when he yearned to quote Scriptures that could assuage Hal’s fear. Fortunately, even though he’d never been able to read the Holy Writ, he did have an excellent memory and could remember enough to paraphrase with reasonable accuracy. “The Lord God will not turn His Face away from you if you return to Him.” Will forced a smile. “Holy Writ says there is great joy in Heaven over even one sinner who repents.”
Tears welled in Hal’s eyes. “When I thought that salvation would be denied me and that it was all my doing…” He shuddered, but he no longer sounded like a man sure he was doomed. “Fetch me a priest, Will, so I may be shriven.”
Will managed another smile even as his own eyes filled with tears. “You need not settle for a priest, lad. You have a bishop at your beck and call. Bishop Gerald of Cahors rode in an hour ago. Shall I summon him now?”
“Please.” Hal was suddenly terrified that he might die before he could confess his sins. But he still called Will back as he reached the door. “Will…I must see my father ere I die, must tell him how sorry I am…”
Will doubted that Henry would come, not after being shot at twice under flags of truce. But he was not going to rob Hal of the smallest sliver of hope, and he said, as confidently as he could, “We shall send a man to Limoges straightaway.” Once he was out in the stairwell, though, he sagged against the wall, feeling as if his bones were suddenly made of sawdust, incapable of supporting his weight, much less his grief.
Alfonso, the young king of Aragon, had arrived to assist Richard and Henry in fighting the Limousin rebels and his personal bete noire, the Count of Toulouse. Daylight held sway well into the evening on summer nights, and Richard took Alfonso to see Aixe, the castle now garrisoned by rebels.
“We’ll lay siege to it on the morrow,” he said, “and if they balk at surrender, God may pardon their sins, but I will not.”
Alfonso smiled, thinking that Richard had changed little since their first meeting at Limoges, ten long years ago. He was still as decisive and confident as ever. “I can see,” he joked, “why your men call you Richard Yea or Nay, for you’re never one to dither at crossroads, are you?”
Richard glanced at him in surprise; he’d not known he’d been given that nickname. He was not displeased, though, thinking there were far worse things a man could be called. He’d begun to suggest unflattering nicknames for his elder brother-Sir Spendthrift and Lord Lies a Lot among the least insulting-when a scout sounded the alarm.
“A horseman is coming, my lord, riding like he’s escaping from Hell!”
To Alfonso’s amusement, Richard at once swung onto his stallion and rode out to intercept this mystery rider. He mounted with less haste and followed after his friend. By now the horseman was within recognition range and after a moment, Alfonso identified him as the old king’s chancellor and natural son, whom he’d met just hours ago at the cite. Pebbles and dirt flew everywhere as Geoff reined in his mount. The animal was streaked with lather and Alfonso braced for bad news, knowing that Richard’s brother would not push a horse like this unless the message he bore was urgent.
Richard had reached the same conclusion. “What has happened now?” he asked warily, for lately the war had not been going well. He’d chased Geoffrey’s routiers out of Poitou into Brittany, but his duchy was still infested with these vermin, some hired by the French king and the rebel lords, others freelancing, and the arrival of the Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Toulouse threatened to tip the balance in their favor.
“You’ll not believe Hal’s latest knavery!” Richard was accustomed to Geoff waxing indignant about their brother, but he’d never seen him so outraged; he was literally shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “He sent a man to our father tonight, claiming that he is dying and pleading that Papa come to Martel and forgive him ere he does!”
Richard’s jaw dropped, and his indrawn breath was audible enough for Alfonso to hear. Many considered it shocking and even sacrilegious that Henry dared to swear upon the Almighty, God’s Bones being one of his favorite oaths. The holy body part that Richard now blurted out was so scandalous that Alfonso did not know whether to laugh or move out of range. It was obvious, though, that Richard’s blasphemy was involuntary; he looked as if he’d been pole-axed.
“Every time I think that whoreson has gone as low as he can,” Richard spat, “he finds a shovel and keeps digging!”
“You have not heard the worst of it yet. Papa wants to go to Martel!”
“Then he is not just in his dotage, he is stark, raving mad!”
Richard wasted no more time questioning his father’s sanity, took off in a cloud of dust, with Geoff right behind him. By now Alfonso’s men had caught up with him; they’d been alarmed to have their lord and the duke ride off like that. They were further puzzled to see Richard already disappearing in the distance, with his own knights scrambling to keep pace, but their king did not appear to be perturbed by these odd events. When they reined in and asked him if all was well, Alfonso assured them it was and then grinned.
“It seems we are returning to Limoges,” he said. “It should be an interesting evening.”
Richard found the situation at the Bishop of Limoges’s palace was not as dire as he’d feared, for he did not lack for allies. In fact, the one without allies was Henry; he was facing unanimous opposition from kinsmen, friends, barons, and bishops. Ranulf, Richard, and Geoff presented a united family front. Willem and Maurice de Craon and Rotrou, Count of Perche, were adamantly opposed to his going to Martel, too. The newly arrived Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishops of Angers and Agen were also lined up against Henry. The only one holding his peace was Sebran Chabot, their host; he’d been embroiled in a contentious dispute with Henry and Richard upon his election to the bishopric of Limoges several years ago and thought the iced-over breach with his duke and king was too fragile to test.
As was his wont, Richard seized control and launched into a passionate assault upon Hal’s tattered credibility. He demanded to hear this “dunghill of lies” with his own ears and Robert de Tresgoz was ushered back into the bishop’s great hall. At the very sight of the Norman knight, Richard burst out into scornful laughter.
“Well, well, if it is not one of Hal’s pet lapdogs! They’d have done better to send a priest, but after the raids on St Martial’s, Grandmont, and Rocamadour, even Hal’s own chaplain has likely taken to his heels.”
Rob was enraged to be dismissed so disdainfully, but his anger was muted by exhaustion, for he’d covered more than seventy-five miles in less than two days. “I am speaking God’s Truth,” he insisted. “The young king was stricken with the bloody flux, and he is not expected to recover.” But to his despair, he saw that his words were echoing into a void; no one was paying him any heed and he was ushered out again, knowing that he had failed Hal in his moment of greatest need.
Henry had lapsed into silence as the argument raged around him, no longer attempting to rebut the objections coming fast and furious from his two sons; with fine teamwork, Richard and Geoff were taking turns reminding him of that arrow deflected by his hauberk, the death of his stallion outside the walls of the ville, the ambush upon Maurice de Craon, the treacherous assault upon his envoys by Geoffrey’s men, the lies, the betrayals, the numerous breaches of trust.
It was Henry’s uncharacteristic reticence that attracted Ranulf’s attention. When had Harry ever been passive in the face of defiance? Why was he even bothering to hear them out if he was set upon trusting his faithless son yet again? And then Ranulf understood. Harry was not free of doubts, either. Once more he found his head warring with his heart. And with that realization, Ranulf saw a path opening up through this maze.
“My liege, may I have a moment alone with you?” he asked, and while Richard and Geoff seemed reluctant to trust Henry out of their sight, the others took hope from this, for all knew that if any man could get through to the king, it would be his uncle. Henry seized upon the opportunity to escape his sons’ hectoring and led Ranulf out into the garth.
Twilight was laying claim to the cite, and the sky was a deepening shade of lavender, spangled with stars and fleecy clouds the color of plums. It was such a beautiful summer evening that Ranulf and Henry walked in silence for several moments, as if reluctant to sully this hallowed peace with the feuding and bad faith of mortal men. Without speaking, they crossed the garth and, by common consent, entered a side door of the cathedral. It was empty save for a lone canon, who discreetly disappeared when Henry frowned in his direction. Pacing up the nave, they halted at last in front of the high altar, and only then did Henry look challengingly at the older man.
“You cannot tell me, Uncle, that you would not go to Morgan if you received such a message.”
“Yes, I would go,” Ranulf admitted, but refrained from pointing out that Morgan had never given him reason to distrust his word, for he knew that his nephew was painfully aware of his son’s failings. “If you do go to Martel,
