Devil's Brood (37 page)

Ranulf’s mouth tightened. “If you knew Harry half as well as you think you do, you could never have betrayed him,” he said, and stalked away, leaving her standing alone on the steps of the hall, with her guard hovering nearby.

E
LEANOR HAD SAILED
in storms before. But nothing had prepared her for what awaited them as soon as their ships rounded Barfleur Point and headed out into open water.

The rain was being blown sideways by the force of the wind, and the Channel was churned into white-water froth. Canvas tents had been set up to shelter the passengers, and the stench was soon overpowering, for even the most experienced travelers were fighting seasickness. As Eleanor’s ship sank down in a trough and then battled its way up, people were flung about like children’s toys, crashing into coffers and gunwale, screaming as they slid along the wet deck. All around her, she could hear men praying with the fervor of the doomed, entreating Nicholas of Bari, the patron saint of sailors, to save them from the perils of the sea. She was too angry to pray, though, and chose to spend her last hours damning her husband to Hell Everlasting.

When she could endure the stifling, stinking tent no longer, Eleanor got up and lurched toward the open flap. Two of her guards at once staggered after her, crying out in alarm. Stumbling out into the storm, she grabbed at one of the windlass posts for support. As the ship’s master screamed, “Hard on the helm!” the helmsman jerked the tiller to the left, and the deck dropped under her feet. The guards were beside her now, panting and cursing, but still loath to lay hands upon the queen. “Go back inside,” they implored her, petrified that she might be washed overboard, leaving them alive to face the king’s wrath.

Eleanor ignored them, never even heard them. A searing bolt of lightning cast an eerie greenish light upon the slanting deck, silhouetting sailors as they fought to tighten one of the shrouds, giving her a terrifying glimpse of that heaving, black sea. The rain and clouds obscured the masthead lanterns of the other ships in their fleet. They were alone in this Devil’s cauldron, the skills of these frantic seamen pitted against the savagery of the storm, and she shuddered, thinking of Joanna and John out there in the darkness, sick and wet and scared.

After a particularly rough Channel crossing with his brother Hamelin, Henry had confided to her that a king’s chess games were played with the lives of other people. It was a great and fearful power, he admitted, and did not bear close inspection, for otherwise it could never be invoked. She did not know how to reconcile that man with the one who was gambling with God’s Favor, if Ranulf could be believed. What madness had infected Harry, that he’d offer up their children’s lives as stakes in this accursed wager with the Almighty?

T
HE PREVAILING WESTERLY WINDS
drove Henry’s battered fleet across the Channel in record time, and they anchored safely in Southampton harbor that night. The weary passengers and crewmen sought lodgings in the castle and the town, and slept like the dead. Ranulf was so tired that he could easily have stayed abed till noon. That luxury was to be denied him, though, as he was rousted out of bed at daybreak with the unwelcome word that the king would be departing Southampton within the hour.

T
HE RAIN HAD FINALLY
stopped, but the sky was still overcast, a foreboding shade of grey. Ranulf paused long enough to search the bailey for Henry, and then hastened into the crowded great hall, where he ran into a yawning, rumpled Earl of Essex.

“What is happening?” he asked, helping himself to bread smeared with honey.

Willem broke off a chunk of goat cheese and swallowed it in two bites. “We’re all on the move this morn. Leicester and Chester are being taken to Porchester, the Lady Marguerite, the Lady Joanna, John, and the other lasses are to be escorted to Devizes Castle, and the queen…the queen is to go to Sarum.”

Ranulf conjured up a mental image of that bleak, moorland fortress. It would not be a happy homecoming for Eleanor. “What about us? Where does Harry mean to head first? I do hope he’ll set a reasonable pace. The Scots border is a long, long ride from here.”

“He is not going to confront the Scots king…at least not yet.”

“Where, then?” Ranulf asked and, to his surprise, Willem shook his head.

“Better you hear it from Harry himself,” he said cryptically. “I am not sure you’d believe it otherwise.”

Puzzled, Ranulf pushed away from the table and went to find his nephew. Henry was giving instructions to a man clad in mail, his hard visage and guarded eyes giving testimony to years in royal service. When he made a terse query about “shackles,” Henry nodded grimly, and Ranulf blinked, wondering if that order could possibly be meant for Eleanor. But then the knight mentioned “Porchester,” and he realized the command was aimed at the unhappy rebel earls, Leicester and Chester. As soon as the man moved away he stepped forward to attract Henry’s attention.

Even Henry’s inexhaustible well of energy seemed to have run dry. His eyes were dull, and there was such a hectic color burning across his cheekbones that Ranulf suspected he was running a fever. Taking advantage of his status as one of the king’s intimates, Ranulf said with troubled candor, “Jesu, you look dreadful this morn. Surely we can afford to rest a day longer in Southampton?”

Henry didn’t answer, and Ranulf yielded in a battle he’d never expected to win. “And you’ll not listen to me, I know. You never do. Willem would not tell me where we are going. I hope you’ll be more forthcoming?”

Henry gave him an odd look, one that Ranulf could not interpret. “Canterbury,” he said, and walked away without waiting for a response.

R
ANULF AND WILLEM
were admitted to the king’s antechamber, but when they asked to see Henry, they had to wait while his chamberlain got permission for their entry. He soon emerged from the royal bedchamber, but not with the word they wanted. He was sorry, he reported, the king had retired for the night. Although they doubted that, they had no choice but to withdraw. Outside in the gardens, they paused to review their options.

“What now?” Willem sounded disheartened, and Ranulf couldn’t blame him. Since leaving Southampton, they’d tried repeatedly to talk with Henry about his intent to do penance at Becket’s tomb, to no avail. They’d initially been disquieted by his plan simply because it seemed so wildly out of character for him. But they’d soon had other reasons for concern. He’d been fasting on bread and water while pushing his body to the utmost, riding as if racing his troubles, and they’d begun watching him with the alarm of men trying to catch up with a runaway wagon.

“I do not know,” Ranulf admitted. “There is not much we can do, is there? No man can be forced to share what is in his heart, least of all a king.”

Willem acknowledged the truth of that by bidding Ranulf good night. “You’d best get some sleep,” he warned, “for he will want to depart at first light.”

Ranulf remained in the gardens after Willem went off to find a bed for the night. Although he was only fifteen years Henry’s senior, he’d always had a fatherly, protective love for his sister’s son, and he felt that he was somehow letting Henry down in his time of greatest need. The rain had stopped and the air was cool. He had just seated himself upon a wooden bench when he saw the Bishop of London and his attendants coming toward him. Rising, he greeted Gilbert Foliot courteously, but he felt obligated to advise the bishop that if he hoped to see the king that evening, he would be disappointed.

Gilbert blinked in surprise. “But the king summoned me, sending a messenger to tell me that he’d arrived at Westminster and wanted to see me straightaway.”

Ranulf apologized and then, on impulse, fell in step beside the bishop. In the antechamber, the chamberlain had obviously been briefed, for he ushered the bishop into Henry’s bedchamber without first announcing him. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Ranulf entered with Gilbert. Henry was still dressed, although he’d removed his boots. He gave Ranulf a sharp glance, but he did not order him from the chamber, and Ranulf took that as tacit permission to remain.

Interrupting the bishop’s pleased speech of welcome, Henry said bluntly, “I have need of your aid, my lord bishop. On the morrow I am going to Canterbury to do penance for my part in the archbishop’s death. I would like you to accompany me, and speak on my behalf to the monks of Christ Church priory.”

“My liege, I would be honored!” Gilbert’s eyes shone; he seemed about to embrace Henry before thinking better of it; the fact that Henry had called him by his title rather than the more intimate “Gilbert” indicated the king’s wish to observe the formalities this night, and Gilbert was shrewd enough to catch it. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Good. We shall be departing at dawn, so it might be easier for you if you spend the night at the palace. My chamberlain will see to your needs.”

Gilbert seemed reluctant to leave, obviously eager to discuss Henry’s spiritual epiphany, but he’d been dismissed. Murmuring his good wishes, he withdrew, leaving Henry alone in the chamber with his uncle. Ranulf was expecting to be dismissed, too, but it did not come. “Where are your squires?” he asked, not sure how to ease into such an intrusive conversation, for what could be more meddlesome than an inquiry into the state of a man’s soul?

“I sent them off to the hall to eat,” Henry said, inadvertently giving Ranulf the opening he sought.

“Are you still fasting?” Getting a brief nod, he said carefully, “Would it not be better to wait until you reach Canterbury ere you fast? If you deprive yourself too severely, you risk becoming ill.”

“I thought the purpose of penance was to mortify the flesh,” Henry said, with a twisted smile. “Have you forgotten that Thomas not only wore a hairshirt and braies infested with vermin, but he subjected himself to a daily scourging? Do you think he’d be impressed just because I missed a few meals?”

“Is that what you want, Harry…to impress Thomas?”

“I want…” Henry began, but then he stopped, and shook his head, like a man weary of talking. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Did you notice that Gilbert asked no questions? Nor did he assure me there was no need for such a pilgrimage. It would seem that he considers my penance at Avranches as flawed as Roger does.”

“Why does Roger think that?” Ranulf asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“My cousin, the esteemed Bishop of Worcester, thinks that the Almighty has looked into my heart and found that I repented of Thomas’s death for all the wrong reasons.”

“And what do you think?”

Henry’s shoulders twitched, in what was almost a shrug. He’d dropped down into a window-seat, and Ranulf crossed the chamber, knelt in the floor rushes by his side. “Harry, are you sure you want to do this?”

Henry rubbed his fingers against his aching temples. “I suppose I could wait for more explicit signs of divine displeasure, wait until the Thames turns to blood or a plague of locusts comes up and covers the land.”

“You are not Pharaoh.”

Henry raised his head, looking Ranulf full in the face for the first time. “Can you honestly tell me, Uncle, that you have not wondered if this rebellion was God’s punishment for Thomas Becket’s murder? If not, you are most likely the only one in Christendom who has not entertained that thought.”

“What I think does not matter. Nor does it matter what Roger or Gilbert Foliot think. We are not the ones who must do public penance at Canterbury Cathedral.” Reaching out, Ranulf put his hand on Henry’s arm. “You are a proud man. You are a king. I know that we are told there is no greater glory than to humble ourselves before the Almighty. But that is easier for some than others. If, as I suspect, you mean to abase yourself utterly in atonement, you must be sure that this is what you truly want to do. Otherwise, I fear you will not gain what you seek—peace of mind.”

“‘Peace of mind’?” Henry echoed and then laughed harshly. “I have a greater need than that, Uncle. I mean to ask the Almighty and the sainted Thomas to save my kingdom. Not just for my sake, for all our sakes. The vultures are already gathering, and God help him, but Hal will not be able to fend them off. He’ll be a king in name only, whilst the Count of Flanders and the French king and the Scots king carve up my domains like a Michaelmas goose. You think the people suffered under Stephen? That will look like a golden age in comparison to the misery and anarchy that would follow my defeat.”

Ranulf could not argue with that bleak assessment of Hal’s kingship. He knew that men made pilgrimages for a multitude of reasons, both pure and profane. Some were reluctant penitents, ordered to it by an imperious bishop, an irate priest. Some sought God’s Mercy for a loved one, a frail child, an ailing wife. Some saw pilgrimage as a way to honor God. Others were driven by guilty consciences, memories of past sins. He did not doubt that those who humbled themselves of their own free will, those who asked no specific boons in return for their suffering were the ones who came away from a pilgrimage with that “peace of mind” his nephew dismissed so disdainfully. What would Harry do if he submitted to this ordeal and nothing changed? If the victory he’d prayed for was denied him? What does a man do when he acts out of desperation and despair and even that is not enough?

“I will entreat the Almighty,” he said softly, “to hear your prayers.” And he tried not to think of a conversation he’d once had with his other nephew. Roger had assured him that God always answered prayers. But sometimes He said no.

O
N FRIDAY, JULY
12
,
Henry and his companions were approaching the town of Canterbury. As they neared the lazar-house of St Nicholas in Harbledown, they had their first glimpse of the cathedral in the distance. Henry dismounted, and the hospital’s master came hurrying out to meet him. Several of the lepers emerged from their wattle-and-daub huts, but they kept their distance. They were clad in long russet robes and scapulars, the ravages of their disease hidden by hoods for the men and thick, double veils for the women. Henry greeted the master and then accompanied him into the chapel to pray. After some hesitation, the Bishops of London, Winchester, and Rochester dismounted and followed, too. Most of the men remained on their horses, though, for even the bravest of knights was leery of entering a lazar-house.

Henry and the bishops soon emerged, and after he told the priest that he was granting the hospital twenty silver marks a year, to be paid out of royal revenues, the master thanked him profusely, promising that the lepers would offer up daily prayers on his behalf. If anyone thought that those poor souls needed prayers more than the king did, it remained unspoken. When Henry returned to the others, he did not remount, and seeing that he meant to walk the rest of the way, his men made haste to dismount, too.

They’d covered about half a mile when they saw the Westgate looming ahead. Henry headed not for the gate, though, but for the church of St Dunstan’s by the side of the road. His squires scurried after him. The other men waited, puzzled, and when the flustered parish priest arrived, none of them had any answers for him. They could see a crowd gathering just inside the Westgate, but the church bells that would normally peal out the king’s arrival were silent, for Henry had sent word that he wanted no royal ceremony.

It had been raining lightly since mid-morning, but as they waited for Henry to emerge from the church, the heavens opened and Canterbury was engulfed in a summer downpour. When Henry finally appeared, they saw that he’d stripped to his shirt and chausses and removed his boots. One of his squires was holding out the green wool cape that he wore when hunting, and the boy looked dismayed as Henry waved him away.

“He’s going to cut his feet to ribbons by the time he reaches the cathedral,” Willem muttered to Ranulf, who was more concerned at the moment with Henry’s intention to brave the rainstorm clad only in his shirt. Striding forward, he spoke briefly with his nephew, and to the relief of the spectators, Henry reluctantly agreed to don the green cape. As he set out, the bishops and knights fell in behind him, but Willem delayed long enough to ask Ranulf how he’d convinced Henry to wear the cloak.

“I told him,” Ranulf said, “that if he caught a fatal chill in the rain and died at Canterbury, all of Christendom would conclude that his sins had been too great for St Thomas to forgive.”

Willem looked at him, not knowing what to say. Ranulf had moved on, and he hastened to catch up, even though he was dreading what was coming as he’d never dreaded anything in his life before.

Escorted by the city reeve and aldermen, Henry passed through the Westgate and entered the town. As he walked along St Peter’s Street, his feet were soon cut and bleeding, but the rain washed his bloody footprints away. People lined both sides of the street, heedless of the weather, for they knew they were witnesses to a spectacle that none would ever forget—the sight of a highborn king, God’s Anointed, offering up his pride to make peace with their saint.

Thomas Becket had not been universally loved, even in his own city, but he’d always been revered by Christ’s Poor, and they turned out now in large numbers. The town’s merchants were quick to recognize what a blessing Henry was conferring upon them, for once word got out that the English king had prostrated himself before the Blessed Martyr, Canterbury’s shrine would become the most popular pilgrimage in all of Christendom. But their enthusiasm was tempered with uncertainty, for they did not know what was expected of them. Should they cheer the king for submitting to St Thomas? Or jeer him for his part in the Martyrdom? The result was that, for the first time within memory, a king passed by in utter silence, even the children and beggars watching in awed stillness.

If Henry’s bloodied bare feet were giving him pain, he did not show it. Nor did he seem to feel the drenching rain or take notice of the crowds. Followed by the bishops and his knights, he continued on past the churches of All Saints and St Helen’s, past the king’s mill, the guildhall, and the pillory. St Peter’s Street had become High Street when he halted momentarily, then turned into Mercery Lane, a passageway so narrow that more than two men could not walk abreast. Ahead he could see the monks waiting by the cemetery gate. The new archbishop was still absent, having gone to Rome to get papal approval of his election, but Henry recognized Odo, the prior, and Walter, the abbot of Boxley Abbey. In the past, he’d been welcomed by the chiming of the cathedral bells and the chanting of Lauds by the choir. Now there was only the same eerie quiet that had settled over the city.

They came forth to offer a solemn, subdued greeting, and quickly ushered him into the cathedral precincts, escorting him along the path through the cemetery for laypeople. The storm had turned it into a morass, and Henry’s feet and legs were soon caked with mud. He could think of few sights more desolate than a graveyard in the rain. The rest of the monks were waiting in the cathedral. He could see curiosity and anxiety and excitement on their faces, but little overt hostility. Oddly enough, Thomas had not been that popular with his own monks, had been feuding with Prior Odo at the time of his murder. It was only the discovery of his hairshirt and whip-scarred back that had awakened them to the realization that they’d had a saint in their midst.

“Show me,” Henry said, and they knew at once what he meant. Holding a candle aloft, Prior Odo led the way up the nave toward the northwest transept. A small altar had been set up on the spot, and candle flames glimmered on something silvery. “What is that?”