But for Sancho, this information was quite interesting. He’d been playing around with an idea, not sure if it was feasible. But it would require Burgundy’s departure for it to work. He wondered if he ought to confide in the others, then decided no, not yet. He’d take a little more time to think it over and then give them the good news that their prospects were not quite as bleak as they thought.
Hal’s friends knew he must be in acute discomfort, lying on the hard floor in a bed of ashes and cinders, and they were both awed and proud of him for making such a spectacular gesture of atonement. As the hours dragged by, he dozed fitfully, occasionally murmuring in his sleep. Once Will thought he said his wife’s name, but he couldn’t be sure. He was sitting cross-legged in the floor rushes by Hal’s side, with Peter and Rob keeping vigil nearby. Baldwin was slumped in the window-seat and Simon was trying vainly to console Benoit; the boy was huddled in Hal’s bed, his eyes so swollen with tears that he could barely see. Etienne de Fabri appeared from time to time, offering drinks and food that the knights always refused, for it did not seem right that they should enjoy what Hal was denying himself.
Hal stirred when bells chimed for None somewhere in the town, and Will at once leaned over to dribble a few drops of water upon his lips, the only liquid Hal would accept. As their eyes met, the corner of Hal’s mouth curved. “Sorry…” he whispered, “to take so scandalously…long to die. Geoff would say I’d be late…for my own funeral…”
That was too much for Rob and, choking back a sob, he fled. The others were ashamed to admit they, too, yearned to bolt, for the very air seemed oppressive, so saturated with sorrow that they felt as if they were breathing in tears. Seeing that Hal wanted to speak again, Will moved closer to catch his words.
“So much to regret…especially that I am…am making Richard king.” Hal tried to smile. “Could say it…it is killing me…”
“That is a very bad joke,” Will said thickly. Hal’s death would have repercussions that would echo from one end of the Angevin empire to the other, but he was not ready to think about that yet. For now the world had shrunk to the confines of this bedchamber, and time could be measured only by the faint beats of Hal’s heart.
When Hal drew a ragged breath, Will braced himself for the death rattle. But the younger man’s eyes were suddenly filled with urgency. “Cloak…” he mumbled, “fetch it…”
The men looked at one another in confusion. It was only when Hal said “cross” that they understood. Peter and Baldwin rooted around frantically in a coffer of his clothes until they found what he wanted, the mantle sewn with a blood-red crusader’s cross. They handed it to Will and he knelt, draped it around Hal like a blanket. Hal’s eyes traced the outlines of that crimson cross and he felt a surge of shame. He’d taken the cross so lightly, had sworn to go to the Holy Land more to vex his father than to honor the Almighty, and it seemed symbolic to him of a misspent life, yet another regret to take to his grave.
After a few moments, he indicated he wanted Will to remove the cloak. “Will…I entreat you…pay my debt to God…take it to the Holy Sepulcher for me…”
He’d just asked Will to make a pilgrimage on his behalf to Jerusalem, but the knight did not hesitate. “I would be honored, my liege, and shall do it gladly.”
A smile flitted across Hal’s lips. Summoning up the last of his strength, he moved his hand so that he could see the sapphire ring upon his finger, blessed token of his father’s forgiveness. “Remember me…” he said, as softly as a breath, and after that he did not speak again.
The man who would be known to history as the young king died at twilight on Saturday, the eleventh of June, on the festival of the blessed St Barnabas the Apostle. But the drama surrounding his death was just beginning.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
June 1183
Martel, Limousin
Will stumbled down to the great hall the next morning feeling as if he was coming off a three-day drunk. He’d slept badly, could not get rid of a sour taste in his mouth, and for once his celebrated appetite was flagging. He forced himself to eat some cheese and bread, though, for he knew it would be a long, difficult day. When the other knights came over to join him, he saw that they looked no better than he felt-their eyes bloodshot and bleary, their faces either abnormally pallid or oddly flushed-and it occurred to him that men could indeed get drunk on grief.
He was not surprised when they told him that the Bishop of Agen and Count Rotrou had departed, for a king’s death was like a sunset, and even his most loyal subjects would instinctively have their eyes already on the eastern horizon, anticipating the coming dawn. He was sorry to hear it, though, for he suspected they were in dire need of money, and they could have asked the bishop or the count for a loan. Peter and Rob soon confirmed his suspicions, reporting that Couraban had stolen the last of the spoils taken from Rocamadour, and they’d be lucky if they could scrape up enough to distribute the traditional alms expected when a highborn lord died.
Will could not regret the loss, for to use such ill-gotten gains for a noble purpose was still sacrilege in his uncompromising eyes. “We need to make plans,” he said, knowing that the burden of dealing with Hal’s death was going to fall squarely upon his shoulders. “I think we ought to take Hal to the monks at Grandmont. They can make his body ready for burial. After the king is notified, we can then take him to Rouen as he wished.”
It made sense to turn to the monks, and if they took a grim satisfaction in undertaking funeral preparations for the man who’d plundered their monastery, they’d earned that right. The knights were looking at Will with puzzlement, though, voiced by Simon when he repeated, “Notify the king? Surely the Bishop of Agen will do that?”
Will marveled at the naivete of the question, and Baldwin gave a derisive snort, saying, “Oh, yes, I am sure he’ll not spare his horse to be the first to tell the king. ‘Sire, I know I did my best to convince you that your son was lying, but it seems I was mistaken. Sorry, he really was ill, after all. And…well, he died.’”
Baldwin had just made a very effective argument for the bishop’s taking as long as possible to reach Limoges. No one volunteered to bear the news to the old king, though, and Will sighed. He was no more eager than any of them to face Henry, but he feared this duty would end up in his lap, too.
“Master de Fabri will know who can best do what…what must be done ere we leave Martel,” he said bleakly. He did not even want to think about the mutilation of Hal’s body-the removal of his eyes, brains, and entrails, the use of salt and spices to delay putrefaction long enough to reach Rouen. He knew the Church dwelt upon the corrupt nature of mortal flesh so that all good Christians would remember that nothing mattered but their eternal souls. That body above-stairs looked too much like the young king he’d served, though, for him to view it as just a husk to be discarded now that it was no longer needed.
Wishing fervently for enough wine to drown all memories of this week of horrors, Will got slowly to his feet, saying, “We’d best see about-” He stopped abruptly, then, at the sight of the men swaggering into the hall. Why were Sancho de Savannac and his cutthroats still here? That made no sense, and he did not like it, did not like it at all.
“Good morrow,” Sancho said cheerfully. He was accompanied by his chief henchmen, but as he approached, Will saw more of the routiers entering the hall behind him. Will had hung his scabbard on the back of a chair, and a quick scrutiny of his companions showed that most of them were not armed yet, either.
Acknowledging the outlaw tersely, Will started to move past him, saying that he had much to do. He was not surprised when Sancho barred his way. “You can spare a few moments for me, Sir William. We have a pressing matter to discuss. The young king, may God assoil him, died deeply in debt, alas, owing us a large sum of money.”
“You profited handsomely from your service to the king,” Rob said harshly. From the corner of his eye, Will saw that he and Baldwin were on their feet, too. Several of?
Etienne de Fabri’s servants had been moving about the hall, but they now showed the heightened awareness of prey animals and made an inconspicuous, speedy withdrawal.
“Not as handsomely as we were promised.” In answering Rob, Sancho kept his gaze unblinkingly upon Will. “But I am a reasonable man, do not want to add to your burdens in the midst of your mourning. I am willing to
