settle for a smaller amount. Pay us one hundred marks and we’ll consider the debt paid in full.”
There were indignant exclamations from the knights. Will shrugged. “You might as well ask for a thousand marks. We do not even have the money between us to pay for a Requiem Mass.”
“That is a pity,” Sancho said, shaking his head in feigned regret. “I suppose there is only one fair way to handle this, then. You will remain as our guest, Sir William, whilst your friends raise the money. Once it is paid, off you go with our blessings.”
Will studied the routiers with narrowed eyes, not liking the odds. Sancho’s cousin Ander and his lackeys Jago, Pere, and Gerhart had begun to fan out purposefully, hands on sword hilts. Even more troubling, other routiers had continued to saunter into the hall. Simon, always hot-headed, did not help matters then by calling Sancho a “lowborn churl” and declaring that they’d never agree to such brazen extortion.
Sancho’s smile was toothy, mocking, and sharp with menace. “Now, lad, let’s not be hasty. We know that you’re all redoubtable knights, celebrated on the tournament circuit. You ought to keep in mind, though, that we’ve bloodied our swords a time or two ourselves. And you might want to do a head count whilst you’re at it.”
Will was glad to see Baldwin and Roger were restraining Simon from doing anything mad. He’d made a quick assessment of their chances, concluding that resistance was not an option. They’d have to bluff Sancho into backing down.
“How does it serve your purposes,” he said coolly, “if we all end up dead?”
Sancho seemed amused by his challenge and Will realized that this was not a man who acted rashly or impulsively; he’d given careful thought to this ambush. “That would make it difficult to collect a ransom from you,” he agreed. “So we came up with a second plan should you balk at cooperating. If we cannot claim the renowned Marshal as surety for this debt, we will have to look elsewhere. Fortunately for us, there is always the royal corpse.”
The rest of his words were drowned out in an enraged roar of defiance coming from virtually every knight’s throat. Sancho seemed unperturbed by their fury, continuing as if he’d not been interrupted. “I daresay the old king will pay dear to get his beloved son’s body back for a proper burial. He might even offer more than a hundred marks.”
Will waited until he was sure his fury was under control. “Yes, he’d pay…and then he’d track you down to the ends of the earth, into the gates of Hell if need be.”
Sancho’s smile did not waver. “Yes, he’d likely hold a grudge. That is why I’d rather do this the easier way-by offering you our hospitality, Sir William. It is up to you, of course. But you’d best make up your mind soon. It is a hot summer’s day and it will not be long ere the royal corpse is too ripe to travel anywhere.”
Will glanced toward his friends, saw that Baldwin and Peter had reached the same grim conclusion that he had. “My first duty is to the young king,” he said, the calm voice belied by the fists tightly clenched at his sides. “I must escort his body to the monks at Grandmont. I will agree, though, to return and offer myself up as your hostage once this has been done. You have my sworn word on that.”
Ander, Jago, and Gerhart howled with laughter, their mirth stopping abruptly when Sancho nodded. “As I said, I am a reasonable man. And you are known to be an honorable one. We have a deal.”
The other knights gathered around Will, appalled, yet understanding they had no choice; even Simon could see that. But Sancho’s men were now the ones to be incredulous and angry. Lapsing into their thieves’ cant, a jumble of the lengua romana of Aquitaine seasoned with Basque and Catalan that enabled them to communicate privately in public, they began to protest vociferously. Sancho shouted them down.
“Enough! When have I not known what I was doing? I admit there are precious few men I’d trust to keep such a promise. The Marshal is one of them, mayhap the only one. This is a man who values his honor more than his life. Now you can argue whether that is an admirable virtue or a fatal character flaw,” he said with a grin. “But what matters is that it gets us our hundred marks. Who knows, I might even be willing to spare a few deniers to buy candles for the royal whelp’s soul!”
Henry had never suffered from ragged nerves, had always been at his best in a crisis. In the days following Hal’s message, though, he felt as if he were unraveling. He had more trouble than usual sleeping, had no interest in food, and most troubling of all, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. His thoughts were as skittish as unbroken horses, darting hither and yon as if he no longer had control of his own brain. Ostensibly, he was laying siege to the ville; in reality, his mind was roaming far afield.
Why had he not heard from Bishop Bertrand or Rotrou by now? They’d had more than enough time to get to Martel and then return to Limoges. What did their ominous silence mean? That Hal was truly ailing? Or had they ridden into a trap? Were they being held prisoner whilst Hal waited to see if the bait would be taken?
“My liege!” Geoff was bearing down upon him again and Henry strove for patience; who knew that sons could be worse than mothers? For certes, he’d never gotten such wearisome, constant solicitude from his other lads.
“You are hovering again, Geoff,” he warned, and Geoff acknowledged the truth of the charge with an abashed grin.
“I am being a pest, I know,” he conceded, for he’d already been chiding Henry about venturing within arrow range and nagging him about taking a midday meal. “I was just going to suggest that you seek shelter from the sun. Your nose is turning red!”
“So is yours,” Henry pointed out, for Geoff had inherited his fair, freckled skin. Actually he was amenable to the idea, for the heat was unrelenting. By the Rood, how he loathed the Limousin! The spring had been miserably wet and cold, and now the summer was hellishly hot. So when Geoff gestured toward a nearby peasant’s hut, he followed willingly, ducking through the low doorway into a small, gloomy cottage that reeked of onions and cabbage and sweat. Straightening up, he found himself face-to-face with the fearful occupants, a bony, spare man of indeterminate years and his toilworn wife.
Henry had a rudimentary knowledge of Eleanor’s lengua romana, for he’d always had an excellent ear for languages; only Welsh had proved to be impenetrable. He summoned up enough of it now to assure the frightened couple that they’d not be harmed, and his gentle words and the promise of a few coins did much to allay their unease. He sat cross-legged, then, on the hard dirt floor, his body admitting what his pride could not-that he was tired down to the very marrow of his bones.
Ranulf soon joined them; he was another mother hen, Henry thought wryly. But he did not come empty- handed. He had several wineskins, giving Henry the one diluted with water and tossing the other to Geoff.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Henry invited, and Ranulf accepted the invitation, lowering himself stiffly to the floor beside his nephew, muttering that he’d likely need help getting up again. There were times when Henry felt that his fifty years were weighing him down like an anchor, but he was a stripling next to his uncle, for Ranulf would be sixty-five that November. Because he did not see the older man that often, the changes wrought by aging were more noticeable to him; Ranulf’s hair was now pure silver and his shoulders were stooped, his stride slowed by a touch of the joint evil. The essential core of the man was still intact, though-the impish humor and courage and awkward habit of truth-telling-qualities that Henry appreciated even more now than in his youth.
“Is Bleddyn still balking at returning to Wales without you?” he asked, and Ranulf nodded, with a grimace that was part vexation and part pride.
“He is missing his wife and bairns, but he still insists that he’ll wait so we can return together. He is a stubborn one, is Bleddyn. And though he’ll not admit it, his real reason for staying is that he thinks I’m too feeble and aged to get home safely by myself!”
Henry cocked a brow in Geoff’s direction, and his eldest had the grace to blush. Just then Willem entered the hut, saying, “So this is where you’ve all gotten off to! A monk from Grandmont has arrived, my liege, is asking to see you. Shall I send him into your audience chamber here?”
“I’ll see him,” Henry said, thinking that the monk had likely come about their stolen pyx; to their great relief, he’d promised that he’d replace it. Of all Hal’s outrages in recent weeks, the plundering of Grandmont was the one that rankled the most, for Henry had taken it just as his son had intended-as a personal affront.
He was getting to his feet when a brown-clad form blocked the light from the door. As the man stooped to enter and then straightened up, Henry was startled to see a familiar face. “Guillaume…is that you?” And the heat of high summer notwithstanding, he went cold, for the prior of Grandmont would not be the one to bear a mundane message. His presence here was a message in and of itself. Henry’s mouth was suddenly so dry that he did not even have enough saliva to spit. “All of you,” he managed to croak, “out!”
