He particularly resented the accusation that he meant to keep Tilda and Eleanor apart. As if he’d be that cruel! The perilous Channel crossing had definitely been a factor in his decision; why else would he not have summoned Johnny to join them? And if he’d wanted to enjoy one Christmas without having to share his daughter with Eleanor, what of it? He was entitled to that much.
Tilda’s coming had forced him to face a painful truth-that his children sided with Eleanor. He thought he understood why their sons continued to agitate for her release; they had to feel guilty that she’d paid so high a price for their rebellion. And he’d not blamed Joanna for failing to comprehend the enormity of Eleanor’s offense, for she was just a child. But Tilda was a woman grown, and he’d expected better from her. Heinrich saw the truth of it. What greater sin could a wife commit than to turn upon her own husband? Why was Tilda so willing to forgive it?
The answer seemed all too obvious. His children loved their mother in a way that they did not love him. Assuming that they loved him at all. He doubted that Richard did, could find nothing in his second son’s eyes but resentment and reproach. Since wedding that Breton bitch, Geoffrey had grown more distant, more guarded. And Hal was…Hal. More and more, his eldest son was beginning to remind him of the man who’d stolen his mother’s crown-Stephen, so charming and good-hearted and courageous, so utterly inept at the mastery of other men. Thank Christ for Johnny. There were times when it was only the thought of his youngest son that kept him from utter despair.
The rain had yet to slacken off, and it occurred to him that, just as he was trapped by the storm, he was trapped by his own family, by his inability to give his sons an honest answer to Richard’s angry question. But how could he tell them that their mother’s continuing confinement was their fault? The truth was that he’d have freed Eleanor long ago if only he could trust them. He still did not fully comprehend why she’d rebelled, but he no longer doubted the sincerity of her regrets. Nor did he still believe that she’d throw herself at once into plots and conspiracies if he set her free. He did not fear, as he once had, that she’d do all in her power to revenge herself upon him. But he never doubted that if one of their sons rebelled again, she’d draw upon the considerable resources of Aquitaine on behalf of that son, offering her unqualified support. Especially if that son was Richard.
He’d never underestimated his wife’s shrewdness or her cunning or her ability to dissemble, to beguile others into doing her bidding. He’d valued her for those very qualities-until she’d turned them against him. But even if she’d made it safely to Paris nine years ago, her presence would not have tipped the balance in their favor, for men like Louis and Philip of Flanders would never have heeded the advice of a woman.
Henry laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. Any man who thought women were the weaker vessels had never met his mother-or his queen. Thank God Almighty that she’d not been able to take the field against him. But now she had Richard, the son who was most like him, the son who loved him not. He remained confident that he would prevail if Richard ever rebelled again. But Richard would pose a greater challenge than any foe he’d fought, and he was too pragmatic to deny it. Until Richard and his brothers proved that they could be truly trusted, the way a man ought to be able to trust his sons, how could he risk letting Eleanor go? And yet, how could he say that to Richard or Geoffrey or Hal? How could he confess that he still harbored such doubts and misgivings about their loyalty? He could only ask the Almighty and St Thomas to show his sons the error of their ways, to pray that they saw the light ere it was too late.
Raised voices came to his ears now, muffled in the winding stairwell. Either his sons were squabbling again or making ready to depart. He looked out dubiously into the wet, gloomy night, remembering when he’d been utterly indifferent to such storms, when his body had not yet begun to show the results of so many years of hard riding and careless confidence in his own invincibility. Shivering as he stepped out into the rain, he could take no comfort from the irony of it-that he and his exiled wife were sharing the same wretched Christmas.
The last months of God’s Year 1182 were among the most miserable of Will Marshal’s life. Without the favor of his lord, the young king, he felt like a ship gone adrift, lacking moorings or direction. Because the other knights of Hal’s mesnie did not know why they’d fallen out, speculation ran rampant and Will found himself the target of gossip and innuendo, vulnerable to the malice of his enemies. And enemies he had, for his privileged position in Hal’s household and his spectacular tournament successes had long provoked the envy and jealousy of lesser knights. Too proud to acknowledge the talk, Will did his best to ignore the whispers and stares, but his heaviest burden was that he could not confide in his friends, could not reveal the cause of the young king’s displeasure-not without betraying Hal’s confidence.
Will was accustomed to being Hal’s confidant, basking in their friendship even though he knew it had cost him the good will of the old king; Henry blamed him for failing to curb Hal’s whims and reckless spending. Will did not think that was fair, but he accepted that kings were often unfair and there was naught to be done about it. What he could not accept was the sudden change in his status. Hal no longer sought his advice, no longer wanted his companionship. It was as if the last twelve years had never been.
It had begun that autumn when Will noticed Hal’s preoccupation, his moodiness. He’d always believed that his duties involved more than protecting Hal from an enemy’s lance, a foe’s sword thrust; he was often called upon to protect Hal from himself. He’d encouraged Hal to reveal the source of his distraction, and finally it had all come spilling out-the blandishments of the Poitevin lords, his hunger for lands of his own, and his loathing for his brother Richard. Will had been appalled once he realized Hal was entangling himself in such a lethal spider’s web, and he’d spoken out forthrightly against it, with a blunt candor that kings did not often hear. Hal had been furious and ever since their quarrel, he’d kept Will at a distance. Will did not even know if he still intended to follow through with this folly. In his despair, he’d considered approaching the queen, but he’d soon abandoned that idea; Marguerite was not cast in the same mold as her mother-in-law. All he could do was to wait-for Hal’s temper to cool, for his common sense to reassert itself. What he would do if neither happened, he did not know.
It was not until his friends came to him on a rain-sodden December night at Caen that Will learned what was being said behind his back-that he was guilty of far worse than arrogance or pride, that he was seeking to cuckold his lord, to seduce Hal’s lovely young queen. Accustomed as he was to the spite and jealousy that thrived in the artificial atmosphere of a royal court, he was dumbfounded by such baneful rancor, for he was being accused of the greatest crime a man could commit against his liege lord.
Baldwin de Bethune, Simon de Marisco, and Peter de Preaux had agonized over warning him of the stories being circulated, at last deciding that it was more dangerous for him not to know. They watched Will now with sympathetic eyes, bracing themselves for the questions to come.
“How did you find this out?” he asked at last, and they explained that the conspirators had tried to win over one of Hal’s friends, Raoul de Hamars, hoping that he’d take the tale to Hal. But Raoul had scoffed at the story, and instead of warning Hal, he’d chosen to warn Will’s friends.
“At least all are not willing to believe the worst of me. Who are these men who slander me so foully?”
They were reluctant to say, fearing an even greater scandal, but Will was insistent and they were forced to reveal that the ringleaders were Adam d’Yquebeuf and Sir Thomas de Coulonces. Just as they’d feared, Will at once announced his intention of challenging them to combat, vowing to clear his name-and the queen’s-with the power of his strong right arm.
“You cannot do that, Will! If you proclaim yourself innocent of adultery, you’d be spreading the scandal even farther, making sure that all who’d not heard the rumors now know of them. That would do you no good, would shame the queen-and the king.”
Will’s shoulders slumped, for he realized Baldwin was right. Surely Hal could not know of this. If he had, would he not have acted? Would he not have punished the men who’d dared to slander his queen? But Will discovered that he still had to ask. Looking from one face to the other, he finally blurted it out. “Does Lord Hal know of these rumors?”
None of them seemed in a hurry to answer him. “We are not sure,” Simon admitted. “Raoul de Hamars agreed to find out more, and reported that after he’d refused to pass the story on, they got one of Lord Hal’s pages drunk and convinced him it was his duty to tell the king. Supposedly Hal laughed it off, forcing them to take more drastic action, and they then came to him, swearing on their honor that it was so.”
Seeing Will’s look of dismay, Baldwin said hastily, “We do not know if that truly happened. It is only what Raoul was told when he went out drinking with Thomas de Coulonces.”
Will fell silent. He’d assumed that Hal’s coldness was due to their quarrel, to his disapproval of Hal’s grand schemes for claiming Aquitaine. But what if he’d been wrong? What if Hal had heard these vile accusations and believed them?
