son, and his estates will pass to his daughter, Hawise. It is my intention to give the girl to you, Willem.”
Willem was rarely taken by surprise, but he was now. Kings were usually loath to give up the wardship of an heiress, for that gave them control of her revenues and eventual marriage. “I am honored by your trust in me. I will be greatly pleased to have the lass as my ward, will do right by her, you may be sure.”
“I am not offering you her wardship, Willem. I am giving her to you in marriage,” Henry said, amused to see that he’d managed to render the courtly, urbane earl quite speechless for once.
Willem was overwhelmed. As Earl of Essex, he need never have to beg his bread by the side of the road, but his was not the wealthiest of earldoms. Guillaume of Aumale had held extensive lands in Yorkshire and other shires as well as his estates in Normandy. Henry was offering him a great heiress as casually as if he were proffering a benefice to an improvident priest.
“Harry! How can I ever thank you?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Henry joked, before saying, quite seriously, “Kings are not denied much in this life. But their friendships are as scarce as hen’s teeth, which is one reason why we rely so often upon kinsmen- though that obviously has its drawbacks, too. I’ve been luckier than most, for I’ve had two men I could call ‘friend,’ you and Thomas.” Unable to resist teasing, “Let’s hope that our friendship ends better than mine and Thomas’s did.”
They laughed and embraced, and Henry then went off in search of Louis, in good spirits, delighted to be able to reward Willem’s loyalty as lavishly as he deserved. Entering the Martyr’s Door into the choir, he descended the steps into the crypt. There he found the French king, prostrating himself upon the tiles before St Thomas’s tomb, attended by one of his physicians, the archbishop, the new prior, and several monks.
As soon as Louis’s prayer was done, Prior Alan impressed Henry by taking the initiative. Coming forward before the French king could begin another invocation, he said quietly, “My liege, King Henry is here.”
Louis glanced up, squinting in the dim light, and Henry was struck anew by how feeble he looked. Louis was twelve years his senior, which put him in his late fifties, but if Henry had not known that, he’d have assumed that the French king had easily reached his biblical three score years and ten. Even allowing for the stress of Philippe’s illness, Louis seemed to be carrying the weight of the world upon his stooped shoulders.
Reaching out his hand, Henry helped the other man to rise. “You have been keeping this vigil since your arrival yesterday. For a day and a night now, you have done nothing but fast and pray. St Thomas will not take it amiss if you get a few hours sleep.”
Louis would have demurred, but Henry did not give him the chance. “What did Thomas say to you in those dreams? I assume you remember?”
“Of course I do! He said, ‘Our Lord Jesus Christ sends me as your servant, Thomas the Martyr of Canterbury, in order that you should go to Canterbury, if your son is to recover.’”
“As I suspected. He said not a word about your sacrificing your life for your son’s. You’ll do Philippe no good by dying at Canterbury. If you’ll not rest for your own sake, do it for mine, Louis. Spare me the embarrassment of having to explain to the rest of Christendom that the first French king to visit English shores did not make it home alive.”
Henry had long ago concluded that Louis did not have a humorous bone in his body. But the French king was still able to recognize humor in others, and he mustered up a wan smile. “You are right,” he admitted. “I am indeed bone-weary and in need of sleep.” Looking vastly relieved, his physician started toward him before he could change his mind. But he held up his hand, and slipping his arm in Henry’s, drew him aside. Henry did not resist, startled by how heavily Louis was leaning upon him for support.
“You have been very kind, Harry. But I must impose upon your kindness by seeking yet another favor from you. I would ask that you add your prayers to mine, that you entreat the Blessed Martyr to save my son. St Thomas showed himself willing to perform a miracle on your behalf, so I think yours would be the voice he’d be most likely to heed.”
Henry managed to keep his face impassive, and he would later consider that a remarkable accomplishment. “I will pray to St Thomas for your son,” he promised the French king, after taking a moment to savor the irony of Louis’s request, and watched, bemused, as the older man let his physician lead him from the crypt.
Archbishop Richard and the others accompanied Louis, but one of the monks lingered behind. “Should you wish some time for private prayer, my liege?”
“Yes, Brother Bertram, I would,” Henry confirmed, for this had become his practice upon his visits to Canterbury. He waited until the monk’s footsteps receded before walking over to the martyr’s tomb. “Well, I suppose you heard that, Thomas,” he said breezily, for that is what his talks with Thomas were, conversations rather than prayers. He’d discovered that he could unburden himself to the dead far easier than he could with the living. The Thomas he confided in was the friend he’d lost to the Church, somehow restored to him by his anguish in this crypt and the victory at Alnwick, a miracle so manifest that not even the French king could doubt it.
“I hope that you’ll show mercy to Louis. If you could snatch a king and scatter a fleet, curing a skinny, skittish whelp like Philippe ought to be child’s play. And yes, Thomas, I daresay you’re marveling at how magnanimous I’ve become in my old age. You need not fret, for I have no yearning for sainthood, am not poaching in your woods.”
Henry cocked his head, half listening for a response. “I admit it-my own interests are invested in Philippe’s recovery. Louis does not look as if he is long for this world, and I’d rather my son face a stripling like Philippe than Henri of Champagne or Thibault of Blois. Christ help him, Thomas, for either one of them would eat Hal alive.”
There was a relief in being able to confess his doubts about his eldest’s capacity for kingship. In the past few years, he’d occasionally asked Thomas for guidance, entreated him to show Hal the way home, to restore the laughing, fair-haired lad of cherished memory, not the sullen, erratic stranger he’d become. But tonight his prayers were only for Philippe Capet, and he said softly, “I never thought I’d pity that fool on the French throne, Thomas. Fathers and sons…mayhap you were wise to choose the Church.”
He paused then, for he’d caught the sound of sandals on the crypt stairs. “My lord king, may I approach?” Brother Bertram hovered in the doorway, loath to intrude upon his sovereign’s prayers. “Your son has just ridden in, my liege, and is asking to see you straightaway. Is it your wish that I send him down?”
“Of course.” The monk retreated before Henry could ask the identity of this son, and as he waited, he entertained himself by trying to guess which one it might be. Not Johnny. Not Richard, either, for it would not even occur to him to ask for permission; he’d just sweep on into the crypt. Nor would Hal have sought permission. His innate good manners had succumbed to a more pressing need-to show the world that he was a king in deed as well as name, his father’s equal in all matters. So that left one of his Geoffreys, he concluded, and was pleased to be proven right a few moments later when Geoff came into view.
“What a welcome surprise, Geoff! When did you get back to England?” Struck by a sudden ominous thought, he did not wait for his son’s reply. “You are not bringing word that Philippe has died?” And when Geoff shook his head, he sighed with relief. “Thank God for that. I do not see myself as craven, but I would not want to be the one to tell Louis that his son was dead.”
“I came straight from Tours, did not even know Philippe was ailing until I landed at Southampton. It was good of you, Papa, to let the French king make this pilgrimage. When I think of all he did to turn your sons against you, I would not have been so generous.”
“Not all of my sons, Geoff-not you,” Henry said fondly. But as he studied the young man, he felt a prickle of unease. “You may not be bearing sad tidings about Philippe, lad, but you’ve come to tell me something I’d rather not hear.”
Geoff blinked. “How did you guess? Can you read my mind?”
“No, but I can read your face. What is it, Geoff?”
“My news is indeed sad, Papa. On August 9, the Bishop of Worcester died at Tours.”
Henry sucked in his breath. “Roger? God in Heaven…” He turned aside as he fought to get his emotions under control, and then sat down heavily upon the closest seat, which happened to be the archbishop’s tomb. Geoff took an anxious step forward, remembering that St Thomas had punished a young boy for falling asleep against his shrine. But he decided then that the martyr was willing to allow his father liberties that he’d deny to other men, and came forward, dropping his hand to Henry’s shoulder in a mute gesture of comfort.
“Tell me,” Henry said huskily, “how he died.”
“The Archbishop of Tours was accompanying Roger to Rome for the Lateran Council, but he fell ill in Paris and had to turn back,” Geoff said dutifully, for he’d been rehearsing this speech since he left Tours. “Upon his return
