from Rome, Roger journeyed to Tours to see how the archbishop was faring. He became ill himself soon after his arrival and died at the abbey of Marmoutier not long afterward. He was buried with great honors in the abbey church of St Martin.”
“One of the world’s bright lights has gone out,” Henry said, after a long silence. “My cousin was a good man and a brave one. He alone dared to tell me that I was not blameless for Thomas’s murder, for he was never intimidated by my temper or my rank.”
“I remember your telling me of the time you and he quarreled on the road over Thomas and over Hal’s coronation. You said that when you shouted at him, he shouted right back, and when some of your courtiers sought to curry favor with you by denouncing him, you flew into a rage, saying ‘Do you think, you villains, that if I say what I please to my cousin, you and the rest can insult him?’ And you and Roger then rode off in perfect harmony.”
Henry nodded. “I remember that day well. I remember, too, another time that we quarreled because of Thomas. He’d excommunicated my chancellor, Geoffrey Ridel, and of course that meant other Christians could not consort with him. When Roger encountered Ridel during Mass, he turned around and walked out. I was angry that he was heeding Thomas and not me. I lost my temper, Geoff, and ordered him from my domains. Another man would have tried to make peace, to beg my pardon. Roger said his foot was already in the stirrup and stalked off. I soon calmed down and sent a messenger to recall him. But damned if he would come! It took three messages ere he’d deign to return and I had to make sure that Geoffrey Ridel did not come into his presence for the remainder of his stay.”
Henry smiled sadly. “I often thought that it was a pity he’d not been my uncle Robert’s eldest son instead of his youngest, for he’d have made a far better Earl of Gloucester than that boneheaded William. But then, that would have been a great loss to the Church.”
Henry had dropped his head into his hands. When he looked up, Geoff saw that his eyes were wet. “Did I ever tell you my favorite story about my cousin, lad? Roger was on his way to see me when he came upon two wretches being held outside under armed guard. He always had a cat’s curiosity and stopped to see what was happening. He was told that these men had gotten drunk in an Eastcheap tavern and uttered words insulting to the king. They had sobered up by now and were scared out of their wits. Roger told them to deny nothing, to admit what they’d said and plead for mercy.”
Geoff had never heard this story, and he said, “What happened then?”
Henry grinned. “They were brought before me and freely confessed that they’d called me ‘evil tempered’ and a ‘miser’ who wanted to tax Londoners of their last drop of blood. Whilst I was considering this, one of them added, ‘And that was nothing to what we would have said if the wine had not run out.’ Of course I laughed, and then sent them on their way. Roger later denied that he’d put words in their mouth, but that sounded so like him that I never believed it.”
Geoff grinned, too. “That does sound like Cousin Roger,” he said, chiming in with a story of his own about the bishop’s dagger-sharp humor, and they stayed for a time in the cathedral crypt, mourning Roger the way he would have wanted-laughing through tears.
Philippe recovered from his illness and was crowned at Rheims by his uncle the Archbishop on All Saints’ Day. Henry’s three oldest sons attended the coronation. Hal carried the crown for his young brother-in-law and then held it steady for Philippe during the ceremony once he realized it was too heavy for the boy. But Louis could not attend. He’d suffered a stroke soon after his return to France, one which left him unable to speak and partially paralyzed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
April 1180
Reading, England
Upon learning that Geoffrey would be returning to England that spring, Ranulf and Rhiannon decided to make the long journey from Wales, for they’d not seen Morgan in more than a year. Since Henry published his itinerary a month in advance, they knew he’d be at Reading, and arrived at the Cluniac abbey of St Mary and St John the Evangelist on an overcast afternoon in early April.
Ranulf rose early the next morning, as was his habit, choosing to let his wife sleep in, for it had been an arduous trip for them both; he was sixty-one now and Rhiannon only a few years younger, and he knew the day would be coming when they’d not be able to chase after their son or the king like this. Upon his entry into the guest hall, he was delighted to be told that Hal and Geoffrey had arrived late the night before, after he and Rhiannon had retired, and instead of breaking his fast, he went in search of his son.
He had no luck until he found Will Marshal in affable conversation with Abbot Joseph. Morgan was with the king, they told him; he had offered to show his young kinsman their family tombs, for not only was the abbey’s founder, Henry’s grandfather of blessed memory, buried here, so was the son who’d died at age three, and more recently, the Earl of Cornwall. Ranulf headed for the gatehouse that connected the north and south garths, and entered the church. Not finding Henry and Morgan within, he lingered long enough to say a prayer at his brother Rainald’s tomb, thinking that the most burdensome aspect of aging was that a man had to bury so many of his friends and loved ones.
Exiting via a side door into the cloisters, he came upon his son and nephew. They were laughing together in one of the carrels, tossing a coin back and forth. At the sight of his father, Morgan hastened over to enfold Ranulf in a boisterous embrace; the latter was startled to realize that Morgan was now the taller of the two.
“The king has been telling me about the new silver penny,” Morgan exclaimed, with the enthusiasm that was a large part of his charm; he was invariably curious about all things, great and small. He showed his father the coin, with a short cross on one side and on the reverse, the king’s crowned head, under the inscription Henricus Rex. “This is one of the first to be struck, as they are not to be exchanged for the old coins until Martinmas. He says I can keep it, too, so I’ll have the only one in England for the next seven months!”
He paused, then, to glance questioningly back at Henry. “It seems like a lot of work and trouble, my lord. Why not just continue using the old coins?”
“Over time, they become debased, Morgan,” Henry explained. “Knaves file the edges off the coins and melt the clippings down to make counterfeit coins, so they are not worth as much. Sometimes, too, the moneyers who operate the mints cheat, mixing the silver with cheaper metals when they make the pennies. Coin clipping is a serious offense, and those caught pay dearly for it, but greed can entice men into all sorts of lunacy.”
Ranulf inspected the new penny; since no Welsh princes minted their own money, these coins would be circulating in Wales, too. “I appreciate your tutoring Morgan in money matters, Harry,” he joked, unable to resist teasing his son. “Judging from the way he spends, he needs all the lessons he can get.”
“All of today’s youth are money-mad,” Henry said cheerfully. “Compared to my lads, though, Morgan is as frugal as a Cistercian monk.”
Morgan smiled dutifully, for he knew he was expected to acknowledge adult humor, no matter how lame, and Ranulf felt a surge of pride in his son’s good manners. When he suggested that Morgan go to the guest house and greet his mother, the youth still remembered to excuse himself politely before he went dashing off to find Rhiannon.
“He is growing up so quickly,” Ranulf said, his the bittersweet satisfaction of a father recognizing that his son is fast approaching the borders of manhood.
“Be thankful for it, Uncle. Lads his age are vulnerable to so much-their own foolhardy impulses and, even worse, the calculating flattery of men eager to take advantage of their youth and inexperience.”
Ranulf assumed Henry was thinking of his own wayward sons, and made a sympathetic murmur of agreement, all the while hoping that Morgan would show better judgment than his royal cousins. But then Henry said that Philippe’s youthful mistakes were likely to haunt him well into his manhood if something was not done, and Ranulf realized that he was speaking of the fourteen-year-old French king, not Hal and his brothers.
“I did not know about the French unrest,” Ranulf said, “until we stopped in Chester to ask Maud to accompany us. The only news that had trickled into Wales was of Louis’s apoplectic seizure and Philippe’s lavish coronation.”
