does not seem comfortable in that role.”
“That is to her credit,” Roger said, thinking sadly that there were no winners in this wretched family war then, only losers…and with the worst still to come.
Roger went to bed early that evening, and had just fallen asleep when he was awakened with a summons from Henry, who was having a late supper with the hunting party. By the time he’d dressed and gone to the great hall, the meal was done, for Henry was never one to linger at the table. He impatiently cut short Roger’s formal greeting, saying, “Come with me, Cousin.”
Roger did, following him out into the inner bailey. The day’s heat had faded and the sky was a deep twilight turquoise, stars glimmering like scattered shards of crystal. It was a beautiful evening but Henry seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Even after they’d entered the gardens, he paid no heed to the fragrant roses, the scent of honeysuckle and thyme, or the soft bubbling of the fountain. Roger wondered if he remembered that the garden was Eleanor’s creation, hoped he did not.
“So,” Henry said, “have you brought me any good news from England? Or more bad tidings?”
The edge in his voice put Roger in mind of a finely honed sword blade, and he was grateful that he did have “good news” to offer. “I learned ere I sailed that the Scots king was retreating back across the border after failing to take Carlisle. The royal army was in close pursuit and burned Berwick in retaliation for the Scots ravages in Northumberland.”
He could not tell if Henry had heard that already; his expression gave away nothing. “The Scots king is a two-legged viper,” Henry said, after a long silence. “He offered to aid me in putting down the rebellion, providing at his own cost a thousand armed knights if I’d recognize his claim to Northumbria. I said no, but Hal was willing to promise that and more. From what I hear, he has been so open-handed with his new allies that if I died tomorrow and he had his victory, there’d be little left to govern.”
“All the more reason, then,” Roger said quietly, “to make sure that he does not win,” and Henry gave him a sharp, searching look.
“It gladdens me to hear you say that, Cousin. I would that all of your family shared the sentiment.”
Roger did not shrink from the challenge. “We are deeply shamed by my nephew Hugh’s treachery. But he is an aberration, Harry, a foolish youth easily seduced to folly. The rest of us remain loyal to the true king, to you.”
“I never doubted your loyalty, Roger. But what of your brother? Can you speak for him?”
“Yes, I can.” Roger moved closer so that light from the rising moon fell across Henry’s face. “My father was a great man, loyal to your mother and you until his last breath. It would not be too much to say that you might not have won your crown if not for his unwavering support.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Henry said. “But we were not speaking of my uncle Robert, may God assoil him. We were speaking of your brother William.”
“No one would call William a great man. If truth be told, I have always thought him to be a bit of a fool. But he is no traitor, Cousin. He is your liegeman and only yours. I bear a letter from him, assuring you of that.” Reaching into his tunic, Roger held a sealed parchment out and after a barely perceptible pause, Henry took it, tucking it away in his belt. “I have a message, too, from my sister. Maud would have you know that she was deeply grieved when Hugh joined the rebellion. It broke her heart.”
Henry wanted to believe Roger, for he’d always been very fond of Maud. But belief did not come easily to him these days. “I am sure you will understand if I have doubts about that, Cousin.”
“Because of the friendship between Maud and your queen? That was one more casualty of this accursed rebellion.” He decided not to push further. “Do you know where they are…your sons?”
Henry’s mouth curved down. “Hal has had a busy summer with the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne at the siege at Driencourt. The last I heard, Richard and Geoffrey were still in Paris, supposedly being looked after by Raoul de Faye-hardly the ideal choice for a guardian-so God only knows how they are abusing their newfound freedom. And my devoted queen continues to spin her webs from Poitiers.”
Roger sighed, having no words to assuage such bitterness. He chose, instead, to return to the conversation he’d had earlier that day with the Earl of Essex, for he needed to know that Henry shared Willem’s confidence. “Willem told me that the Count of Flanders has halted his march upon Rouen whilst his brother recovers from his wound. It surprised me that Philip should show such family feeling, for I always thought the man had ice water in his veins.”
“You are forgetting that Matthew is more than Philip’s brother. He is his heir, too.”
Roger had indeed forgotten that the Count of Flanders’s marriage was childless. Passing strange, he thought, that Philip and Matthew were both wed to nieces of Eleanor, the daughters of her dead sister, Petronilla. Harry was right about the queen’s webs; they covered half of Christendom. “Philip is a two-legged viper, too,” he said acidly, “for all that he poses as a champion of chivalry and knightly honor.”
“You do not know the half of it, Roger. Louis was stricken with his usual eleventh-hour misgivings, and when he realized that war was actually at hand, he began to waver like a reed in a high wind. My agents at the French court told me that it was Philip who bolstered Louis’s quavering resolve.”
“Harry…what happens if Verneuil falls to the French? Willem seems to think that Rouen could still hold out, but I’d rather not see England’s king trapped in a town under siege.”
“Neither would I,” Henry said dryly, “but Verneuil is not going to be taken. I recalled Hugh de Lacy from Ireland and sent him to Verneuil ere the siege began. If need be, he’ll hold the castle till Hell freezes over. But it will not come to that, not with Louis in command.”
Roger sensed that Henry was talking about more than the fate of Verneuil. “You expect to win this war, then,” he said, and Henry gave a short, harsh laugh.
“Should the day ever come when I cannot outwit or outfight Louis Capet, I’ll willingly abdicate.” Henry had begun to pace, crunching the gravel underfoot, for he still wore his hunting boots. “Archbishop Rotrou said he could almost believe Louis had cast a malevolent spell upon my family. That gives Louis too much credit. If he ever took up the Black Arts, he’d bewitch himself, as likely as not. I suppose the argument might be made that my sons are feeble-minded, and that could certainly apply to Hal, but I’ve seen no evidence that Richard and Geoffrey share his absurd faith in French honor.”
Roger hesitated, but the answer Henry was groping for seemed so obvious to him that he could not hold his tongue. “If you are searching for the sinister force behind this rebellion, Harry, you need look no farther than Poitiers.”
“My beloved wife, the Circe of Aquitaine.” Henry laughed again, and to Roger, it was like the sound of shattering glass. “Instead of turning men into swine, she turns my sons into rebels. But it was so damnably easy for her, Roger. That is what I do not understand. Why were they so susceptible to her poison?”
Roger did not know, and another silence fell as he watched Henry stride back and forth on the narrow garden walkway. He was somewhat surprised that the other man was willing to discuss his family’s treachery, but he was flattered, too, that Henry had chosen him as a confidant.
“Cousin…my confessor has another explanation for my recent trials and tribulations. He thinks that God is punishing me for Thomas Becket’s death.”
Roger’s jaw dropped. Almost at once he dismissed the claim that this “explanation” had come from Henry’s confessor, sure that he’d never have dared to suggest that to the king. He’d given up hope of ever hearing these words from his cousin’s lips, but now that he had, he was quick to seize this rare, precious chance to save a soul. “That same thought has occurred to me, too, Harry.”
That was not the answer Henry wanted. “Why?” he demanded. “That would make my penance at Avranches rather pointless, would it not?”
“How honest do you want me to be, Cousin?”
Henry frowned. “I asked you,” he said at last, “because you are a man of God and because you were the only one with the courage to tell me that you blamed me for Becket’s murder, that if I were not guilty, neither was I innocent. So, yes…I want you to be honest.”
“Very well. I do not think you are truly contrite, Harry. Oh, you said all the right things to the bishops and papal legates. But your actions send another message. Look at the bishops you recently selected to fill those vacant sees. Four of the six were men either actively hostile to Thomas or kin to those who were.”
Henry’s face had hardened, but he said tersely, “Go on.”
