our father. If he gives me no satisfaction-and I rather hope he does not-I will deal with you myself, and you’ll not find me as forgiving as he is. You can wager the surety of your soul on that.”
“As entertaining as your rants always are, I have no more time to waste with you.” Hal started to brush past his brother, but Richard grabbed his arm.
“We are not done here!”
Hal swung around and brought the stiffened edge of his hand down upon Richard’s wrist, breaking his brother’s hold. Richard lunged forward just as the priest desperately flung himself between them. Both of the king’s sons were much taller than he, and he found himself crushed between them, his nose buried in Richard’s mantle, unable to see their faces but feeling such tension in their bodies that he was terrified there’d be blood shed in his church, for he’d remembered that they’d be carrying eating knives.
“My lords, please…” he pleaded, but they were exchanging curses, calling each other names so vile that he doubted they’d even heard him. They did hear, though, the astonished exclamation from the direction of the door, and they stepped back, allowing Father Matthew to breathe again as they confronted two of their father’s most distinguished guests, the Archbishops of Canterbury and Dublin.
The Archbishop of Canterbury was a mild-mannered individual, utterly unlike his predecessor, the fiery Thomas Becket, not one who’d be eager to rebuke the king’s sons. Fortunately for Father Matthew, the Archbishop of Dublin was made of sterner stuff. “What sort of outrageous behavior is this?” he demanded, striding down the nave so swiftly that his cope billowed out behind him, giving him the appearance of a ship under full sail. “Would you spill blood in God’s House? For shame, my lords, for shame!”
Hal recovered his poise first, patting the priest apologetically on the shoulder as he moved to greet the prelates. “You are quite right, my lord archbishop. There is no excuse for our bad behavior, and I beg your pardon. I will be sure to confess this transgression to my chaplain so that he may impose a suitable penance.”
Watching as his brother pacified the archbishops, Richard shook his head in disgust. He knew he should keep silent, but he’d been watching Hal perform these conjuring tricks as long as he could remember, and as Hal started up the aisle with the clerics, his bitterness spilled over. “You could rob a man blind in broad daylight and then somehow make it seem as if he were the one at fault. But if you meddle again in Aquitaine, all your smiles and pretty compliments will not save you. Nothing will!”
Hal could recognize an opportunity when he was presented with one, and he paused at the door, then turned without haste, and looked back at his furious brother. “You put me in mind, Richard, of a cuckolded husband bewailing his wife’s infidelity, when he is the one who drove her into another man’s arms.” And confident that he’d gotten the last word, he departed the church with the archbishops, leaving Richard standing by the high altar, fuming, but vowing that Hal would not get away with his treachery, not this time.
On the day after Christmas, Henry was obliged to hold a hearing to adjudicate a bizarre incident that had happened during the Christmas feast. As a silver basin of scented water was borne to the king’s table so that he and his guests might wash their hands before the meal began, William de Tancarville, a highborn Norman baron, had rushed forward, forcibly seized the basin, and insisted upon carrying it to Henry himself, refusing afterward to surrender the basin to Henry’s indignant chamberlain. De Tancarville did not lack for enemies, and protests were made, resulting in the next day’s session. Henry had no liking for de Tancarville, for the baron had been one of the first to defect to Hal in the rebellion of 1173, but he accepted the man’s passionate defense: that as the hereditary chamberlain of Normandy, it was his sole privilege to attend his duke on ceremonial occasions.
While Hal had been amused by the fracas in the hall, he was fidgeting and squirming in his seat as he listened to de Tancarville proclaim his right to retain custody of the silver basin, for it had occurred to him that Richard might see this as the ideal forum to charge him with subverting his rule in Aquitaine. He was reasonably confident that Richard did not have convincing evidence yet, but his brother might well choose to make a public scene after their confrontation in St George’s chapel. He was relieved, therefore, when the proceedings were finally concluded, and Richard’s window of opportunity slammed shut. But before Henry or any of the lords could withdraw, Will Marshal strode toward the center of the hall and declared, “My lord king” in a clear, carrying voice.
Henry sat down again reluctantly, wondering why he could not enjoy one peaceful Christmas without any drama or strife. But then he saw that the king being approached was Hal, and he settled back to watch, as did the rest of the men in the hall.
“Sire, hear me.” Will was very nervous, more uneasy than he’d ever been before a tournament or a battle, but when he spoke, his voice revealed none of his inner turmoil. “I have been unjustly accused of a vicious and vile act of treason. I am here to defend myself before you and your noble father and these assembled lords and barons. Have the men who accused me come forward and agree to meet me in combat. I will fight three of them in turn, and if I am defeated in any contest, I am willing to forfeit my life, for I would not want to live if I could not clear my name.”
As soon as Will stopped speaking, the hall was utterly still. Hal could feel every eye upon him, and he felt a sudden flare of anger, resentment that Will should pick this inopportune moment to make his overwrought, theatrical challenge. Will made it sound as if he were not in control of his own household knights. His father was watching him with an enigmatic expression, and Geoffrey looked puzzled, but Richard was smiling faintly, and that smile was enough to arouse all of Hal’s suspicions. Had Richard put Will up to this? They’d always been too friendly for his liking. For that matter, Will was de Tancarville’s cousin. Could that odd event have been deliberately staged to give Will this chance to appear before the king’s court? If he allowed the trial by combat, this would drag on for three days, delaying their departure from Caen. Was that what Richard had in mind? Was he seeking time to produce witnesses, a Poitevin baron that he’d coerced into making a confession?
“I do not know what you are talking about, Marshal,” he said sharply, “and I will not have my household disrupted with petty personal quarrels. There will be no trial by combat. Now let that be an end to it.”
Will looked at him gravely, and to Hal’s discomfort, he felt heat rising in his face under that unblinking regard. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, and that seemed to break the spell. But instead of withdrawing, Will turned and knelt before Henry.
“Sire, I can no longer remain at court. I beg you to grant me safe conduct through your domains.” Henry was glad to do so, wishing he could rid himself of all of Hal’s knights, and Will bowed stiffly, then departed the hall, holding his head high and paying no heed to the buzz of questions and conjecture that swirled in his wake.
Will Marshal’s actions had created a furor, and for the rest of the evening, there was no other topic of conversation, for Will was a star on the tournament circuit, and all thought it odd that Hal would have parted with such a redoubtable knight. Most of the men did not know what Will had been accused of, for the rumors had not spread much beyond Hal’s household. Shaken by Will’s challenge, for none of them wanted to meet him on the field, the conspirators kept quiet, doing their best not to call attention to themselves. The paucity of facts did not discourage gossip, though, and it seemed to Hal that there was not a soul in Caen who did not have a theory about Will’s fall from favor, and every last one of them was eager to expound upon it at great length.
Hal discovered now that there was a drawback to the sort of popularity he’d long enjoyed. He was well liked by virtually everyone and greatly admired for his tournament successes, but men felt free to approach him with a familiarity they’d not have dared to show his father or Richard. Much to his annoyance, he found himself having to deflect obtrusive questions, avid curiosity, and speculation that he considered both unseemly and presumptuous. Pride kept him from making an early departure from the hall, but when he was finally able to withdraw to his own chambers, he was weary and thoroughly out of sorts.
But in his bedchamber, Hal found that an unpleasant evening was about to get much worse. Marguerite had excused herself after they’d eaten, pleading a headache, but she was still fully dressed, and her face was so pale and drawn that he felt a pang of guilt, for he’d been so consumed with his own troubles that he’d not had a thought to spare for her.
“Sweetheart, you do not look well at all. Shall I send Benoit to summon a doctor?” Glancing around the chamber, he noticed for the first time that neither his squires nor Marguerite’s ladies were in attendance. “Where did the lads wander off to?”
“I dismissed them.” Marguerite startled Hal by crossing the chamber and sliding the bolt into place. She stayed by the door, arms folded tightly across her breasts. “I must know, Hal. Do you believe that gossip about Will Marshal and me?”
Hal was shocked. “Jesu, you heard that?”
