make sure that there were no misunderstandings. “I am giving the bishopric of Ely to my chancellor, Geoffrey Ridel; he deserves it for his steadfast loyalty during the clash with Becket. I am inclining toward Robert Foliot for Hereford, as he is kin to the Bishop of London.”
That was not a surprise, for the Bishop of London had also given Henry unwavering support against Becket, and Geoff nodded again. But his father’s next words took his breath away. “I mean the bishopric of Lincoln to go to you, lad.”
“Me? But…but I am not even a priest!”
“Neither was Becket until two days ere he was consecrated as Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Yes, Geoff thought, and we know how well that turned out. He could not say that, though, to Henry, and he mumbled his thanks with such a lack of enthusiasm that even Henry noticed. The prospect of becoming a bishop was an alarming one to Geoff, but he was an optimist both by nature and experience, and he was soon consoling himself that his consecration could be delayed for months, even years. He could argue with perfect truth that he was too young to hold such an exalted position.
Once he was in his chamber in the keep, Henry washed and changed his hunting clothes, all the while giving some thought to Geoff’s muted response. Geoff was usually so high-spirited and exuberant, grateful for the smallest favor. Mayhap he felt overwhelmed by the honor. He would have to talk to the lad, reassure him that he was worthy of it. He was bantering with his squires, who were delighted to see him so cheerful, when a knock sounded at the door.
After a whispered exchange in the stairwell, Warin glanced back at Henry. “It is the Archbishop of Rouen, my liege.” Not waiting to be told, he stepped back so Rotrou could enter, for he knew how impatiently Henry had been awaiting his return from Paris.
Rotrou was not alone, accompanied by Arnulf, Bishop of Lisieux, Henry’s brother Hamelin, Maurice de Craon, an Angevin baron and longtime friend, and Willem, still in his muddied hunting garb. Henry knew at once that Rotrou did not bring welcome tidings. He was an elderly man, but he seemed to have aged a decade in the fortnight since Henry had last seen him. Hamelin’s face was a mirror, reflecting utter misery, and while Willem looked impassive, his very presence was ominous, for Rotrou would not have needed his support unless his news was dire indeed. But what sent a prickle of unease along Henry’s spine was a memory, triggered by the sight of Rotrou and Arnulf together. They had been the ones who’d come to tell him of Becket’s murder.
“Welcome back, my lord archbishop.”
Henry gestured toward a chair, but Rotrou shook his head, fearing that if he sat down, he’d not be able to get up again. Never had he dreaded anything as he dreaded telling the king what he’d learned in Paris. As terrible as it had been to bring word of Becket’s murder, this was worse. There was no way to soften the blow and so he did not try.
“When I met with the French king and demanded that the young king be sent back to your court so you might resolve your differences, he interrupted to ask me who sent such a message. I replied, of course, ‘The King of England.’ And he said that was impossible since the King of England was there with him and had no need to send ambassadors. He went on to claim that your son’s coronation established him as the true king, the only king.”
Henry’s jaw clenched and hot color surged into his face and throat. The anger he’d felt toward Hal was submerged in the scalding rage now directed at the French king. His son was an idiot, but the true guilt was Louis Capet’s. He’d taken advantage of Hal’s credulous nature, poisoned his mind against his own blood, and made of him a cat’s paw, a dupe of the French Crown.
With an effort, Henry found a strained smile for the aged cleric. “I ask your pardon, my lord archbishop, for sending you on a fool’s errand. It was a cruel waste of your time. Little wonder you look so bone-weary.”
“My lord king…there is more. I would give anything if I did not have to tell you this. The young king was not alone at the French court. His brothers Richard and Geoffrey are there with him.”
“No, that is not possible. You must be mistaken.”
“My liege, I saw them with my own eyes. I spoke to them.”
Henry continued to shake his head. “That makes no sense. Even if Hal somehow bedazzled them with promises and bribes, Eleanor would not have let them join in his folly. She would never have allowed them to follow him to the French court.”
The archbishop no longer met Henry’s eyes. “She sent them to Paris, my lord. She has been conspiring with your enemies against you. I…I cannot explain how she could have so forgotten the loyalty and obedience she owes you as your wife and queen. It is almost as if the French king has cast a spell upon your entire family. But there is no doubt of her participation in this odious, unholy plot. Your sons admitted it, nay, they boasted of it.”
A suffocating silence fell. When the men realized that Henry was not going to speak, they quietly withdrew, for even Hamelin understood that there was no comfort they could offer, no balm for a wound so deep.
Henry had lost track of time. It could have been hours, it could have been days since the archbishop had told him that he’d lost his sons and had been betrayed by his own queen. He was not in pain, not yet. He was numb, so stunned that nothing seemed real. When he’d learned of Becket’s murder, he’d been plunged into an emotional cauldron, overwhelmed with grief, anger, shock, guilt, and fear, feelings so intense that it was as if he were drowning in them. Now…now there was only a void, a vast emptiness filling his head and his heart.
He did not hear the knocking at first, and when he did, he could not rouse himself to respond. He did not even turn his head when the door opened, continuing to stare into the hearth’s shooting flames, mesmerized by that white-gold blaze of heat and light and sheer, raw energy. Passing strange, how fire could be both a blessing and a scourge, saving life and taking it, keeping winter at bay even as it devoured the damned, the sinners condemned to the deepest pits of Hell-Everlasting.
“My liege…Harry.”
He looked up unwillingly, saw Willem standing beside him, with Geoff hovering by the door. “We brought you some food,” the earl said softly, “should you get hungry later.”
A stray thought surfaced, the realization that this was the first time the other man had ever called him by his given name. He nodded in acknowledgment and waited for them to go away. But when he turned his eyes from the fire, they were still there, and after a prolonged pause, Willem began to speak.
“I was eleven when my father died. Being so far away made it harder for me, as I’d not yet come to think of Flanders as home. I’d never truly known him, not the man he really was. But I loved the man I thought he was, and I grieved for him. When I learned the truth-that he was accursed, with the Mark of Cain upon him-I fought against believing it as long as I could. As young as I was, I understood that I was losing far more than my father. I was losing my past. My memories could no longer comfort me, for they were false…”
Henry had never heard Willem speak of his father; he’d not so much as mentioned his name. Those echoes of that young boy’s pain penetrated his haze, and he looked intently into the other man’s face. “And once you did believe it, Willem…what then? How did you learn to live with a loss like that?”
“I tried to find answers. How could he have been so kind to my brothers and me and yet capable of such unforgivable cruelty? I well-nigh drove myself mad, looking for reasons, for justifications, for any glimmer of light.”
Henry’s eyes caught his and held. “And did you? Find the answers you sought?”
“No, I did not. Sometimes there are no answers to be found, Harry…and that was the hardest lesson of all.” Willem was still holding the platter of food. Setting it down on the table, he said, “We’ll leave you now. God keep you, my liege.”
Henry got to his feet as he heard the door close behind Willem. The aroma of roasted venison wafted off the trencher, but he was not tempted; his gorge rose in his throat at the very sight of the sliced meat. He could not imagine ever taking pleasure in a meal again. Ever taking pleasure in anything. As he turned away, he saw that his son had not gone with Willem. Geoff still stood by the door, clutching a wine flask to his chest, looking so young and wretched that Henry’s frozen heart felt the first thawing. He did not welcome it, did not want to feel again.
“You need not stay, lad.”
Geoff hesitated, but he stood his ground, and then he found his tongue and his words came tumbling out in a desperate rush. “I brought you wine, Papa. I thought…thought it might help. Getting drunk, I mean.”
Much to his surprise, a ghost of a smile flitted across Henry’s lips. “Believe it or not, Geoff, I’ve never gotten drunk.”
“I have,” Geoff said earnestly, “and it does chase the hurt away.” Venturing farther into the chamber, he held
