The Shattered Rose (31 page)

Galeran worked his way toward a space near a window and said quietly, "I'm vastly grateful that I'm not trying to fool Henry Beauclerk."

"Perhaps he just has efficient servants."

"You can tell a man by his servants."

Galeran leaned against the wall and tried to relax. He knew he could be here for hours. He'd grown accustomed to this kind of time-wasting while on crusade. It irked him, but there were occasions when just being present was essential to favor and welfare. He had no doubt that a record was being kept of who was here, and how speedily they had come.

And who had not come.

His father's absence would already have been noted, and he did not know what consequences there might be to that.

He was sure, too, that some of these men were king's men, here solely to listen to conversations. Probably that was obvious to everyone, for all he could hear was safe talk of crops and horses.

Then he heard one mention of Duke Robert—a speculation as to what he would do.

"If he's got sense," said a sinewy man with a hooked nose, "he'll keep his fingers out of England. It's not 1066 now."

"But what if some here want him?" murmured a plumper man, eyes sliding around as if he could spot a spy. "Not me!" he added hastily. "But I've no mind to see us up against each other."

"I doubt anyone wants that. That's excellent reason to make it plain that Henry Beauclerk is rightful king."

Perhaps to avoid this dangerous talk, the sinewy man turned and introduced himself to Galeran and Raoul—a Robert of Keyworth, near Nottingham—then settled to talking safely of the weather and the price of wool.

Then Galeran thought to ask, "I wonder if you know a Raymond of Lowick, who married a woman near Nottingham."

"Why, yes. His wife was a distant cousin. Sadly, she died."

"So I heard." Trying not to sound particularly interested, Galeran asked, "Do you know the cause?"

"The spotted fever. She was never strong."

A small suspicion could be laid to rest, at least. Lowick had not murdered his wife as part of a long-laid plan. "Poor lady."

"Indeed. And Sir Raymond was much distressed, as I remember. You know him well? A fine soldier."

"Very fine. He is a distant connection only."

"Ah. It will not be long now, I think, before the king comes out," Robert remarked. "The crowd is pressing."

Before Galeran could comment, a touch on his arm caught his attention. He looked sideways to see a young man, perhaps a page. "My lord of Heywood?"

"Yes?"

"If you would come with me, my lord, someone wishes to speak with you."

"My companion, Raoul de Jouray?" Galeran asked, heart already speeding.

"That is as you wish, my lords."

They parted from Robert of Keyworth and followed the youth through the crowds, risking no more than a look between them. It could be that some friend, or a friend of his father's, had spotted them and sent a servant to fetch them. But Galeran half hoped, half feared that he was being taken to the king.

Now that the moment had come, he wasn't sure he was ready to put his case, Jehanne's case, to the master of all this efficiency.

To the man who had thrown a miscreant off the walls of Rouen.

To the man who might have arranged his brother's murder.

The youth led them across the hall, but not to some distant acquaintance. He carried on through a side door and out into the fresh air. From there, he took them around the building to a well-guarded entrance that opened into a small chamber.

Westminster Hall, like Burstock, was a wooden building and thus able to have any number of small rooms around the central great chamber. This room contained two armed guards, a monk at a desk which held a large book, and a number of young men coming and going. Even as they entered, one youth left on a errand. Shortly after, another came in with a set of wax tablets. The monk took them and scanned them quickly. Then he murmured a message, and the clerk hurried off.

The monk then looked at them. Know a man by his servants. This one was healthy enough to be a soldier, with shrewd eyes in a lined but quite genial face. Though he wouldn't allow himself the indulgence, Galeran felt he could trust him.

As long as he wasn't up to mischief.

"My lords," the monk said, "the king is pleased you have come so speedily to pay homage to him. Please go on through."

The next room also contained two guards, who eyed them with swift competence. Then one opened a farther door and let Galeran and Raoul into the king's presence.

This large, richly decorated solar chamber was nearly as crowded as the hall, and wherever the king was, he wasn't in his great chair on the dais. That sat empty. Galeran scanned the room and found Henry simply by the fact that no one had their back turned to that one spot. Then
at
was easy because Henry was wearing his crown.

It was not really remarkable for a monarch to wear the crown at an important occasion, and yet Galeran felt it to be significant. Day after day under that metal contraption couldn't be pleasant. It was a clear statement of possession.

He'd seen Henry Beauclerk a few years before, and he hadn't changed much. He was perhaps a little stockier, but looked healthy and athletic at thirty-two, with good high color. His dark, glossy hair curled onto his shoulders in the latest style.

He smiled at everyone, and Galeran thought that smile was genuine. It wasn't so much a smile of pleasure at meeting anyone, but one of sheer delight at having finally achieved his ambition and become king of England, and at having half the world desperate to kneel before him and acknowledge the fact.

What would this man make of Galeran's affair, though?

Galeran fingered the pouch containing the palm leaves and the chip of rock from the Holy Sepulcher, and continued to assess the room.

It was easy to spot Henry's close companions from those come to pay their respects. They were more relaxed, less overdressed, and instead of staring at the monarch, they moved about the room, chatting to this person or that.

It occurred to Galeran that they were probably a household in the true tradition, companions bound to their leader by oaths, and loyalty almost impossible to break. Such a household worked to a common cause, living or dying as their leader lived or died.

It was the traditional English way, but had weakened under the Normans.

Robert of Normandy had favorites rather than a household. During the crusade, Galeran had learned that those favorites were more inclined to stab at one another in a search for advantage than to work together to advance their lord. He'd heard that Rufus's friends had been of the same mettle.

More than before, Galeran didn't give much for Robert's chances of grabbing England out of his brother’s hands.

His thoughts were disturbed by a tall, dark-haired man of about his own age. "Lord Galeran of Heywood?"

Galeran admitted it and introduced Raoul.

"I am FitzRoger," the man said simply.

Galeran recognized the name and absorbed the complex powers neatly covered in dark garments. This was one of the foremost tourney fighters of the age, and a close companion to Henry Beauclerk. He was his champion as well. Champions were often chosen for simple physical prowess. This man had brains.

Know a man by his servants.

FitzRoger's clothing was quietly magnificent, but it was his bearing that spoke of inner and outer power. "Your father, Lord William, does not accompany you?"

Straight to the point. "He came south, sir, but was taken ill at Waltham Abbey. He will come on as soon as he is able."

Clever green eyes studied them for a moment, and Galeran didn't doubt that FitzRoger recognized a convenient indisposition. What would he and his lord make of it, though?

"The king will be sorry to hear of it, but pleased that you are here, my lord. Unfortunately, with so much to do, it won't be possible for him to travel to the far north for some time, so he is eager to hear of affairs there. Please, come with me."

He easily made a way for them through the room and seemed to alert Henry to their presence by will alone, for he neither spoke nor touched, and yet Henry turned.

The king still smiled, but his fine, dark eyes were keen as a hawk's, stripping them both to the bone in seconds. How exhausting it must be, Galeran thought, to have to judge men day after day, when those judgments meant the success or failure of a life's dream, and perhaps even life itself.

Of course Henry had his household, men like FitzRoger, to judge people ahead of time. Probably there was some subtle sign to convey that a man was suspect, or not worth the trouble. He wondered if some sign had been given about himself.

He did kill his brother.

The certainty came into Galeran’s mind so sharply that he feared for a moment that he'd spoken the words, or at least let them show on his face. It was a conviction, though, now that he'd met the king. Henry Beauclerk would let no scruple stand between himself and what he wanted.

And what did that imply for his own cause?

He and Raoul knelt, but were immediately raised. Galeran was kissed on the cheek. "My dear friend!" declared Henry. "I call you that, for your family have stood friend to my family since we all came to England."

"We consider it our privilege, sire."

"Good man! And you are recently returned from the Holy Land. You must tell me of it. How I wish it had been possible for me to join God's Enterprise."

There had, in fact, been nothing to stop Henry other than lack of funds and his primary obsession, his desire for England. But Galeran did not say that, just took the opportunity to present his gifts.

As Henry opened the pouch with his own hands, an extra touch of color in his cheeks suggested that he was not immune to the mystique of the crusade. He touched the items reverently, showing them around to all. "We will have shrines built to these, Lord Galeran," he said, "and we most sincerely thank you."

As Henry gave the items into a monk's care, Galeran thought that at least something was going right. Perhaps it was a promise for the future.

"Now," Henry said, drawing Galeran aside slightly, "tell me of affairs in the north. What of the Scots?"

He then put Galeran through a smiling but efficient catechism of northern affairs, showing a good understanding of matters there.

"I was born in Yorkshire, you know," he said at last, and Galeran judged that he said it often. It was one of his chief claims to the throne, that he was a trueborn English prince. It wasn't just a political move, however. There was real feeling behind it.

Galeran still had no indication of how Henry would react to the matter of Jehanne and Donata, and the king was already turning away to greet other people.

"Sire," said Galeran.

Henry turned back, eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

"I have a matter to put before your judgment, at some convenient time."

There was no surprise on the royal face. "So I understand. Tomorrow at terce, we will hear you. I understand the Bishop of Durham has an interest, and some other man. . . ." He looked around.

"Raymond of Lowick," supplied FitzRoger.

"Ah, yes. Tomorrow, Lord Galeran."

With that, he turned to a party from Devon, smile back in place. Galeran let out a breath as he and Raoul eased backward toward the door under FitzRoger's courteous care.

Galeran decided he needed more information. "Bishop Flambard has already spoken to the king?"

"Yesterday, briefly."

Galeran wanted to ask if Henry favored Flambard at all, or hated him as much as everyone else did. That would be going too far, however.

"And Lowick?"

"The man has paid his respects in the great chamber."

Not admitted to the sanctum, in other words.

At the door, FitzRoger added, "You seem to have a very forgiving nature, Lord Galeran."

So, the king and his household knew the story already. There was a genuine expression of curiosity on FitzRoger's features. Galeran supposed he'd have to get used to that.

"Is it not our Christian duty to forgive the penitent?"

"Especially the adulterous, I suppose, with Christ's example so clearly laid before us. It is an aspect of Christianity many men find hard, however."

Perhaps rashly, Galeran decided to send a message to the king. "It is not hard to forgive one who erred in a time of great stress," he said, "especially if one loves the sinner. It is, however, hard to forgive those who hurt the ones we love."

FitzRoger raised a brow but merely nodded. "God go with you, Lord Galeran."

They were passed back through the anterooms and into the fresh air. Galeran took a deep breath and rolled his tense shoulders. "Well? What do you think?"

"I'd like a bout with FitzRoger."

"Don’t you ever think of anything but fighting?"

"It's my job. But what I would like is to judge the man by his servants. If FitzRoger lives up
to
his reputation and the impression I just had of him, it says a great deal that he serves the king."

They headed toward the stables. "He may not have much of a choice. He's a bastard."

"He has choice," said Raoul with certainty. "As for your king, I judge that he'll do whatever he must to keep the crown of England on his head. After that, I assume he'll do whatever necessary to make the country safe and prosperous."

"What you're saying is that we have to hope that my affair doesn't threaten any of the above."

"Of course. But it doesn't, does it?"

"Not as far as I can tell. Unless Henry decides he needs Flambard more than he needs my father."

Raoul slapped him on the shoulder. "That would be foolish. Cheer up. All in all, I have a good feeling about things!"

* * * * *

In the house of the Bishop of London, Ranulph Flambard lay in a huge tub, considering his situation. He had attended the king the previous day, and experienced little difficulty in obtaining an audience with Henry. He was a bishop, after all.

However, the audience had been short and the king had shown no warmth whatsoever.

Flambard had expected nothing else, but it was still a shame. He admired Henry. It would be pleasant to retain his place under him.