misgivings about her second son’s heavy-handed rule over the turbulent, defiant barons of her duchy.

Going back to her daughter’s letter, she smiled again, only this one was genuine. “At last, some good news! Tilda says that Geoffrey has been summoned to meet Harry and Richard at Angers. God Willing, we can restore family harmony, although how long it will last…”

Maud was surprised that Eleanor seemed so eager to see Geoffrey forgiven, for she’d assumed that the queen would have been very wroth with him for the part he’d played in the assault upon her favorite son. Striving for tact, she said, “You bear Geoffrey no grudge, then?”

Eleanor’s smile disappeared as if it had never been. “I am not happy with him. Nothing is more important, though, than bringing peace to our family and our domains. I have lost one son this summer, and I will be damned if I will lose another.”

H
ENRY WAS STANDING
upon the dais in the great hall at Angers, conversing with the bishop and several of his barons. Losing interest, Richard drifted over to an open window. He was growing impatient, for they’d been waiting since noon for his errant brother to make his appearance. One of the castle dogs had followed him and he was roughhousing with the hound when Geoff joined him. Their alliance of expediency still endured, for both men had been equally outraged by the claims of sainthood being made on Hal’s behalf. They began to discuss the latest developments now, for Geoff had just learned that Robert de Neubourg, the dean of Rouen Cathedral, had been the one making the loudest demands for the recovery of Hal’s body.

“I think the dean is intent upon feathering his own nest,” he said darkly. “All know his uncle Rotrou’s ailment is likely to be mortal, and all know, too, that he is keen to succeed Rotrou as the next Archbishop of Rouen. What better way to court votes from the canons than by securing a ‘saint’ for their cathedral?”

Richard wondered why Geoff sounded so indignant, for he took it for granted that men acted out of self-interest. “Well, you did not think he truly believed in Hal’s holiness, did you? The only ones who could swallow that fable are madmen, drunks, and gullible ceorls. At least they were not such fools in my duchy. There were no ‘grieving crowds’ lining the roads in the Limousin or Poitou. That lunacy did not start until they’d crossed into Anjou.”

“It is hard to see a man as saintly when you’ve been watching him plundering your abbeys and terrorizing your clerics,” Geoff agreed, but Richard was no longer listening. Nudging his brother, he gestured and, turning toward the window, Geoff saw that Geoffrey had just ridden into the bailey. “Will you look at that?” he said in surprise, for Geoffrey was not only accompanied by his duchess, but it appeared as if half the barons in Brittany were in his entourage. Geoff had not expected that, for Geoffrey had never shown Hal’s partiality for pageantry and spectacle.

Richard was surprised, too. “The milksop! Does he hope to hide behind his wife’s skirts?”

“No, he has something more subtle in mind.” Neither of them had heard Henry’s approach, and they both jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice. Kneeling on the window-seat to get a better view, he said, “He is a clever lad, Geoffrey. He is reminding us that he is Duke of Brittany by right of his wife, that he owes nothing to me. And the presence of his Breton lords testifies to the widespread support he enjoys amongst his barons—in case I should be rash enough to contemplate trying to divest him of the duchy.”

Geoff and Richard exchanged looks of mutual aggravation, for their father sounded almost admiring of Geoffrey’s political acumen. They’d already concluded that Henry was not likely to punish his son more harshly than he had the Viscount of Limoges, but it was still exasperating to get confirmation of their qualms. “Uprooting Geoffrey from Brittany sounds like a fine idea to me,” Richard said acerbically, although he knew that had never been an option.

Henry didn’t reply, watching as Geoffrey helped Constance to dismount. His attention was drawn then to a minor commotion on the edge of the crowd. Ranulf and Bleddyn had shouldered their way through the bystanders and were thumping Morgan on the back, bantering and laughing, showing such pleasure in their reunion that Henry felt a sharp pang of envy. Why could his relations with his sons not be as simple, as easy?

C
ONSTANCE GAVE GEOFFREY’S HAND
a quick squeeze, and then he began that long walk toward the dais where his father and brother awaited him. He was determined to show no emotion, not willing to give Richard that satisfaction. Unfastening his scabbard, he put his sword upon the steps and then knelt. “My lord king, I am here to seek your pardon for the part I played in the rebellion. I offer no excuses for my actions, can only hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Henry wondered how often he’d have to play out this farce with one of his sons. They always said the right things, showed the proper contrition. But their words rang hollow, and when he looked into their eyes, he saw strangers. He found he had no stomach for yet another of these public mock-capitulations and got abruptly to his feet. “Come with me,” he said brusquely, and without waiting to make sure Geoffrey was obeying, he strode from the hall.

T
HEY FACED EACH OTHER
in the castle solar, a chamber shadowy and stifling, for Henry had jerked the shutters into place, not wanting to risk eavesdroppers gathering below the window. Leaning back against a table, he regarded his son in baffled anger. Geoffrey’s betrayal had been more painful than Hal’s, for he’d never seen it coming. By that spring, he’d had few illusions left about his eldest, but he’d honestly thought Geoffrey was trustworthy. Finding that it was not so had been a severe blow, both to the king and the father. “You realize,” he said at last, “that if you’d not thrown in with Hal, it is likely he’d not have been able to rebel.”

He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, but Geoffrey found it easy enough to finish the thought. “And Hal might still be alive. So I am to atone for Hal’s sins as well as my own. Who else am I to answer for? The French king? The Viscount of Limoges?” Geoffrey knew he was in no position to offer defiance, but that implied accusation had stung, all the more so because the same thought had crossed his own mind. He braced himself for Henry’s fury. To his surprise, though, it did not come.

Henry looked at him in silence and then astonished him by saying quietly, “That was not fair of me. I do not blame you for Hal’s death, nor would he want me to. It may not have happened until he was on his deathbed, but at the last he accepted full responsibility for his actions, took all the guilt for the rebellion upon himself.” There was a dull, throbbing pain behind his right eye, and his bad leg had begun to ache. He shifted so that more of his weight rested against the table, keeping his eyes upon his son’s face. “I do not want to hear your apologies or promises of future loyalty, Geoffrey. We both know how little such words mean. What I do want from you is honesty. You may speak your mind without fear of consequences. I want—I need—to know why.”

Geoffrey blinked in amazement. “Jesus God, Papa, you know why!”

“No, I do not.”

“How could you not know? Because you refused to grant us Richmond and Nantes.”

“That may be the pretext, but it was not the cause. You knew it was only a matter of time until they came into your hands, for I’d promised them to you. Why were you not willing to wait?”

Despite Henry’s demand for utter candor, Geoffrey knew he could not tell his father that his promises were dross, as unsubstantial as cobwebs and smoke. He compromised by offering as much truth as he dared. “Nantes is the heart of Brittany and the Honour of Richmond belonged by rights to Constance’s father. When he died, it should have passed to her, and all know it. Have you never thought that by holding on to these lands, you diminish me in my wife’s eyes? And the eyes of her barons?”

Henry was not sure how Geoffrey had managed to back him into a corner. “That is nonsense! Your barons know it is a delay, not a denial. Even after your recent treachery, I am not saying these lands are forfeit, although few would blame me if I did. But I cannot help feeling grateful that I held on to them, for if you’d had control of Nantes, that would have enabled you to launch attacks directly into Poitou. My giving you Nantes might well have made it possible for you to win your rebellion.”