we may have to sneak out in the middle of the night,” he said, only half joking, for he could see Richard and Geoff locking Henry in his chamber rather than let him risk his life and his kingdom on Hal’s word of honor.
“ We? Take care with your pronouns, Ranulf, lest you find yourself accompanying me to Martel,” Henry said dryly, and was surprised when his uncle smiled.
“I will go with you, Harry-if you answer one question. Can you honestly tell me that you have no doubts or suspicions about the truth of Hal’s story?”
Several tall candles burned on the high altar, and Ranulf thought he caught the glimmer of tears in his nephew’s eyes. Henry did not reply, and they both knew that was an answer in and of itself.
Ranulf had gone back to the bishop’s hall to tell the others that Henry would not be taking Hal’s bait, not this time. Henry was never to know how long he remained alone in the church. Until this June evening at Limoges, he would have said that the most despairing, desperate moment of his life had been passed at Canterbury, kneeling before Thomas Becket’s tomb. Now he knew better. Eventually one of the canons appeared, coming to a sudden stop as soon as he saw the motionless figure of the king. Before he could retreat, Henry beckoned him forward, giving a terse one-sentence command that sent the man hastening out into the night.
The Bishop of Agen did not keep Henry waiting long. “Sire? How may I be of service? Is it your wish that we pray together?”
Henry doubted that he had God’s Ear these days, but he kept that blasphemous thought to himself. “I have another mission in mind for you, my lord bishop. I want you to ride to Martel at first light, see for yourself if my son is ailing. And if you find…if you find that it is true, tell him for me that he has my forgiveness, that he has my love.”
The bishop inclined his head, feeling so much pity for the English king that he was momentarily mute. Henry didn’t notice. Tugging at a ring on his finger, he pulled it free and pressed it into the bishop’s hand. “Give him this. It was my grandfather’s, passed on to me by my mother when I was invested as Duke of Normandy. Hal will recognize it as mine.”
“It will be done, my lord king,” the bishop said quietly. But as he withdrew, he was struck by a disconcerting thought. Whatever he found in Martel, he would be bringing grievous news back to the king. What would be worse- that Hal was truly on his deathbed or that once again he’d taken shameless advantage of his father’s trust, exploiting his love to lure him into a lethal trap?
Hal continued to grow weaker, but his knights were convinced he would cling to life until he could make peace with his father, for now that he no longer feared eternal damnation, he was obsessed with righting the wrongs he’d done, especially to Henry. In a way, this was a mercy, for he was so concerned with making amends and making a “good death” that he’d not had time to mourn all that he was losing. A man who’d lived utterly for the pleasures of today with nary a thought for the morrow was now consumed with regrets, able to focus only upon his yearnings for salvation and forgiveness, and his friends prayed fervently that he would obtain both.
Will was not alone in thinking it unlikely that Henry would come, and as the hours slid by, they were finding it harder and harder to maintain a cheerful pose in Hal’s presence, to keep his hopes alive even as his body wasted away. He was displaying a single-minded resolve that he’d never shown before; he’d worked out in his mind how long it should take Rob to reach Limoges and then to return with Henry, and when Friday dawned, his eagerness was painful for the other men to watch.
Rob arrived as Vespers was chiming in the town churches. So guilt-stricken did he feel that he’d been tempted to take his time on his return trip, rationalizing that he’d be sparing Hal great pain as well as himself. Was it not better for Hal to die still hoping for reconciliation than to know his father had not believed him? But he continued to spur his horse onward, driven by a sense of duty that was stronger even than his sorrow. When he dismounted before the Fabri manor, he was mobbed by the other knights. But after one look at his haggard face, they asked no questions. The king would not be coming. Did it matter why?
To their surprise and relief, Hal seemed to take the news better than they did. He listened without speaking as Rob stammered and stuttered and tried to put the best possible face upon Henry’s refusal, and then he said softly, “It would have taken Merlin to make it happen, Rob. Do not blame yourself.”
Will was not fooled, though, by Hal’s composure, and when Hal then whispered for his ears alone, “I did not deserve his forgiveness,” the older man could not bear it and, excusing himself, started for the stables, determined to ride to Limoges himself. When Baldwin and Peter learned of his intent, though, they were able to talk him out of it by pointing out that it was too late. Even if Will could somehow convince the king, Hal would be dead long before they could get back to Martel. For Will, it was the worst moment of a wretched week. He was naturally a man of action, and he was finding it intolerable to watch helplessly as the young king’s earthly hours trickled away like sands in an hourglass. But he must be at Hal’s deathbed, for it was the last service he could perform for his lord.
Hal had been sincere when he said he did not deserve forgiveness; there could be few epiphanies as dramatic as one brought about by the awareness of impending death. But no matter how often he told himself that his punishment was just and fitting, he was anguished by his father’s rejection. If the man he’d finally become in the last week of his life could try to accept Henry’s judgment, the boy he’d always been cried out for mercy, needing his father to bring light into the encroaching darkness of his world, to say he understood and the slate of his misdeeds was wiped clean-just as he’d done time and time again.
When Will burst into the chamber and saw Hal lying so still, his eyes flew to the dying man’s chest, holding his own breath until he reassured himself that Hal still breathed. Baldwin and Peter were keeping watch, and they started to warn him to be quiet, grateful that Hal seemed to be sleeping at last. Will ignored them and leaned over the bed. “My liege, a messenger has just ridden in, sent by your lord father!”
Hal’s lashes flickered. “Truly?”
“It is Bertrand de Berceyras, the Bishop of Agen, and his escort, the Count of Perche.” Will glanced at Simon and jerked his head toward the door. The knight hurried to open it and ushered the men into the chamber. They both came to an abrupt halt when Will shifted, giving them their first look at Hal. That was all it took to banish their suspicions, doubts, and misgivings.
Rotrou of Perche was particularly remorseful, for he’d been one of Hal’s allies during the first rebellion, and when his eyes met Hal’s, he flushed. Hal acknowledged their past with a wan smile. “Who’d have thought, Rotrou, that I’d get to Hell ere you did?” As the bishop approached, he said hastily, “That was a joke, my lord…and a bad one. Have…have you really come from my father?”
“Indeed, my liege.” Bishop Bertrand was so shaken by Hal’s shocking decline that he unfastened his own paternoster from his belt and placed it on the pillow next to Hal, then reached out and took the young king’s hot, dry hand in his. “King Henry bade me tell you that he freely and gladly grants you full forgiveness for your sins, and that he has never ceased to love you.”
Hal’s lashes swept down, shadowing his cheeks like fans as tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, although the bishop was not sure if it was meant for him, for Henry, or for the Almighty.
“I bring more than words,” he said and, taking a small leather pouch from around his neck, he shook out a sapphire ring set in beaten gold. He started to tell Hal that this was Henry’s ring, but saw there was no need, for Hal could not have shown more reverence if he’d produced a holy relic.
“He does forgive me, then!” he cried and gave the bishop such a dazzling smile that for a moment the ravages of his illness were forgotten and they could almost believe this was the young king of cherished memory, the golden boy more beautiful than a fallen angel, able to ensnare hearts with such dangerous ease. Then the illusion passed and they were looking at a man gaunt, hollow-eyed, suffering, and all too mortal. Too weak to do it himself, Hal looked entreatingly at the bishop, saying, “Please…”
When the bishop slid the ring onto his finger, he smiled again and closed his eyes. A hush settled over the chamber. The bishop directed an urgent low-voiced question to Will, and sighed with relief when Will assured him that Hal had been shriven by the Bishop of Cahors and that he’d made his last testament, for that was every Christian’s duty.
Death seemed very close to them at that moment. But then Hal opened his eyes and said faintly, “I would send a letter…my father…” And that spurred them all into action. Within moments, pen, ink, and parchment had
