The Young Lion (38 page)

‘Where’s she from?’

‘Wales, we think. She doesn’t really speak. If you ask her a question, she sings her answer.’

‘Is that customary?’

‘It’s a fashion with some musicians. A lot of them have been displaced by the war. Although they know the words of songs, if they come from Wales or the marcher lands they often can’t speak English. They don’t know French at all, even though they can sing in it.’

While the company strolled the grounds servants prepared their sleeping chambers: lighting candles, bringing jugs of water from the well, compotes of preserved fruit with a spoon to eat them, and small bowls of nuts gathered last summer. It was almost eleven o’clock before the party retired for the night. The guard posted outside Henry’s door preceded him and Rachel into the apartment, his sword drawn. He poked under the bed with it and spent some minutes in the privy, assuring himself that a man could not climb through it from the sewer outside. Henry followed him into the privy and watched with interest as the guard thrust his weapon down each cloaca. Depending on the building, not a bad way to take a castle, he thought. His experience in besieging was limited and he had to rely on mercenaries for advice.

Henry awoke about four hours later, needing to piss. He recalled Rachel’s warning about not using the window, and that there was a guard outside. He stumbled along the wall, looking for the hidden entrance to the privy, but still half-asleep, he stubbed his toe on a small table and shouted an oath. Rachel woke up. The chamber was lit with several candles that, to their just-opened eyes, made it seem bright. She slithered from her side of the bed intending to get up and comfort Henry. He was crouched over, holding his stubbed toe and swearing. A shadow moved across the floor from the direction of the bathing area. Rachel leaped from the bed and rushed in front of Henry, her arms held wide to protect him. Without a word, Aelbad slid the Cupid’s Arrow
between her ribs. ‘Henry!’ she gasped as Aelbad turned and fled back through the bathing area, lifting his skirts as he jumped over the dead guard.

Henry grasped Rachel. He was voiceless. The only sound had been her cry of his name, and then his glimpse of a fleeing shadow.

He held her against his chest. Then Rachel Plantagenet died.

Henry stared as the blood that poured from her naked breast slowed to an ooze. He gently withdrew the stiletto. She seemed to watch him with her open eyes.

He carried her to the bed. The chamber was silent, the whole castle in deep sleep. No servant had yet awoken to prepare fires in the kitchen for the morning’s breakfast. Outside, the air was so still no leaf moved. On the pond the ducks were folded into themselves, asleep. Even the frogs were silent. And in the meadows not a cricket thrummed. He placed the knife on the mattress beside her corpse, then lay on her, his heart over hers.

Half an hour later the murdered guard was discovered. Guillaume, Ranulf and the knights rushed from their own beds into the apartment. Henry lay naked on the cadaver that had been his wife. He said nothing. He was unable to speak.

It took six men to lift him off and try to stand him on his feet. Guillaume covered the corpse with a blood-soaked sheet.

‘Brother! What happened?’ he asked.

Henry stared at him as if seeing a human for the first time. He said nothing. Slowly, he turned and looked at Rachel. Her eyes were still open, as if gazing at a distant world. He gently pushed down their lids and bent to kiss them. When he stood upright his mouth opened wide but no sound emerged. Blood covered him from his neck to his feet, which suddenly began to shuffle. His ankles shook. The shaking moved up his legs, through his torso and into his chest. As it reached his throat a terrifying sound rushed from it. The roar seemed to come not from him but from
another realm, from the earth beneath them. People in other chambers leaped awake with cries of alarm. Ranulf put out a hand but Guillaume struck his arm away.

‘Don’t touch him!’ he hissed. ‘He may attack you. He may attack any of us.’

The men were white with horror. The sound flooded out into the night. Henry fell to the floor. ‘He’s dead!’ Ranulf wailed.

They carried him to the other side of the bed and lay him alongside Rachel.

Guillaume pressed his fingers against Henry’s neck. ‘His heart still beats.’ He could not bring himself to say what everyone feared: is he mad? If his mind returns, will it have power, or will he be a simpleton?

And the fear that hid behind all those fears: if not Henry, what man can save England?

Henry showed no signs of life apart from breathing and a weak, irregular pulse. He had no fever. He did not talk in his sleep. He neither ate nor drank, although he urinated. Isabella and the Countess had ordered the knights to wash the blood from him and turn him every few hours. His body was as heavy as a corpse. Servants were to massage his limbs and neck five times a day and try to get him to drink. When he dribbled away the water they poured into his mouth, they resorted to stuffing a wet cloth between his teeth.

Ranulf had ordered the drawbridge raised before dawn, the castle gates and doors locked and the household summoned to the dining hall. ‘I shall severely punish anyone, including my beloved Countess and our children, who speaks of a heinous crime committed under our roof. What happens as a result of it may determine the future of our country. Like families, countries can die – and our country will perish if it falls into the hands of Eustace. The Duke of Normandy is our only hope. He gives courage to our cause, and courage needs hope to nourish it. We must bring him back to life.’

Guillaume asked, ‘Is everyone present?’

A chambermaid answered, ‘Lord, Angharad, who arranged the dark young lady’s clothes, is missing.’

One of the musicians spoke up, ‘So is our singer.’

In the musicians’ quarters they found Angharad, dressed in the singer’s distinctive half-green, half-yellow clothing, her mouth gagged and hands bound. The singer had vanished.

‘You told her the lady had a special knife inside her boot?’ The girl nodded at Guillaume’s question. She spoke no French and scant English, but Ranulf translated as they went along.

‘She made you steal it?’ the Earl asked.

Angharad nervously shook her head. ‘We swapped clothes. She took it herself while the lords and ladies were at supper.’

Ranulf was so enraged he was ready to strike her, but Guillaume sensed there was something more she knew and was too afraid to tell. ‘Ask why she’s not revealing the truth,’ he said. The girl stared in fright at her lord’s big handsome face with its broken nose and bloodshot, angry eyes. Her glance darted to Guillaume. They waited. Guillaume nodded encouragement at her. ‘Tell her we won’t punish her if she tells us the whole truth.’

Both men had noticed a foetid smell when they entered, but had chosen to ignore it. ‘She was a he,’ Angharad blurted. ‘He did wicked things to me. He hurt me.’ She began to weep.

It was a long walk from the area where the musicians had lodged. ‘The chambermaid will attend to her,’ Ranulf said. ‘And the musicians will stay in irons until they explain how, when, where and why they invited the singer to join their ensemble, and why they chose to offer their services here.’

He and Guillaume headed back to the apartment at the front of the manor where Henry lay unconscious beside Rachel. Guillaume said, ‘I have to tell you, Ranulf: she’s a Jew. We must bury her before dark. As her closest living relative, it’s my decision that we do not hold a Christian burial service.’

The Earl shook his head in misery. ‘What to do? Throw her in the ground as if she were an animal?’

‘We’ll return her to Rouen for burial with her people. The grave here can be shallow. I know some verses from the Old Testament. That’ll have to do for now.’

Isabella and the Countess washed the blood from Rachel’s body. As she died her cervix had opened to release the baby she carried. When Henry had lain on top of her for an hour his weight had pushed the dead infant further into the world. As the women washed her, they saw the water sac extended a fraction from her vagina. They looked at each other. Isabella said, ‘I’ll do it.’ Inch by inch she pulled out the silvery sac, nicked it with her blade, let the water drain away, then tore the membrane open and lifted out a small, perfect, dead boy.

They washed and wrapped him in a red cloth. While they could still move her limbs, they dressed Rachel in the blue linen gown with the garnet-coloured robe she had last worn, and placed her dead son in the crook of her arm. The expression of terror on her features when she died had now softened to peacefulness. Her eyes had opened slightly since Henry had closed them and she seemed to peep out at the world. Isabella wrapped her hair in the blue headcloth, tying it under her chin to hold her jaw closed, but leaving black tendrils of hair around her face. Apart from the sallowness of her cheeks she was once more the exotic young beauty who had transformed all their lives. The Countess put a gold coin on each eyelid.

Ranulf and the knights wept when they saw the baby cradled against her.

The Earl had ordered earth dug out close to a plum tree that was already snowy with blossom. Guillaume, Isabella, the four knights, Ranulf and the Countess were the only mourners. Four gardeners lowered the coffin into the shallow grave. At a nod from their lord they cut two boughs from the plum tree and laid their
white-petalled abundance along the coffin. Then they began to shovel earth.

Guillaume sang in Latin:

As the last spadeful of dirt was thrown across Rachel, he chanted:
My hope is in you.

They returned to the castle in silence.

Henry was still unconscious.

Ranulf asked the other seven of them to gather in the apartment around him. Although his mind was wandering, perhaps the Duke’s ears could still hear what they said. ‘We know that the murderer was Eustace’s creature,’ Ranulf began. ‘I’ve had the whole castle and grounds searched. He’s escaped.’

Guillaume motioned them out of Henry’s hearing. ‘The creature failed in what he was sent to do. His orders would have been to kill Henry. In murdering Rachel, he may as well have slaughtered my brother. But only we few know that.’ They fell silent. ‘My guess is he’ll tell Eustace that Henry is dead, and claim whatever reward was promised.’

The knights and Ranulf nodded agreement. ‘If Eustace believes he’s the only heir, he’ll be even more vicious. Those who have supported our cause …’ His thoughts were on his sons and his vassals, fighting around London.

Guillaume asked, ‘How long will it take for the news to reach Eustace?’

‘By pigeon? This afternoon.’

‘But he’s likely to want a report in person. The boy will need five days to ride the distance that Henry and I covered in two, simply as a matter of strength and horsemanship.’

Suddenly he felt unbearably tired. He had not eaten all day and it was already time for supper. He excused himself and stretched out on the bed beside Henry. ‘I want to be here when he wakes,’ he said, and was asleep as his head touched the pillow. Around midnight he sat bolt upright, staring into Douglas’s face. ‘Get first son,’ said the Highlander and vanished. Guillaume resumed his sleep. Waking just at dawn he had forgotten his dream but was fired with conviction that he must return to Normandy immediately and fetch Rachel and Henry’s son, Geoffrey. He left Coventry after an early breakfast with Ranulf.

As twilight approached that day a guard ran from the gate, an arrow with a parchment attached to it in his hand.

Ranulf snapped the shaft across his knee to extract the parchment without tearing it. There was nothing written on it – a sign that whoever had sent it wanted to parley, but could not write, or both.

He ordered ladders to be placed against the castle’s outer wall and looked over. On the opposite side of the moat three men loitered. They had dismounted, allowing their horses to tear at the spring grass. Although the air was still warm, hoods covered their faces.

‘Show your faces!’ a guard shouted in English.

The strangers conferred among themselves. ‘Show yours!’ one of them shouted back.

‘How many bowmen have we got?’ Ranulf asked his guards’ commander.

‘None, lord. They’re all at the front.’

The Earl took three steps up his ladder, exposing his face and chest. The strangers cheered. For a moment one of them pushed back his hood.

‘Douglas!’ Ranulf yelled. ‘Lower the drawbridge,’ he called down to his men.

Douglas cantered across, while his companions turned and galloped away. The drawbridge and gates grated shut again. Douglas threw off his hooded cloak, dismounted, and after a perfunctory embrace, strode towards the manor. He pointed at the apartment in which Henry lay. Its windows had the shutters off, to allow some fresh air, but Douglas wanted them replaced. He nodded at Ranulf that he was to be left alone with Henry.

In the middle of the night Henry rose, walked purposefully to the window, removed a shutter, climbed out and made his way through the dark straight to Rachel’s grave beneath the plum tree. Following him a short distance behind, Douglas allowed Henry to move aside the stones placed on top of the grave and to dig out the earth with his bare hands until he reached the coffin. But when he began to prise off its lid, Douglas slipped a rope around his neck, hog-tied him and called the guards to help him carry Henry back inside the castle.

The same thing happened the following night.

Over the next two days Douglas called for whey, food, ale and hot bath water, but would allow no one to enter.

Soon after dawn on the fourth day after Rachel’s murder Ranulf, who had suffered insomnia each night since, entered the chapel alone and earlier than usual, and was astonished to see Henry standing before the altar.

He wore a long white linen robe, not unlike a monk’s habit, with a thin gold fillet wrapped around his brow, and bare feet.
Douglas stood in a corner, observing him. Ranulf tiptoed back to the doorway, where he could hear Henry chanting in Latin: ‘
For all flesh is as grass, and all human glory like the flower of the grass. The grass withers, and the flower falls away.
’

An hour later, at breakfast, the family was surprised to see Henry walk into the dining room, dressed in a dark blue tunic and braes, Douglas sauntering behind him. The Countess and her daughters leaped to their feet with cries of excited delight. Henry flinched as if they had assaulted him.

Douglas held up a hand. In halting English he said, ‘Henry alive. But not know humans yet. Please not much noise. No questions.’

Henry looked around him and smiled. His eyes seemed as bright as ever, perhaps even sharper. The vitality that radiated from him felt almost palpable. But he was changed: in what way none of them could determine – certainly not until he spoke.

He was, however, unable, or unwilling, to speak.

He looked into their eyes, he smiled, he ate. The quantity of food he ate astonished everyone except Douglas, who kept pushing dishes towards him: boiled eggs, spring greens, a trout, roast chicken, a lamb pie, a loaf of bread, a honey cake. A pint of whey, then one of ale. Douglas nodded and pointed to the ground. ‘Earth,’ he said. ‘Strength from earth.’ They watched in silent amazement. The Countess whispered to her husband, ‘He’s not quite human.’ When Douglas observed Henry with the special sight that was his gift, he saw a gaping wound in Henry’s chest. There was a physical heart. But his heart of love was a fragment of a thumbnail. ‘Dead man,’ Douglas murmured to her.

Henry rose from the table with an amiable expression, but still in silence.

At dinner, it was the same. Ranulf, the Countess and Isabella felt panicky.

But at the end of the meal Henry smiled, stretched his shoulders, clenched his hands into fists and flexed them open again. Turning to Ranulf he said, ‘Let’s walk around the grounds.’

Isabella and the Countess burst into tears of relief.

The Countess had discovered someone who worked in the smoke-chamber who spoke Gaelic well enough to translate and he was called to wait outside. When Ranulf and Henry excused themselves and sauntered out, Douglas nodded to the translator to enter.

‘The Highlander asks Lady Isabella if her son has gone to Normandy to fetch Duke Henry’s baby,’ he said.

When she nodded Douglas grunted and smiled.

Three hours later Henry and Ranulf re-entered the castle. The Earl, whose face in the hot summer sun had tanned, was now a jaundiced colour. He told his wife, ‘He went straight to her grave and tried to dig it up. I said, “Henry, dear boy, you must not do that.” And he said, “But I want to talk to her. I want to hold her in my arms.” I said, “She’s been dead nearly a week.” He looked at me suspiciously. “She can’t be dead. She’s having our baby in four months.” So I said, “The baby is dead, too. It was a boy.” I tell you, my sweetness, the look he gave me was enough to kill a dragon. I thought I’d faint … Somehow I persuaded him to leave the grave and visit the stables. You know how he loves horses. And he just walked away from the grave as if he’d forgotten all about it.’

In the stables Henry had scratched a mare behind her ears; she responded by bunting him gently with the side of her head.

‘She does that to people she likes,’ Ranulf said in a soft, encouraging tone, but Henry was almost as unresponsive as a potted plant.

‘A horse always has something to like or dislike …’ he had replied, but his attention trailed away. He’d added, ‘My life on
earth is an empty road for people to walk on. It leads nowhere. It leads me nowhere.’

That night Ranulf took Douglas aside. He knew enough Gaelic to be able to communicate without an interpreter.

‘What hope do we have?’ he asked.

‘Only the baby of his dead wife.’ Douglas stared into Ranulf’s face where he could read the question the Earl would not ask: will Henry ever be fit to be King? ‘If the baby reminds Henry who he is, his soul will be healed.’ He made a fist. ‘A strong king,’ he said. ‘A boy no more. A king.’

Ranulf crossed himself. ‘And if not?’