“Agace came to me, believing-correctly-that I needed to know. It did not occur to me that you credited it, though-not until today.”
“Sweetheart, of course I do not believe it!” He moved swiftly to her side, but when he put his arm around her, her body remained rigid in his embrace. “Never for a moment did I think there might be any truth to it. I swear that to you, Marguerite, upon the soul of our dead son, may God assoil him.”
He could feel some of the tension go out of her shoulders, but when she gazed up into his face, her blue eyes were still shadowed with anxiety and uncertainty. “You do believe, though, that Will made improper advances to me. And he did not, Hal, that I swear, too, upon our son.”
“Marguerite, there is no need for this. I know Will would never betray me like that.”
Then why did you let him leave your court in disgrace? Marguerite did not voice the question, even though it burned on her tongue. Instead, she allowed herself to take a moment of comfort in her husband’s arms, clinging to him as her refuge in a world gone mad.
Hal kissed the tear tracks on her cheeks, murmuring love words and endearments. But after a time, he said, “Sweetheart, why did you not come to me about this? I never dreamed that you’d heard these vile rumors. Why did you not tell me?”
“Because I know you’ve been troubled and uneasy in your mind about something and I did not want to add to your worries,” she said, surprising herself by how readily the lie came to her lips. In truth, she’d been waiting for him to take action, to banish the culprits from his court, and she still did not understand why he’d not done that.
“Hal…if you believe Will to be innocent of these charges, why are you still so displeased with him? What has he done that you cannot forgive?”
“It is not important,” he insisted, and he sought to stop further questions with kisses. But for once, she was not as compliant. Stepping back, she searched his face intently and then repeated her question. Hal was momentarily at a loss. He did not like lying outright to her, considered that a more serious marital offense than lies of omission.
“Tell me,” she pleaded. “We promised there’d be no secrets between us, not like your parents. It has long been obvious to me that something is wrong, and I’ve been waiting for you to confide in me. I can wait no longer, Hal. I want to know now, tonight.”
He was both surprised and amused by her sudden assertiveness. But he was touched, too, and he realized that he did need to talk about his concerns. At least with Marguerite, he could rely upon her utter loyalty. Leading her over to the bed, he sat down with her, and after a brief hesitation, he began to speak. There was a relief in being able to speak candidly about his ambivalence, and he ended up telling her more than he’d initially intended. By the time he was done, she knew it all-the conspiracy with the lords of the Limousin and Poitou, the dazzling prospects offered by the capture of Aquitaine, his overtures to Geoffrey and her brother, Philippe, his temptations and his misgivings, even his chapel altercation with Richard.
“So,” he concluded, “now you know.” He waited expectantly, but she stayed silent, and her head was lowered, hiding her face from him. “Marguerite?”
“What do you want me to say?” When she glanced up at last, her eyes reminded him of the way Will had gazed at him in the hall, the silent reproach of a dog unable to understand why it had just been kicked. “Why, Hal, why must you risk so much?”
“Because there is so much to gain!” He was on his feet now, needing to move as he sought to deal with his disappointment. “You sound just like Will, but I expected better of you, Marguerite. You’re my wife, and if I cannot rely upon your heartfelt support, then I am truly alone midst my enemies!”
“Of course I support you! It is just that…that I fear for you, too, beloved.”
Her eyes were shimmering with tears, and he was quick to take her in his arms. They clung together with an urgency that revealed their shared misery more than words could have done, for they’d failed each other and on some level, they both understood that-Hal let down by her tepid response, Marguerite horrified by his intrigues and planned betrayals. Hastily shedding their clothes, they fell into bed. Their lovemaking was intense, ironically given an impassioned edginess by the very fears they were trying to escape. Afterward, Hal had no trouble sliding into an exhausted, sated sleep. Marguerite was not so lucky.
She lost track of the time, but she heard Hal’s squires enter and bed down, heard church bells pealing in the distance, heard dogs barking, all the familiar sounds of night. But there was nothing familiar about her world, not anymore. She gently stroked Hal’s tousled fair hair, and he murmured her name in his sleep, instinctively reaching out for her warmth and softness. Her throat was so tight that it hurt, for she was determined to choke back her tears. Oh, my beautiful boy, what have you done? She had no memories of a life without Hal. She still loved him dearly, would love him until she drew her last breath. But it was as if their roles had reversed, for she suddenly felt so much older and wiser than he. Watching him sleep, she found herself wondering if the Almighty, in His Infinite Wisdom, had taken her son because her husband would always be as he was now, a charming child adrift upon stormy seas.
A pallid winter dawn had not yet dispersed the night shadows, and a few stars still glimmered along the horizon. Because it was so early, the castle was not yet astir, and Will’s leavetaking was witnessed only by a small group of friends and a few sleepy-eyed guards. Baldwin de Bethune and Simon de Morisco were doing their best to act hearty and jovial, making bad jokes and pretending that this morn was no different from any number of past departures. Will appreciated the effort, just as he appreciated their attempts to reassure him that his future still shone brightly, that Christendom was full of lords eager to snap him up like a starving trout. The practical part of his nature knew that they were right; he’d have no trouble finding a place in another great household. But that knowledge did not blunt the sharp edges of his newfound awareness-that he was thirty-five years old, with no lands or wife, cast aside by the man who’d been his friend, his liege lord, his lodestar.
He was not going alone, accompanied by his squire, Eustace de Bertrimont, and a few fellow knights who’d pledged themselves to his banner when it was flying high and were unwilling to abandon him now that his luck had soured. As he looked about at these loyal men, he could not help remembering how proud he’d been the first time he’d fought in a tournament as a knight banneret, leading his own company of men. That had been at Lagny, the tourney held after the young French king’s coronation. Was that truly only two years past? It felt like a lifetime ago.
When his eyes began to burn, he awkwardly embraced his friends, submitted to their equally clumsy hugs, and swung up into the saddle. With their farewells echoing in his ears, he and his small party rode toward the gatehouse and out onto the drawbridge. The dawn continued to lighten, and a brisk wind sent clouds scudding across the sky. It would be a good day for travel. Spurring his stallion, he settled into an easy canter, not allowing himself to look back, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
January 1183
Le Mans, Anjou
Hal no longer had qualms about going ahead with the conspiracy. When he’d asked the Almighty for a divine sign, he’d not expected what he’d gotten. But the wrathful chapel altercation with his brother had dispelled his doubts. Aquitaine was worth fighting for, and Richard deserved to be defeated and shamed if any man did. Their father had to believe that Richard was the one in the wrong, though, if they hoped to keep him out of it, and so Hal was grateful for his brother’s fiery, impulsive nature. If Richard had been more calculating, he’d have said nothing until he’d assembled his proof and then set up an ambush. As it was, Hal had the opportunity to plan his own response, and by the time the confrontation came, he was ready for it.
Summoned to Henry’s bedchamber, he found his father and Richard waiting for him. Richard was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, looking both defiant and expectant. Henry shared none of his son’s anticipation; he looked tired and troubled. “Come in, Hal,” he said. “Your brother has made some grave accusations against you. For all our sakes, I hope he is mistaken. These charges are too serious, though, to be dismissed out of hand. I thought it best that we discuss this matter in private. But if there is truth to his claims…”
