been found, and the bishop insisted upon taking them himself. “I’ve never had so exalted a scribe…” Hal whispered, and as the bishop bent forward to hear him, he tried to tell Bertrand what he wanted to say, but the words would not come and he looked at the older man imploringly.
“We could begin with a quote from Scriptures,” the bishop suggested, and when Hal nodded, he paused to think of an appropriate verse. “ Remember not the sins of my youth, or my transgressions. What would you say then, my lord?”
Will was holding a cup to Hal’s lips. He swallowed with an effort, saying, “Tell him that I am so sorry for letting him down…that I was a bad son and a bad king…” Will tilted the cup for him again, and his voice steadied somewhat. “Tell him of my love. Entreat him to forgive my mother, not to blame her for my sins…Marguerite, ask him to provide liberally for my wife…And to pardon my allies, to blame no one but me…my brother, Viscount Aimar, and the good people of Limoges…I beg him to make restitution to the abbeys I plundered…I stole from God, am so sorry…ask him to provide for my knights…to make right my wrongs…”
Doubting that he had the strength to continue, the bishop said soothingly, “Very well done, my liege. I have it all, every word. It wants only your seal. I can say with certainty that your lord father will be proud you have shown such heartfelt repentance for your sins.”
Hal was not through. “I want to be buried…at the Church of the Blessed Mary in Rouen. If only my father could pay my debts…” They thought he was done speaking then, but he added, so softly he could barely be heard, “So many regrets, so many…”
The bishop’s vision was blurring with tears, and as he looked up, he saw that the other men were weeping, too. Will leaned over and gently pressed his lips to Hal’s feverish forehead. At the touch, Hal’s eyes opened again. “Will,” he said drowsily, “so glad you came…” He seemed at peace for the first time, and Will sought to console himself with that. But then Hal’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Jesu! Durandal…”
Will and Baldwin exchanged bewildered looks, having no idea what he was talking about. Peter did, though, and he said swiftly, “You need not fret, my lord king. We will see that it is returned, I promise.”
Hal’s lips twitched in what was almost a smile. “Good lad…I’d not want the Lord Roland to think me a thief…” His voice trailed off, his lashes fluttering down again, and after that there was quiet in the chamber, his knights wiping away their tears as they watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, counting the breaths that were so tenuous each one seemed likely to be his last.
Saturday was market day in Martel, and Amand’s tavern would usually be doing a brisk business. Not this Saturday. The locals were staying at home behind locked doors, almost as if the town had been invaded by a pack of hungry wolves. Amand supposed that, in a way, they had, for the young king’s routiers were always on the prowl for prey. He had just decided to lock up and go home when the door banged open and some of those God-cursed coterels swaggered in. His stomach, delicate in the best of circumstances, lurched and he had to swallow the aftertaste of his morning’s breakfast, but he managed a sickly smile and gave Modette a push when she did not move.
Glaring at him resentfully, she waited till Sancho and his companions seated themselves at a trestle table facing the door. When they ordered wine, Amand hurried over to pour from one of the large casks and sent the reluctant Modette back with four full henaps, praying that these dangerous customers would drink and depart without smashing up the place, maltreating Modette, and stealing his meager profits, but not expecting to be so lucky.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sancho told the sullen serving maid, for flirting was an ingrained habit with him, even when he was in a sour mood, as he definitely was this noon. It was bad enough that the royal whelp was dying, but he was dying deeply in debt, and some of those deniers ought to have been theirs. Not only were they not going to be paid, but the war would likely sputter to a halt now that the rebels no longer had Hal to rally around. It had occurred to Sancho that with the dying king’s knights so busy mourning his approaching death, it would be an opportune time to help himself to whatever was left of their Rocamadour booty. But that had occurred to Couraban, too, and the hellspawn had beaten him to it, riding off yesterday with the last of their abbey plunder.
The men with him were his trusted lieutenants, forming the core of a band he’d led for several years, and he could be more candid with them than with the rest of their company, so they were aware of their financial woes. They did not appear overly concerned, though, for they had confidence in Sancho’s cunning and were sure he’d come up with something.
When Pere said as much, Sancho shrugged off the compliment, but he never took their support for granted. They were a motley lot, he supposed, for they did not even have a shared language. He and his cousin Ander were Basques, Pere was a Catalan, Gerhard a Fleming, and Jago…God alone knew what mongrel blood ran in that one’s veins; most likely his own mother had not known. But what they had in common was stronger than their differences, for they were Ishmaels, condemned to live on the fringes of society, scorned even by the same lords who paid for their services. This hostility had forged a strong sense of solidarity, an us-versus-them mentality that often stood them in good stead. Sancho knew, though, that their loyalty depended upon his ability to produce, to keep their ventures profitable, and Hal’s death was undeniably a setback.
A squeal from Modette interrupted his brooding. She’d brought more wine to their table and Gerhard’s arm now snaked around her waist, pulling her down onto his lap. The other men paid her no heed as she squirmed to free herself, her eyes narrowing to slits when his hand groped under her skirt. Just then Ander entered the tavern, though, and she took advantage of Gerhard’s momentary distraction to slip from his grasp, hastily putting distance between them as Amand looked on in dismay, fearing she’d expect him to speak up for her. Modette knew better, though, than to depend upon that frail reed, and impaling him with a contemptuous look, she began to back toward the door leading into their storeroom.
She had some good fortune then, in a life that had been singularly lacking in it. Ander brought news they found so interesting that she was forgotten, even by Gerhard. Pulling up a stool, Ander yelled to Amand for wine before saying, “Well, you missed quite a show, mates. I am surprised they did not charge admission, it was that good.”
“I take it the royal whelp is not dead yet?”
“He is still clinging to life like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. But to give the lad credit, he is going out in a blaze of glory. He began by confessing again, first in private to the bishops and then in public to anyone who cared to listen. I sidled in at the back, having never heard a royal confession. I have to say it was a great disappointment. He seems to have lived a very dull life, for he had no truly interesting sins to disavow, mainly boring misdeeds like betraying his old man and harrying monks and the like.”
“You’re being too hard on him, Ander,” Jago protested. “Naturally you’d find his transgressions tiresome when compared to yours. You’ll never find a priest corrupt enough or drunk enough to absolve you of your sins, but the rest of us do what we can.”
Ander dug Jago in the ribs with his elbow, but Sancho put a stop to the horseplay before it could escalate. “That does not sound like much of a ‘show’ to me-a dying man confessing to tedious sins.”
“Ah, but he was only getting started. Next he insisted that they garb him in a hair-shirt. Damned if I know where they found one. That bunch does not seem likely to carry hairshirts in their saddle bags, do they?”
“They must have borrowed Gerhard’s,” Pere gibed, and the Fleming kicked him under the table, but missed and got Ander instead.
“Swine,” Ander said, without heat. “I am not done yet, you cocksuckers. The fool then had them put a noose around his neck and pull him from his bed onto the floor and over to a bed of ashes he’d ordered them to make.”
This was met with exclamations and expressions of disbelief, but Sancho came to his cousin’s defense. “I believe it,” he said. “Our young princeling has quite a liking for high drama. It would not be enough for him to repent. He’d have to be the most remorseful penitent since Cain wailed that his punishment was more than he could bear.”
Gossip had it that Sancho was a renegade cleric and although he’d never confirmed it, the rumors persisted. This display of familiarity with Scriptures was too tempting an opportunity to resist and they began to heckle him with cries of “Father Sancho,” while Ander appropriated Pere’s henap and drained it in several gulps.
“Oh, and the Duke of Burgundy is making ready to depart,” he said casually, for he knew this was hardly newsworthy. The Count of Toulouse had ridden off the day before, and they’d known it was only a matter of time before Burgundy abandoned the sinking ship, too.
