Devil's Brood (16 page)

At the bottom of the hill, he hesitated, then decided to head for the Grand-Carroi, the village crossroads. He could only hope he had not long to wait. What he would do if his wait were in vain, he refused to contemplate. The village street was deserted; even the dogs were asleep. Hal had just passed the silhouette of St Maurice’s church when figures stepped from the shadows into his path.

Hal felt no surprise as the moonlight revealed their identities: Peter Fitz Guy, Simon de Marisco, and, of course, William Marshal. These men were far more than members of his retinue; they were good friends, and he embraced them like brothers. Peter and Simon shared his jubilation, but Will was somber, his expression showing both resolve and recognition of the great risk they were taking. Hal knew the older man was conflicted, for unlike the others, he still saw Henry as his king, not his enemy. But his loyalty to his liege lord had proved stronger than his misgivings, and Hal was deeply touched by his steadfast devotion. Flinging his arm around Will’s shoulders, he hugged the knight again, and privately vowed that Will would be well rewarded for his staunch, unwavering allegiance.

“I knew you’d be here,” he exulted, “I knew it!”

Simon and Peter grinned and began to tell him of the troubles they’d had in their race to reach Chinon before the king, interrupting each other freely as they complained happily about taking lesser-known roads and getting little sleep and having to hide in the nearby woods as they kept the castle under surveillance. It was Will who cut their premature celebrating short, reminding them tersely that time was of the essence.

They knew he was right and followed him hastily back into the safety of the shadows, explaining to Hal that the others were waiting in a copse of trees on the edge of the village. “What about fresh mounts?” Hal wanted to know. “We’re going to need them, for we’ll not be able to spare our horses.”

“I sent a man ahead to Alençon,” Will said, “so they’ll be ready for us when we get there.”

That had been Hal’s main concern, for he knew how fast his father traveled under ordinary circumstances; in times of need, he’d shown an uncanny ability to put wings to his horse’s hooves. “Bless you, Will,” he exclaimed, rejoicing that a few whispered words to Marguerite could have set in motion such a perfect plan. He’d not doubted, though, that Will would understand the cryptic message she’d borne—one simple word, “Chinon.” How could he fail when he had right and God and such valiant knights on his side?

When they wanted to know how he’d gotten out of the castle, he grinned and promised to tell them all about his ruse as soon as they were safely away. He was eager to share, for not many men could claim to have outwitted his father with such ease. Will’s concern about delay was justified, though, and it would have to wait.

He liked the looks of the stallion they’d chosen for him; it was pawing the grass, eager to run. So was Hal and he swung up into the saddle with a laugh of pure pleasure. His eyes moving from face to face, he felt such a surge of affection for these men that his throat tightened and his eyes misted. “Songs will be sung and tales told of the events of this night. We’ll soon have my father’s hounds on our trail. But this is one fox that will not be caught!” He put spurs to his horse, then, the wind carrying echoes of his laughter back through the silent streets of the sleeping village.

“
M
Y LORD
!
WAKE UP, MY LORD!”

Henry opened his eyes, quickly closed them to shut out the glare of torchlight. His head was throbbing and he wanted only to spiral down into sleep again. But the voices were insistent. Filtering the light through his lashes, he saw tense faces floating above him.

“Harry!” This was his brother’s voice, and he guessed that it was Hamelin’s hand clamped upon his shoulder. Opening his eyes again, he gazed blearily at the men hovering around the bed. What was the matter with him? His head felt as if it were stuffed with cobwebs.

“My lord king, you must get up.” Willem was standing beside Hamelin. “Your son is gone. He has fled the castle.”

Henry blinked, his gaze sweeping the chamber. Nearby, his squires lay on their pallets, snoring peacefully. But Hal’s bed was empty. “What do you mean he is gone? What time is it?”

“Nigh on dawn, my liege.”

Sitting up with an effort, Henry saw that his castellan was in the chamber, too. Why was he having so much trouble making sense of this? He’d always awakened like a cat, instantly on the alert. “Fetch that basin,” he ordered and when Hamelin brought it to the bed, he splashed water onto his face. It was frigid, a thin sheen of ice coating the surface, and the shock chased away the last of his grogginess.

“What are you saying? How could Hal have gotten out of the castle?”

“These dolts lowered the drawbridge for him.” Glaring over his shoulder, the castellan gestured and three terrified young men were shoved forward. Shrinking back, they stared mutely at the king as the castellan gave Henry an angry summary of the night’s events. “So they stood there, grinning like jackanapes, and waved him on his way,” he concluded caustically. “And it took half the night ere they realized that he was not coming back, and then another hour or so until they mustered the courage to summon me.”

One of the youths stumbled forward and fell to his knees by the bed. “Forgive us, my liege,” he pleaded. “He wanted to tumble a wench, and we could see no harm in it. We did not let him take a horse.” He swallowed, looking up at Henry with silent tears streaking his face. “He played us for fools, sire…I am so sorry!”

“He played us all for fools,” Henry said, but he was still struggling with disbelief. Could Hal have truly done this? Could he have been so cunning, so false? So heartless? “I am a light sleeper,” he said. “How could he have been sure that I’d not awaken…” And then he caught his breath, comprehension coming like a blow. His eyes moved from the flagon of night wine on the table to his squires, still sleeping in the midst of turmoil, and for a fleeting moment, he saw, too, a silver wine cup filled with hippocras.

“He put it in the wine,” he whispered. They looked at him blankly, and he said it again, needing to hear the words spoken aloud, for only then could he believe them. “The sleeping draught.” Sweet Mary, Mother of God. “The sleeping draught for that convenient toothache of his.”

“My lord king…” Willem reached out, clasped his hand in a warm, firm grip. “What would you have us do?”

Henry’s head came up. “Saddle the horses.”

The castellan at once headed for the door. Hamelin was trying to awaken the squires, without any luck. Willem, glancing toward the forgotten guards, dismissed them with an abrupt gesture. They fled the chamber, not daring to look back, and Willem began to gather up clothing for the king. Henry was already on his feet. Grabbing garments from the earl, he dressed quickly and silently. Willem waited, wisely saying nothing, but Hamelin could not hold his tongue.

“How could he do this? I would never have thought him capable of such treachery.” Moving toward his brother, he came to a hesitant halt, not sure what to do next. “Harry…Harry, I am so sorry!”

Henry looked at him. “So am I,” he said at last, and then added in a voice that sent chills along Hamelin’s spine, “but not as sorry as that traitorous whelp will be.”

T
HE WINDOW-SEAT WAS CUSHIONED,
and sunlight was filtering into the solar over Maud’s shoulder, for they were double windows and covered with thin sheets of horn, which admitted more light than the usual linen screens. A blazing hearth and woolen wall hangings shut out the chill, and the fireplace had a feature that Maud had not seen before: a stone hood that kept the smoke from escaping into the chamber by funneling it up the chimney. The floor rushes were fresh and fragrant; Maud had been impressed to learn that they were changed weekly, for she knew some English barons who’d consider it extravagant to replace them more than once a year. One of Eleanor’s musicians was strumming a plaintive melody on his gittern, two of her ladies were embroidering pillow covers, and her favorite greyhound was sprawled, belly-up, before the fire. A third attendant was reading aloud for their entertainment the sorrowful tale of star-crossed lovers Tristan and Iseult. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene, and Maud thought again that they knew how to live well in Aquitaine. Little wonder Eleanor had yearned for her homeland during her years of marital exile, for neither Paris nor London could match the splendors—or the comforts—of Poitiers.

Eleanor was not stitching as her ladies were, and Maud realized that she’d never seen her friend with a needle in her hand. Her aunt, the Empress Maude, had not been one for embroidery either. Maud supposed it was a small but subtle form of rebellion, for even queens were expected to do needlework, to occupy themselves with womanly tasks.

As for herself, Maud did not object to this particular domestic duty. She was a skilled seamstress and enjoyed exercising her imagination with needle and thread. Her current project was an elegant chrysom cloth of fine linen. In four years of marriage, her daughter-in-law Bertrada had already given birth to three children, and so Maud thought it only logical that there’d be a need again for christening attire in the coming twelvemonth. She was sorry Bertrada was not with her at Poitiers, for she’d become quite fond of the girl, but her daughter-by-marriage had insisted upon returning to England with Ranulf, Rhiannon, and Rainald.

She’d been surprised that Hugh had not taken Bertrada when he’d departed on pilgrimage after Christmas to the holy Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela. Their separation might be for the best, though, giving Bertrada time to recover from her last confinement. She knew of no woman who’d want to face the birthing chamber every year, much less a lass who was barely seventeen.

Thinking of difficult deliveries called John’s birth to mind, and she glanced toward the queen. Eleanor was seated at a table, occupied with pen and parchment, which aroused Maud’s always-lively curiosity; a letter must be very private indeed if it could not be entrusted to a scribe. She was amusing herself by speculating about the nature of her friend’s confidential message when the door suddenly banged open, with enough force to startle them all.

Richard swept into the chamber like a whirlwind; that was the only way Maud could describe his dramatic entrance. He was so flushed that he seemed to be feverish, and he looked eerily like his father in his rage. He was followed by Raoul de Faye and a third man who was a stranger to Maud. Slamming the door behind him, Richard strode toward his mother, paying no heed to the others in the solar.

“You’ll not believe what that damned fool has done, Maman! He fled from Chinon Castle and has taken refuge at the French court!”

Eleanor rose so swiftly that her chair toppled over into the floor rushes. One glance toward her attendants was all it took; rising, they quickly departed the chamber. So did the musician. It never occurred to Maud that the queen’s dismissal applied to her, too, and even if it had, she’d not have stirred from the window-seat. Nothing short of a direct command would have sufficed, given Richard’s remarkable revelation about Hal. God help him, what had that reckless lad done now? And why was Richard so distraught over his brother’s disgrace? From what she’d observed, there was little love lost between them.

“How do you know this, Richard?”

“He was with me when the message came from…Well, better we mention no names.” Raoul gazed coolly in Maud’s direction, seeing her not as his niece’s friend but as the king’s cousin. “It is true. Hal has bolted and the cat is amongst the pigeons for certes.” Spotting a flagon and cups, he moved to the table and began to pour for them, saying, “Wine will not make the news go down any easier, but it cannot hurt.” Glancing over his shoulder, he beckoned his messenger to come forward. “Tell the queen what you told us.”

The man removed his hat with a flourish, then knelt before Eleanor. “My lord dared not commit words to parchment, Madame, lest it fall into the wrong hands. But Lord Raoul knows his identity, as do you, my lady. He bade me come straightaway with the news of the events at Chinon. Your son, the young king, did indeed take flight. When King Henry learned of it, he rode after him in all haste. But the young king made great speed, covered more than a hundred miles in less than a day and night. And he had planned ahead, for fresh horses were awaiting him at Alençon. King Henry continued on, though, as far as Argentan. But he’d gained no ground, and at Argentan, he was told that Lord Hal had suddenly veered east. He gave up the chase, then, knowing further pursuit was futile, and the young king soon reached safety in the lands of the French king’s brother, the Count of Dreux.”

“Hell and Furies!” Eleanor had begun to pace, her skirts swirling about her ankles. “What was he thinking?”

“When does he ever think?” Richard straddled a chair and accepted a wine cup from Raoul. “If he were to sell his brain, he could claim it had never been used.”

Eleanor did not seem to be listening. Reaching the hearth, she stopped suddenly. “Morel! Jesu, I ought to have seen this coming.” Seeing that they did not understand, she said, “He did not take his new stallion, left him behind with me at Limoges. He did not want to risk losing him, for he was planning his escape as early as that.”

The messenger still knelt and Raoul reached out, helped the man to his feet. “You’ve done well, will be rewarded for your service. Go down to the great hall and get a meal, then tell the steward to find you a bed.” As the man withdrew, moving with the stiffness of one who’d spent many hours in the saddle, Raoul brought a wine cup over to Eleanor. Rather pointedly, he did not offer any to Maud, but she did not notice the snub. She was dismayed by Hal’s folly, but troubled, too, by the implications of this mystery messenger. Raoul de Faye had paid one of Henry’s lords or knights to spy upon him, and Eleanor had known about it—and approved.

Eleanor looked at her wine cup, seemed about to drink, then set it down. “How did Hal manage to get away? It could not have been easy, not with Harry watching him like a hungry hawk.”

“To give the lad credit where due, he was right clever about it. He got Harry to drop his guard by seeking his forgiveness, then feigned a toothache to be able to see an apothecary, and once he’d been given a sleeping draught, he put it in his father’s wine.” Raoul laughed, but Eleanor did not.

“Does it matter how he did it?” Richard sounded impatient. “What matters is that he has put us
entre la espada y la pared.
” This was another Spanish expression he’d picked up from the young King of Aragon, one he obligingly translated for them now, saying it meant “between the sword and the wall.”

Eleanor seemed lost in her own thoughts and did not respond. Stepping forward, Raoul put his hand on her arm. “The lad is right. Hal’s flight was a signed confession of his guilt and confirmed all of Harry’s suspicions of a conspiracy with the French. This means we no longer have time as our ally, Eleanor. Hal has flushed our quarry and whether we are ready or not, the hunt is on.”

Eleanor frowned. “I am well aware of that, Uncle!”

“My God…” Maud’s whispered words seemed to echo in the sudden silence. She was staring at Eleanor in disbelief. “You are conspiring against Harry?”

Eleanor stiffened, for she’d not expected Maud to sound so horrified. “Leave us, Uncle,” she said, adding, “You, too, Richard,” when her son did not move. He did not look happy about it, but he followed Raoul from the solar.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Maud rose and crossed the chamber, not stopping until she was close enough to look into Eleanor’s eyes. “Is it really true, then? You are part of this plot?”

Eleanor could have said that she had not fully committed herself, for it was technically true, but that was a sophistry. The conspiracy might still be in its initial stages, but she’d known since Limoges that there’d be no turning back. “Yes,” she said, resisting the impulse to say more. She’d not have thought that she’d need to explain herself, not to Maud, but the other woman was regarding her now as if they were strangers.

“Whatever grievances you have against Harry, I cannot believe you want him dead!”

“Of course I do not,” Eleanor snapped. “Neither do my sons, nor Louis, either, for that matter. Can you imagine Louis, of all men, plotting regicide? I daresay he hopes to bleed away some of Harry’s strength, to keep him from expanding his empire at Louis’s expense. He hopes, too, that my sons will be easier to deal with than Harry. That may well be true for Hal, but not for Richard, as he’ll learn to his cost.”

“You keep saying ‘my sons.’ But they are Harry’s sons, too. And however you think he has wronged you, Eleanor, nothing could justify turning a man’s children against him.”

Eleanor was taken aback by the hostility in that accusation. “You think I did that? No, Harry handled that quite well all by himself.
My
sons love him not, and why should they? They barely know him. Richard and Geoffrey call him the Aquilon, a Norman name for the north wind. He sweeps into their lives, wreaking havoc, and then moves on, with nary a backward glance. And when he does pay them heed, it is only to make use of them in his various schemes and stratagems.”

“That is what kings do. And can you truly say that you have not done it, too? That you are not using Richard to protect Aquitaine?”

“Richard’s interests and Aquitaine’s interests are one and the same. There is no conflict there.”

“And what of Hal? It seems to me that you are seizing upon his discontent to right your wrongs. How fair is that?”

“You could not be more mistaken,” Eleanor said coldly. “Hal did not need me to prod him into rebellion. That was Harry’s doing, not mine. Hal is a crowned king, yet he has nothing to call his own. Harry denies him even the semblance of independence, much less any real authority. And when Hal has protested, Harry seeks to content him with empty promises. Let me tell you what Hal says of those promises—that they are counterfeit coin. And he is right.”

“Harry may not be a perfect father. But he does love them, Eleanor. You know he does!”

“Yes, I’ll grant you that. But he sees them as pawns on his imperial chessboard. He’ll never treat them as men grown, for in his eyes, they’ll always be children, children in need of his guidance and superior wisdom. He is convinced he is in the right and is utterly unwilling to compromise. Why should he? He is the puppeteer, after all, the one pulling the strings. But neither Hal nor Richard are puppets, as he is about to discover.”

“I do not deny that Harry is stubborn or that he makes mistakes, some of them grievous. Certainly he has erred with Hal. But there had to be another way than this, Eleanor!”

“I thought so, too—once. I talked myself hoarse trying to reach him, Maud, trying to make him see that he is the one sowing seeds of rebellion. But he’d not listen, not if it meant sharing power. I’ve told him that he governs as if he never intends to die, and it is no jest. You know what happens to saplings trapped in the shadow of a massive oak; their growth is stunted. Well, I am not going to let that happen, not to my sons. Harry made Hal a king and it is time he acknowledges him as one. As for Richard, he will rule Aquitaine with me until he grows to manhood, and then he will be accountable to the Almighty, not the King of England. And once Geoffrey weds Constance, he will—”

“Geoffrey, too? But he is just fourteen!”

“Need I remind you that when Harry was fourteen, he hired routiers and went off on his own to England, intending to help his mother fight Stephen.”

“Yes, and when the routiers balked at his promises of payment and threatened to desert, leaving him stranded, he asked Stephen to lend him money to return to Normandy. Stephen was so amused by his sheer bravado that he did! Does that sound like your ordinary fourteen-year-old, Eleanor? For this is what it comes down to, does it not? How could you have forgotten the mettle of the man?”

“I do not need you to lecture me about Harry’s capabilities. After twenty years of marriage, I’d say I know him far better than you do.”

Maud shook her head slowly. “I am beginning to think that Harry is not the only blind one in your family. You once described Louis as ‘dithering at every royal crossroads.’ He is not going to defeat Henry Fitz Empress, not in this life or the next. Neither are striplings like Hal or Richard. Nor are you. Oh, I know you can match Harry in shrewdness and daring and ice-blooded resolve. But you cannot take the field against him, can you? Why do you think I am so distraught over this madness? Because this is a war you cannot hope to win!”

Henry was facing a far more formidable coalition than just Louis and her sons, but Eleanor was not about to reveal that to Maud, for it was painfully apparent that she’d greatly misjudged the other woman. She said nothing, and after a moment, Maud moved, shivering, to the hearth, feeling cold to the very marrow of her bones. “Why did you let me stay in the solar? I would to God I’d never heard a word of all this, for what am I to do now with what I know?”

Eleanor did not doubt the sincerity of her distress, but she had no sympathy to spare for Maud’s misery. “There is nothing you can do.”

Maud’s nerves were so raw that it took very little to inflame her temper. “How can you be so sure of that?” she challenged. “How do you know that I’ll not tell Harry what I’ve learned?”