one manned by the living dead. Only the Almighty could save those poor souls now.
His sailors were leaning over the gunwale, desperately gripping the boat hooks that were their only defense. Henry began to fumble with his rope lifeline so that he could join them, although a boat hook seemed a frail, feeble weapon against a cog. But the distance between the two ships was not narrowing, and with a surge of overwhelming relief, he realized that his own ship was slowly, ever so slowly, responding to the helm. The crewmen were shouting in grateful acknowledgment of their reprieve, yet they fell silent as the doomed ship was swept past them, for a respectful hush was all they could offer to the drowning passengers.
Henry sagged back against the gunwale. Oddly enough, their respite had done what the storm itself could not do, and for the first time that night, he accepted that he might not survive this accursed voyage. In just two days time, he would be thirty-seven, but would he live to celebrate it? What would happen to his domains without him? And his sons? Hal was only fifteen, the other lads even younger. What would become of them if he were no longer able to protect their rights?
Henry had often faced danger, but never before had he gazed down into his open grave. As was his way, he at once set about changing the ending. God’s Will be done. But not yet, Lord, not yet. He needed to live long enough to see his son crowned. Surely the Almighty could see that? Hal was still in need of his guidance, his judgment, for the lad had not yet shown the mettle of a king. He would learn, but he needed seasoning. Holding fast to the gunwale, Henry offered up the most heartfelt prayers of his life, bargaining with God for more time.
The sinking ship had disappeared into the darkness, but Henry’s last glimpse of it would burn in his memory until his final breath: as the cog heeled sharply to the left, its side rudder had come completely out of the water, as useless as its tattered sail and broken mast. A sudden whimper drew Henry’s attention and he glanced down to discover that his dog had crept from the tent, managed to crawl across the deck, and was huddled at his feet. Touched by such selfless loyalty, he knelt beside the dyrehund and wrapped his arms around the animal’s trembling body. He considered returning to the tent, decided to remain there on the deck. Better to die under the open sky, facing his fate head-on.
Henry lost track of time, was never to know how many more hours passed before he heard one of the sailors give a joyful cry, “Land ho!” Turning his head toward the horizon, he saw a glimmer of light in the distance, and for a confused moment, he thought he was gazing upon the chalk cliffs of Dover. Surely they could not have been blown that far off course? But as the helmsman called out that he could see Culver Cliff, Henry realized that he was looking upon salvation, the steep, white bluffs of the Isle of Wight.
Henry came ashore at Portsmouth on March 3, and the remainder of his storm-battered fleet straggled into ports up and down the Channel. One of his forty ships was lost, taking more than four hundred people to their deaths, including Ranulf de Bellomont, his personal physician. But when he sent for his eldest son, Hal’s voyage was uneventful. He landed safely on English soil on June 5, proceeding to London, where his father awaited him, and was crowned in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of York on the following Sunday.
The Earl of Cornwall was enjoying himself enormously. Rainald loved food and revelries and good company, and in his considered judgment, his grandnephew’s coronation feast offered all three in plenitude. Westminster’s great hall had been newly whitewashed for the occasion, fresh, fragrant rushes laid down, clean linen cloths covered the tables, and in every wall sconce, a flaming torch blazed like a smoking sun. So far the menu had exceeded all his expectations; he’d confessed to his grand-nephew Hugh of Chester that he’d not thought Harry could manage an elegant meal without Eleanor’s guidance.
Hugh was embarrassed by this lack of discretion, casting uneasy glances along the high table, where his cousin the king was seated. Rainald merely laughed at the young earl’s attempts to shush him, insisting that Harry would take that as a compliment, not an insult. He could tell Hugh stories, indeed, about the slop that had been served at the royal table, especially when they’d been on the road all day and ended up sheltering for the night in places a self-respecting pig would shun.
Hugh went crimson and looked askance at Rainald’s brimming wine cup, trying to remember how often it had been refilled. Hippocras was ordinarily saved for the end of a feast, for the red wine flavored with sugar, ginger, and cinnamon was a costly beverage. But for Hal’s coronation dinner, no expense had been spared, and hippocras was being poured at the high table as if it were ale. Hugh invariably found things to worry about and he began to fear that Rainald might humiliate them both if he ended up deep in his cups.
Rainald’s voice was carrying, as usual, turning heads in their direction, and Hugh swallowed his own wine too quickly, for he was nowhere near as certain as his granduncle that the king would not be offended by such talk. He never knew how to read his cousin Harry and dreaded stirring up the king’s notoriously quick temper. Much to his relief now, the Bishop of London, seated on Rainald’s right, adroitly introduced a more seemly topic of conversation, commenting upon the lavishness of the dishes that had so far been served.
Distracted, Rainald happily plunged into a discussion of the fine pepper sauce, the omelettes stuffed with expensive, imported figs, the venison pasties, the fresh mackerel colored green with a jellylike mint sauce, and his personal favorite, the Lombardy custard of delicious marrow, dates, raisins, and almond milk. His grandnephew’s concern about his drinking was unwarranted; Rainald was feeling pleasantly mellow, but he was still reasonably sober. His exuberance was due as much to high spirits as spiced wine, for a coronation was a momentous event, one to be remembered and savored for years afterward.
Hal had been seated in the place of honor, between his father and the Archbishop of York. Already taller than Henry, adorned in a red silk tunic with a stylishly cut diagonal neckline that had stirred Hugh’s envy, his fair hair gilded to gold by the flaring torchlights, Hal looked verily like a king. Rainald beamed at the youth, glad that he made such a fine impression. Not every king’s heir was so promising, he thought, remembering Stephen’s brutal son, Eustace. When he’d died so suddenly, choking on a mouthful of eels, Stephen alone had mourned; most men felt that the Almighty had interceded on England’s behalf.
“I do not know our young king well,” he confided to the bishop, “but I can understand why the crowds turned out to cheer as he rode to the abbey. He is as handsome a lad as I’ve ever laid eyes upon, God’s Truth. I know who he gets his good looks from, too!”
Gilbert Foliot had more weighty matters on his mind than the comeliness of the king’s son. It was barely two months since he’d gotten the Pope to lift Becket’s sentence of excommunication, and he well knew that his participation in this day’s coronation was likely to thrust him back into papal disfavor. But courtesy was a virtue and he agreed that the young king was indeed fair to look upon, adding politely that the queen had been a great beauty, after all.
Rainald chuckled, looking at the bishop indulgently. “Nay, my lord, I meant the boy’s grandsire. I can find nothing of the queen in that lad. Look at his coloring, the tilt of his head, then tell me he is not the veritable image of Geoffrey of Anjou!”
Foliot had not seen the resemblance before, but now that it was pointed out to him, he marveled how he could have missed it. He had been a staunch supporter of the Empress Maude, which meant that he was no admirer of the late Count of Anjou, and he silently expressed the wish that young Hal resembled his grandfather in nothing more significant than appearance.
Rainald reached for a bread sop, dunking it in the glistening green sauce of their shared mackerel dish. “Let’s hope the lad’s good looks are his only legacy from Geoffrey. My sister loathed the man, and with cause, by God!”
That was tactless enough to make both Foliot and Hugh wince. No matter how cheerful Henry was this day, he’d like it not to hear his father disparaged; his affection for Count Geoffrey had been well known. Fortunately, there was a sudden bustle of activity in the hall as this course came to an end, and Rainald’s comments passed unnoticed. Ewers were bringing out lavers of water scented with bay leaves and chamomile; because so much of a meal was eaten with the fingers, it was essential that guests be offered several opportunities to wash their hands. The panter was cutting new trenchers for those at the high table, as by now theirs were soaked with gravy. Not even the hungriest diners would eat their trenchers, for bread had to be coarse and stale to be firm enough to serve as a plate; as they were replaced, the crumbling, sodden trenchers were collected for God’s poor.
There was a sudden stirring as Henry rose to his feet. He stopped others from rising, too, and gestured for the musicians to resume playing. As the music of harp and lute filled the hall, Henry stepped down from the dais. Exchanging brief pleasantries with the guests at his table, he paused before his kinsmen.
“There is no need to ask if you’ve been enjoying the dinner, Uncle,” he joked, “not after all you’ve been
