Morgan was staggered. “But that makes no sense!”
“We know! You should have heard the others when he told them that. I thought Geoff would go as mad as the king. They all decried it, speaking more frankly than he is accustomed to hear, first arguing and then pleading, to no avail. He told them this was not open for debate and in the end, he got his own way, as he usually does. He made the Earl of Essex promise not to turn any of his castles in Normandy over to anyone but Count John and insisted that Geoff continue on to Alencon. Geoff was so distraught, though, that the king did agree he could join him in Anjou after leading our men to Alencon.”
Morgan did not understand Henry’s rash decision any more than his friends did, and he remained silent as they told him that Will Marshal had begged to come, but the king was adamant. “You see why I wonder if he is in his right senses?” Rob said unhappily. “He escapes Le Mans by a hairbreadth and God’s Grace, and now he wants to go right back into Hell!”
Morgan didn’t reply, for he’d just spotted Geoff and Willem leaving the hall. Geoff at once swerved in their direction, with Willem following. Giving Morgan no chance to speak, Geoff reached out and grasped the younger man’s arm, hard enough to hurt. “You heard?” When Morgan nodded solemnly, Geoff’s grip tightened. “You must promise me, Cousin Morgan, promise that you’ll not leave him. He will not let me come with him, so it is up to you. To all of you,” he added, his gaze now including Peter and Rob. “You were steadfast in your loyalty to Geoffrey, and you two were just as faithful to Hal. I want you to swear to me, on the surety of your souls, that you will give the king the same devotion you gave his sons.”
Wide-eyed, they all pledged their fidelity to the king, vowed not to abandon him. Morgan then took advantage of his kinship to the chancellor and confessed, “Cousin, we do not understand. Why is the king doing this?”
Geoff looked at him mutely and then turned away, but not before they saw his despair. They watched him stride toward the chapel, and then glanced imploringly at the Earl of Essex. Willem did not reply at once. “He is going home to Anjou,” he said at last, his voice muffled, “going home to die.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
June 1189
Chinon, Anjou
For the rest of his life, Morgan would remember that harrowing journey through lands now occupied by the French army. They had to swing well to the west of Le Mans, passed two nights at the small hilltop castle of Sainte-Suzanne, and then, avoiding the main roads and enemy patrols, ventured on into Anjou. Much of the time they had to traverse narrow forest paths where Henry had hunted since his youth, and there were a few nights when they’d had to camp out in the woods, which Henry had done before, but never when he was feverish and in constant pain. It was easy for Morgan to imagine them as a small band of outlaws on the run from the law, an astonishing image for one of the most powerful rulers in Christendom.
The handful of young knights who were accompanying their king were impressed by his knowledge of the back roads and byways of Anjou, for he was often the one acting as their guide, and impressed, too, by his stoic endurance of his suffering. They were greatly relieved when they got safely to Angers, but after a brief stay to husband his waning strength, Henry insisted upon continuing on toward Saumur. Geoff caught up with them at Savigny, for he’d remained at Alencon only long enough to select one hundred handpicked knights and then set out after Henry. They finally reached Chinon in late June. As the crow flies, their journey was over a hundred miles, but they’d had to detour and sidetrack and veer off so often that they agreed they’d probably ridden twice that distance. A man famed for the speed of his travels, a man who’d once covered two hundred miles in four days, Henry had taken fully a fortnight to get home to the Loire Valley.
At the end of June, William Marshal and his household knights arrived at Chinon, in response to Henry’s summons. The Angevin baron Maurice de Craon also joined them. But the royal army remained at Alencon, for many of the Norman barons were loath to fight for a king who might be dying against the man most likely to succeed him.
Henry had been running a high fever for days. He was propped up with pillows, not having the strength to get out of bed, but he was lucid and determined to do this, to express his gratitude to the men gathered in his bedchamber. “Have you heard, Will, what has happened? My city of Tours has fallen to the French.”
“Yes, sire, I know.”
“And my barons and vassals are cravenly keeping away, fearful of offending a rebel duke and the false, shameless whelp who sits on the French throne. But you did come, Will.” Henry had to pause, overcome with gratitude and affection for these loyal, courageous, honorable men. “I am grateful beyond words to you,” he said huskily, “above all to you, my dearest son. I pray that the Almighty grants me enough time to reward you as you deserve, with the archbishopric of York.” His cracked lips twitched in what was almost a smile. “Even though I know you have never burned to take holy orders.”
“I want only your return to health and prosperity, my lord father,” Geoff managed to get out before his throat closed up.
“At least I can reward the rest of you,” Henry murmured, “and nothing has given me greater pleasure than what I do now.” A scribe had been standing off to the side, ready to capture the king’s words with pen and ink. One by one, Henry called upon the young knights who’d shared such adversity with him, and made grants and conferred wardships and heiresses upon them. He bestowed the castle and forest of Lillebonne upon Renaud de Dammartin, rendering that cocksure young man speechless for once. He gave a Marcher castle to his Welsh cousin Morgan. He rewarded Peter Fitz Guy and the other knights who’d stayed with Hal at Martel. And then he shocked them all by giving to Baldwin de Bethune the rich heiress Denise de Deols, whom he’d once promised to Will.
“No, Will, I am not growing forgetful in my old age,” he said, smiling at the dumbfounded expression on the Marshal’s face. “I have another highborn lady in mind for you.”
Will had quickly recovered his aplomb, for he was courtier as well as soldier, and he assured Henry that he asked no more than to enjoy the king’s favor, a courteous and blatant falsehood that amused them all, including Henry. But he was growing very tired, and so he did not tease Will by dragging out the suspense. “It is my great joy to bestow upon the Marshal the hand of Isabella de Clare, heiress of Richard Strongbow, Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Striguil and Leinster.”
Will gasped and his friends forgot for a moment that they were at a king’s sickbed. They cheered and thumped him boisterously on the back, excited by his great good fortune, for Isabella de Clare was the richest heiress in England, would bring Will vast estates in England, Normandy, Wales, and Ireland. They soon subsided, though, realizing the insensitivity of celebrating Will’s bright prospects when the king’s were so bleak. Will had begun to stammer his thanks, but Henry stopped him.
“You served my son well,” he said softly, “just as you’ve served me. Hal would have wanted me to do this for you.” And Will had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat, for Henry’s words had conjured up a beguiling ghost, his manifest flaws expunged by death, handsome and dashing and forever young.
On the first of July, the Archbishop of Tours arrived to give Henry an eyewitness account of the capture of his city. He was also able to tell them what had happened in Le Mans after they’d fled. It had not been sacked, most likely due to the duke’s orders, he reported diffidently, nervous at having to say anything complimentary about Richard under the circumstances. All of Henry’s Welsh routiers had been massacred, save only those who’d retreated into the castle and withstood a three-day siege. The fire damage was not as great as first feared, he said, hoping that might give Henry some comfort, but seeing that it did not.
Geoff and Will begged Henry to let the archbishop shrive him of his sins, for they greatly feared that he might die before he could atone for his blasphemy on the hill overlooking Le Mans. But Henry refused, for he was not yet ready, either to forgive the Almighty or to ask His forgiveness. As his fever continued to spike, he found himself drifting back in time, although his memories were fragmented and random, flashes of his boyhood and his garden courtship of the beautiful French queen, whispers of past triumphs and echoes of unhealed sorrows. His father and Eleanor and Hal wandered through his dreams, as did Thomas Becket, miraculously young again, the king’s
