a droll sense of humor. “I will submit to divine judgment upon Dies Irae as all good Christians must, and when I face the Great Creator, at least it will not be with the blood of a martyred archbishop upon my hands,” he snapped and shoved past the monk.
The chapel of Our Lady had been filled with pilgrims, but they were fleeing in panic before the routiers. Sancho grinned at Hal, holding up a hemp sack stuffed with silver plate, candlesticks, and chalices, all of which had proudly adorned the high altar. “We hit the mother lode this time,” he announced gleefully. “You’ll be able to hire a whole troop of routiers with what you’re getting today.”
“Need I remind you that this is a loan, not a treasure trove?” Hal said truculently, and then came to a halt, his eyes locking upon the Black Virgin. Carved of dark walnut, it dominated the chapel, conveying none of the mercy and grace associated with the gentle Mary. This was a stark, severe image, almost primitive in its austerity, as if harkening back to a time long lost in the mists of memory. That was such an odd, irreverent thought that Hal felt a sudden chill, much as he’d experienced in the church at Grandmont, and he abruptly abandoned his intention to offer the Mother of God a prayer of apology and explanation. Turning on his heel, he started to leave the chapel, signaling one of his knights to keep a sharp eye upon the routiers; they were not going to benefit personally from their plunder if he could help it.
He stopped, though, when Sancho called out, “Wait, my lord! Do you not want the sword of Roland?”
Hal spun around. He’d forgotten that the sword reputed to have been wielded by the legendary French hero was kept at Rocamadour. Retracing his steps, he took the weapon from Sancho, his fingers lingering upon the blade as if it were a holy relic. “Durandal,” he said softly. “That is what he named it.”
Sancho no more believed this was Roland’s sword than he believed in the bona fides of all those fragments of the True Cross; he’d once taken part in a scheme to dupe gullible pilgrims into making offerings at a manger said to contain some of the holy straw that had cradled the Christ Child. This experience had convinced him that people were as simple as sheep, and he included Hal in the flock. He was in good spirits, though, for they were all going to profit handsomely from their haul at Rocamadour, and in truth, he felt a little sorry for this pampered young lordling. If a man was going to follow the brigand’s road, he ought to enjoy it, and from what he could tell, Hal had less joy in his life than these shriveled, stiff-necked Black Monks.
“Why not take it?” he suggested, seeing how Hal was caressing the sword with his eyes. The lad might as well be hung for a goat as a sheep, he thought, and managed to keep himself from slapping Hal on the back when the young king unsheathed his own weapon, then reverently slid the celebrated sword of Roland into his scabbard.
The walled town of Martel was only eight miles north of Rocamadour, and Hal heaved a sigh of relief when its seven towers finally came into view. His abdominal cramps had gotten more severe, and by the time they reached Martel, his bowels had become so loose that he’d had to make several quick stops by the side of the road. Colic and diarrhea were such common ailments, though, that the teasing he had to endure was offhand, and he was thankful for that; he’d always prided himself on his sense of humor, but this spring it had definitely begun to unravel around the edges.
They were lodging in a fortified manor house in the center of town; known as the Maison Fabri, it was a substantial stone three-story building overlooking the marketplace. Once Etienne de Fabri had escorted Hal up to the best bedchamber, he wasted no time in stripping off his hauberk and soiled clothes, then ordered a bath. He felt a little better once he was clean, but his stomach roiled at the mere thought of food, and he settled instead for wine flavored with comfrey root, a reliable remedy for his malady. Lying back on the bed, he soon fell asleep.
When he awoke, he was momentarily disoriented, not remembering where he was. “God help me,” he groaned, “if it is morning already,” and his squires responded with laughter.
“Nay, my lord. Dawn is hours away. But you have a visitor.”
Hal squinted up at them in disbelief. “There is only one person in the world I am that eager to see. So unless you’ve awakened me to welcome my queen, the pair of you will need to find a new lord on the morrow.”
They greeted that sally with even louder laughter, and Hal sat up with another groan, thinking that he must teach his household to take his mock threats more seriously, but knowing he would not, for he’d realized very early in life that he’d much rather be loved than feared. “I am awake…I think. Just who is this distinguished guest worthy of disturbing my sleep?”
“Sir Baldwin de Bethune and Sir Hugh de Hamelincourt, my liege.”
Hal smiled, for both knights were friends as well as liegemen, and it pleased him greatly that they had responded so promptly to his summons. “Well, send them in,” he said and winked at his squire. “You’ve been reprieved, Benoit, need not seek a new lord, after all.”
Benoit was beaming. “They were not traveling alone, my lord,” he said, and nodded to the other squire, who swung the door open wide.
Hal caught his breath as Will Marshal entered the chamber, flanked by Baldwin and Hugh. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he started to get to his feet, and was startled when the room began to spin. He grabbed for the closest arm, and it was only after he’d straightened up that he saw it was Will’s. The other men had discreetly withdrawn, leaving them alone.
“The sight of you gladdens my eyes,” Hal said huskily, “indeed it does.”
“Sit back on the bed, my liege. I was told you’d been ailing?”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Hal assured him, but took Will’s advice and sat down again. “Germany must have agreed with you,” he joked, “for you are looking sleek and well fed.”
Will could not return the compliment, for Hal had lost so much weight that his cheekbones stood out in sharp prominence, making him look almost gaunt, and his fair skin was splotched with hectic color. “Let me get you some wine,” he said and busied himself in pouring drinks for them both, using that time to disguise his concern.
“So…” Hal said happily, “you decided you did not need that safe conduct after all.”
Will blinked in surprise. “I have one, my liege. Your lord father was good enough to grant it.”
Hal’s mouth dropped open. “You are serious? Jesus wept, if that is not just like my father! He has his bishops cast me out into eternal darkness and then he gives you permission to fight with me.”
Will handed him a cup, his eyes searching Hal’s face. “You were not excommunicated. The old king instructed the bishops to pass sentence upon all the men who’d stirred up dissension between the two of you, but he told them not to include you in the damnation.”
“For true, Will?” Hal had not realized how nervous he was until that fear was suddenly lifted. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, and then grinned. “No, I guess now I will not! What about Geoffrey? Was he spared, too?”
“I do not know,” Will admitted. Reaching into his tunic, he drew forth two sealed parchments. “The French king gave me this for you, my lord. And this one is from your lady, Queen Marguerite.” His eyes met Hal’s levelly, but Hal did not take up the challenge; he was the first to look away.
Hal could feel heat rising in his face, heat that had nothing to do with his fever. An awkward silence fell. What did Will want? An apology? Fair enough if it would mend this rift between them. “I am sorry,” he said carefully, “for any misunderstandings we may have had. I want us to put the past behind us, Will, to start anew. Can we do that?”
This was, Will realized, as close to an apology as he was going to get. “Yes, my liege,” he said quietly, “we can do that,” and was rewarded with a radiant smile, the smile of the young lord he’d loved and tutored and protected for so many years.
Hal got to his feet again, somewhat unsteadily, and embraced the older man. “Welcome back, Will,” he said, and laughed joyfully. “Welcome home.”
Hal had reluctantly agreed to spend the next day in bed, but that night he insisted upon joining the others in the great hall. A hunting party had been successful, and they were able to feast on venison, washing it down with prodigious amounts of wine. Hal merely pushed the meat around on his trencher, but he drained his wine cup often and discovered that it was as effective a restorative as comfrey root. The other men were drinking freely, too, and the atmosphere in the hall soon became boisterous and rowdy.
Will Marshal was one of the few who stayed completely sober. At Hal’s insistence, he’d eaten with them at the high table, but once the dishes were cleared off and the tables removed, he slipped away and sat down inconspicuously in a window-seat, where he was soon joined by Peter Fitz Guy and Baldwin de Bethune. Without speaking, they watched the antics upon the dais, where Hal was bantering with Duke Hugh and Count Raimon. Hal
