28
Devizes Castle, England
June 1143
June was a good month for Maude; her son was back at Devizes Castle. His visits were never long enough, left her yearning for more. But boys of Henry’s age did not belong with their mothers. Only a man could teach them the navigational skills they would need to reach the distant shores of manhood. Or so Society and the Church dictated. Maude had reluctantly acquiesced, entrusting Henry into her brother’s keeping, for motherhood could not compete with kingship. No matter what she must do or endure or sacrifice, it would be worth it-on the day her stolen crown was placed upon Henry’s head. That, she did not dare to doubt.
On this sultry June Saturday, Ranulf and Hugh de Plucknet had taken Henry on a hunt in the royal forest of Melksham, and they did not return till dusk, grimy and sweat-soaked and tired and triumphant. This was Henry’s first hunt, and his enthusiasm was so intense that his audience knew it was witnessing the birth of a lifelong passion. One of his arrows had helped to bring down a hart, and with each telling, the tines on the stag’s antlers grew more numerous and awesome. Maude listened patiently as he relived the hunt for her, praising the lymer hounds and recounting the chase and describing in detail the moment when their quarry turned at bay. But when he started to explain how a skilled tracker could determine a stag’s size by the shape of its droppings, Maude called a halt.
“Deer droppings? That explains why you smell so ripe,” she teased, and Henry grinned, for being dirty and bedraggled was part of the fun. “Go bathe and then you can come back and teach me all about the mysteries of deer dung,” she promised, and he began grumbling good-naturedly about taking a bath, bargaining for a lesser washup, not conceding defeat until Ranulf weighed in on Maude’s side.
“You need not bathe, Harry, not as long as you stay downwind at supper,” he suggested, and Henry grinned again, for he was old enough now to laugh at himself. But Maude turned to look at her brother in surprise.
“‘Harry’?” she echoed. “Where did that come from?”
“You did not tell your mother yet, lad? He wants to be called ‘Harry’ from now on.”
Just as Henry had feared, his mother’s brows slanted downward in a disapproving frown, and he said hastily, “Why not, Mama? I’ve always hated Henry; it sounds like the name of a priest or…or some peddler’s nag. It is just not a heroic name, Mama. I like ‘Harry’ much better, and that is the way the English say Henry, and since I’m to be king of the English, I ought to have an English name, and-” At that point, he broke off, not having run out of arguments, just out of breath. But before he could rally, Maude shook her head.
“Henry is what you were christened, and Henry you will remain. Nicknames are undignified.”
Ranulf started to speak, stopped himself. Henry was not as prudent. His disappointment was too sharp to swallow; instead, he let it out in anger, saying accusingly, “That is not fair! It is my name, not yours!”
“That is so,” Maude conceded coolly, “but it is also so that you are ten years old. Once you are grown, you may call yourself whatever you choose. Until then, you must make do with Henry.”
The obdurate look on her son’s face was one she was becoming all too familiar with. “It is not fair,” he said again, but this time as defiance, not complaint, and when Maude showed no signs of relenting, he turned away abruptly, deliberately knocking over a chair on his way to the door. But he did not get far. His mother’s voice froze him in his tracks.
“Henry, I will not abide such churlish behavior, and you well know it. Go and take your bath-now!”
Ranulf had watched in astonishment, and as soon as Henry had gone, he admitted, “That is the first time I’ve seen the lad flare up like that. Has he done this before?”
“Yes, I am sorry to say. Once when he did not get his way, he broke a pitcher.”
“So…he inherited his share of the infamous Angevin temper, after all.”
“Tempers can be controlled. Geoffrey controls his. No, Ranulf, these fits of temper are not a tainted legacy of the blood. Henry was not given to tantrums, not whilst he was in my care. These sprang up in my absence like weeds, and took root once he saw how well they worked. I suppose it was only to be expected, for Geoffrey was always overly indulgent with our sons, and whilst he was off waging war in Normandy, there were few to say no to Henry or his brothers. That is another reason why I agreed to put Henry into Robert’s keeping, for I knew Robert would never brook disobedience or deliberate mischief.”
“Indeed not,” Ranulf agreed ruefully, remembering his own apprenticeship under Robert’s tutelage; his brother was even more of a disciplinarian than Maude, with no tolerance for tomfoolery. “Robert will set the lad straight if anyone can. But if you do not mind my meddling, I think you were too hard on him about the name. What harm in letting him call himself Harry? Did you never want to change your name? I did, for certes!”
“Truly?” Maude sounded so puzzled that it was obvious this particular childhood craving had eluded her altogether. “What did you want to be called?” she asked curiously, and Ranulf hesitated.
“I’ll tell you only if you promise not to laugh. I was so bedazzled by the hero’s exploits in The Song of Roland that-Maude, you are laughing!”
“No, I am not,” she insisted, untruthfully and unconvincingly. “Roland Fitz Roy…I cannot believe our father countenanced that!”
“You do not think I ever asked Papa? No, that was whilst I was still a page in Stephen’s household, and if memory serves, he called me Roland for nigh on a fortnight-and with a straight face, too-till the whim passed.”
“He would,” Maude said tartly, but she fell silent after that, and Ranulf hoped she was pondering what he’d said; if Geoffrey had to learn how to rein Henry in, she needed to learn how to slacken those reins. Changing the subject, he asked her about Geoffrey’s last letter, and she told him of her husband’s victorious siege of Cherbourg. All of Normandy south and west of the River Seine was now his, she reported, but with a discernible lack of enthusiasm. He understood why; as much as she wanted to see the duchy conquered for Henry, it had to rankle- that Geoffrey was succeeding spectacularly in Normandy, whilst her English campaign was mired down in controversy, buffeted by setbacks and shadowed by defeat.
From Normandy, their conversation shifted to the latest news from the French court. Urged on by Eleanor, the French king had invaded Champagne to punish Count Theobald for championing Raoul de Peronne’s repudiated wife, and the resulting carnage had been shocking even to an age inured to bloodshed and civilian casualties. When the French army had swept into the town of Vitry-sur-Marne and laid siege to one of Theobald’s castles, the frightened townspeople had taken refuge in their church. But when the town was fired, the wind shifted and the flames spread to the church. Within moments, it became an inferno, and few escaped; more than thirteen hundred bodies were later found in the smoldering ruins. The young French king was a horrified eyewitness, and his sleep was said to be haunted by those dying screams even now, six months after Vitry’s fiery death throes. But the king’s anguished conscience had not bidden him to withdraw his troops from Champagne, and the campaign continued.
It was, Ranulf and Maude agreed, incredible folly-fighting a war to vindicate an illicit love affair. When her own peace was troubled by memories of the terrible suffering in Winchester, Maude confided, at least she knew her cause was just; her son’s kingship was worth fighting for, even dying for.
Henry chose that moment to reenter the chamber. His mother and uncle scowled at sight of him, and his disgrace stung anew, for their good opinion mattered greatly to him. “You could not possibly have taken a bath already,” Maude said suspiciously, and he readily admitted that he had not.
“The servants are fetching the bathwater. But I did wash my face and hands and even my neck…see?” he said, tugging aside his tunic to show a patch of newly scrubbed skin. “I came back, Mama, to say that I was sorry for being rude.”
Maude’s mouth softened. “You deserve to be forgiven, then. But do you know what I would value as much as an apology? Your promise that it will not happen again.”
Henry hesitated. “I’d rather not, Mama,” he said at last. “I cannot be sure I could keep that promise. And if I could not, then my sin would be twofold-rudeness and bad faith, too.”
“Very scrupulous of you, Henry,” Maude said dryly. “But I would suggest that you try to mend your manners in the future, that you try very hard.”
“I will, Mama. I will not throw any more chairs about. And I’ll make no more mention of names, will not ask you again to call me Harry,” he said solemnly, and then heaved a wistful sigh. “Papa will agree, and I’ll just have to settle for that.”
Ranulf coughed to camouflage a laugh, while Maude wavered between exasperation and amusement. “I may
