There was comfort in that realization, and surprise, too, for Essex was surely an unlikely candidate to become a king’s confidant. In so many ways, he was an anomaly. Tall and slender and fair-haired, he looked more like a court fop than a warrior, but his languorous manner could not be more deceiving; he wielded a sword with lethal skill, and was one of Henry’s most capable battle commanders. He held an English earldom, but he’d been raised in Flanders, growing to manhood at the court of the Flemish count, Philip. In the six years since he’d inherited his brother’s title and returned to England, he’d been besieged by ambitious mothers hoping to snare him for their marriageable daughters, but he’d shown no interest in taking a highborn bride. Only Henry knew that he’d given his heart to a Flemish mistress he could never wed, and doted upon an illegitimate daughter who could not inherit his lands. And he’d gained a well-deserved reputation for loyalty, despite being the son of one of the most treacherous, disloyal barons ever to draw breath, the worst of the lawless lords who’d ravaged England during those wretched years when King Stephen had fought with Henry’s mother, the Empress Maude, for the English crown.
Geoffrey de Mandeville could have taught Judas about betrayal and Herod about cruelty. He had abandoned King Stephen for the Empress Maude, deserted Maude to pledge his allegiance again to Stephen, and was contemplating yet another breach of faith when Stephen struck first, stripping him of his base of power, the Tower of London. As always, though, Stephen’s punishment was halfhearted and he’d allowed the earl to remain at liberty. He’d promptly rebelled and unleashed hell upon the innocent and the defenseless. Burning, pillaging, raping, his men devastated towns and churches alike, inspiring such fear that it was said the grass withered where he walked. He’d died assaulting one of Stephen’s castles, not long after he’d been excommunicated for seizing Ramsey Abbey. Since he could not be buried in hallowed ground, the Knights Templar had hung his coffin in a tree so as not to pollute the earth.
His son and namesake was allowed to inherit the earldom once Henry ascended the English throne, serving Henry faithfully till his death, when his title and lands passed to his younger brother, William. Geoffrey de Mandeville rested today in consecrated ground, the Pope having granted a posthumous absolution at his family’s behest, but his reputation could never be restored, and his name was still a byword for treachery and betrayal. Yet this same man had sired two sons of honor and integrity. Henry did not understand it, any more than he’d understood how John Marshal could have begotten a worthy son like Will. He could only be thankful for it.
“If you’d hoped for an idle afternoon, my liege, those hopes are about to be dashed.” Essex’s smile was wryly sympathetic. “Word of the king’s arrival invariably spreads faster than a summer brushfire, and the great hall is already filling with petitioners, claimants, plaintiffs, supplicants, and self-seekers of every stripe. Some have cases pending before your Curia Regis, others want you to resolve local disputes, and all of them are entreating that they be heard.”
Henry sighed, but he was accustomed to this, for a king’s time was almost as valued as his favor. “I’ll grant audiences this afternoon and hold court on the morrow,” he said, casting a regretful look in his falcon’s direction.
“The priest of St Maurice’s has asked to see you, too.” Knowing that Henry had paid for the construction of the church, Essex guessed that he’d take a personal interest in its progress. “Do you want to see him first?” When Henry nodded, the earl started for the door, then paused. “Shall I ask your son to join you in the hall?”
Henry hesitated. He knew that the earl was trying, in a more subtle fashion than Hamelin, to reconcile father and son. Would Hal be pleased by the invitation? But when had he ever shown interest in the more mundane duties of kingship?
“No, Willem,” he said, using the playful nickname he’d bestowed upon the earl in affectionate acknowledgment of the other man’s boyhood in Flanders-“Willem” being Flemish for “William.” “More likely than not, I’d have to command his presence, and that would defeat the purpose, would it not?”
Willem took his candor for what it was-a declaration of trust-and made a discreet departure, for he was wiser than Hamelin, knew better than to push. When the king was ready to talk about his son’s wayward behavior, he would pick the time and place.
Henry’s squires had been quietly conferring, for they were constantly engaged in a losing battle to make their lord look more regal, and they offered him now a choice of two short cloaks called rhenos, one lined with sable, the other with miniver. Henry cared only for staying warm in the great hall, and selected at random, then fended off their efforts to get him to change his plain green tunic for a more fashionable one with a diagonal neckline. When a knock sounded on the door, he seized the opportunity to escape their ministrations and strode over to answer it himself. He was expecting Willem and the priest of St Maurice’s. He was not expecting to see his son.
“May I come in?”
Henry stepped aside to let Hal enter, and his squires at once dived for the door, murmuring vague excuses as they fled. “Passing strange-people usually enjoy watching bloodshed.” Hal’s joke was a lame one, but it was a joke, nonetheless, and Henry’s initial surprise gave way to astonishment. They’d not been on speaking terms for days, and suddenly the lad was making jests? After considering his possible responses, he chose silence, waiting warily for Hal to reveal his intent.
Hal seemed ill at ease. Wandering about the chamber, he lavished attention upon Henry’s falcon before picking up one of the discarded cloaks. “May I borrow this sometime?”
“I thought you were aiming higher than a cloak,” Henry said coolly, and Hal let the garment slip through his fingers onto the floor.
“I hate this,” he blurted out, for the first time meeting Henry’s eyes.
“What do you hate, Hal? That we are estranged? Or that you were dragged away from Limoges against your will?”
“Both,” Hal admitted, with a flickering smile. “I have the right of it in our quarrel, Papa. But it serves for naught to fight like this. Even if we cannot agree, we need not turn words into weapons. I have said things in anger that I now regret, and I hope that is true for you, too.”
“This is a remarkable change of mood. Just a few hours ago, you were acting as if I were the Antichrist. If you have experienced a divine revelation, like St Paul on the road to Damascus, I will be most interested to hear about it.” Henry’s sarcasm was so sharp because he’d been affected in spite of himself by his son’s use of “Papa,” an echo of simpler, happier times.
Color rose in Hal’s face, but he did not look away. “I suppose I deserve that,” he conceded. “I ought to have found a better way to express my objections to the marriage contract. For that, I am indeed sorry.” Continuing quickly, “I do not want you to misunderstand what I am saying, though. I am apologizing for my bad manners, not for my protest. As for what caused my ‘remarkable change of mood,’ the credit-or blame-for that must go to Uncle Hamelin.”
At Henry’s obvious surprise, Hal could not help grinning. “I know how unlikely that sounds. But even a blind pig finds an acorn occasionally.”
“And what acorn did Hamelin dig up?”
“He reminded me of the date. Today is the fifth of March…your birthday.”
Henry was taken aback. “So it is,” he said, for he’d indeed been born on this day forty years ago at Le Mans. “It had entirely slipped my mind…”
“Mine, too…until Uncle Hamelin spoke up.” Hal was looking discomfited again. “He made me see that I owe you better than this,” he said in a low voice. “I hope that you can forgive my public rudeness. I promise you that it will not happen again.”
Henry wanted very much to believe him. “Yes, I can forgive you,” he said cautiously. “But you must understand, Hal, that nothing has changed and nothing will change until you prove to me that you can be trusted.”
“I know that. And I’ll not mislead you, Papa. Nothing has changed for me, either. I am never going to agree to the loss of Chinon and the other two castles. Nor am I going to stop demanding my just due as an anointed king. But in the future I will try to keep our quarrels private and I will accord you the respect you deserve as my father and my king.” Hal paused before saying hopefully, “Fair enough?”
Henry nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”
Hal’s relief was palpable. “I was afraid,” he said, “that you’d not believe me.” They regarded each other in silence for a few moments, neither knowing what to say next, fearful of taking a misstep onto such very thin ice. Reaching down, Hal retrieved the cloak from the floor rushes and fastened it around his shoulders. “Since we just agreed to a truce,” he said cheerfully, “that must mean that I can borrow your clothes, no? Now I’d best get down
