“As a rule, they do not, sharing their lords’ rivalry. But my position is somewhat different, for I once served in the queen’s household and spent many hours teaching Richard how to wield a sword and aim a lance. We remained on friendly terms even after the old king asked me to instruct Lord Hal.”
“They are both fine-looking lads,” Barbe said, “but even I can see how unlike they are. Lord Hal always stops to wave and acknowledge the cheers when he rides through the streets, and Lord Richard does not even seem to hear them. I was talking with some of the neighborhood women last week and we agreed we’d rather have Lord Hal as a lover, for he never passes a beggar without flipping him a coin. A man so open-handed would likely keep his leman draped in silks and pearls! But which do you think would make the better king, Will?”
Will had indeed pondered that question. He loved Hal, respected Richard. A pity Hal did not have Richard’s iron will, or Richard Hal’s generosity of spirit. His stay in Paris had given him a chance to study the third brother, too, and he’d decided that Geoffrey might be the cleverest of the three. He’d always admired the old king’s ability to remain dispassionate in the face of adversity. Only with St Thomas had his sangfroid failed him, with disastrous consequences. He doubted that either Hal or Richard had inherited any of their sire’s uncanny self-possession; their emotions ran close to the surface, quick to spill over. If one of the king’s sons had his coolly calculating brain, it was likely to be Geoffrey. Of course he was just shy of fifteen, so only time would tell.
Will knew Barbe would have been fascinated by his musings about King Henry’s sons, but discretion was both a habit and a natural inclination. A man would not prosper at the royal court if he’d not learned to govern his tongue. So not even with his bedmate would he drop his guard, and he began to speak instead of a subject that he knew she’d find of interest: a recent feast given for the king by the Bishop of Paris in honor of their victory at Verneuil.
Even as he delighted Barbe by describing the rich menu and fine gowns of the French queen, Adele, and the English queen, Marguerite, Will marveled that Louis could celebrate such a shameful episode. They’d done their best to put a favorable cast upon it, bragging how they’d outwitted the English king and left Verneuil in ruins. But word had trickled out, and Will was soon hearing the rumors discussed in Paris taverns. The citizens of Paris showed a surprising sympathy for their counterparts at Verneuil, but Will realized that they were putting themselves in the places of the Norman burghers, imagining their own shops looted and their houses burned.
Will had not often considered the suffering of citizens in war, having been taught that civilian casualties were both unfortunate and unavoidable. That was the way wars were waged, with chevauchees that served a twofold purpose by devastating an enemy’s countryside: denying his army much-needed provisions and demonstrating to his people that he was failing a lord’s first duty, unable to protect his subjects from harm. What had appalled Will about Verneuil was the deliberate violation of Louis’s sworn oath, both to Henry and the townspeople, and his refusal to honor his own truce. Will firmly believed that the world would descend into chaos and hellish turmoil if men did not obey those laws meant to govern their behavior and tame their more shameful impulses, laws set forth by the Holy Church, by the Crown, and now by the chivalric canons. Chivalry was the foundation stone of his life, offering more than a code of conduct, offering a map which would enable men of good faith to avoid those sinful temptations that might jeopardize their chances of salvation.
Will was thankful that Hal shared this conviction, for it would have been very hard to follow a lord who did not. He just wished Hal had been strong enough to defy the French king and his evil advisors, strong enough to have prevailed. But Hal was young. He had time to develop that steel in his soul, Will assured himself. So far he had resolutely refused to listen to the seditious inner voice whispering that age was no excuse, that had King Henry been faced with a Verneuil at eighteen, he would never have allowed it to happen.
With duskfall, the day’s heat slowly began to ebb. They could hear the sounds downstairs as Barbe’s assistant ushered out the last customers and closed up the shop. The noise from the street continued to waft through the open window, though, for people would not retire to their homes until curfew rang. Will and Barbe made love again, and then she fetched some cold chicken, cheese, and fruit for a bedside supper. They were just finishing their apples when a muffled thumping sounded below.
Will cocked his head. “Is someone knocking at the door?”
Barbe paused to listen, too. “Whoever it is will go away.”
But the pounding continued. And then a voice shouted loudly, “Will Marshal! If you’re up there, come to the window!”
“Ignore him,” Barbe urged.
But Will recognized the voice. Swinging his legs over the bed, he crossed to the window and peered down into the street, where Simon de Morisco was standing, hands on hips, getting ready to shout again. At the sight of Will, he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Thank God! I was sent to find you straightaway and did not know where else to look. Hurry and dress, Will. You have been summoned back to the palace.”
Entering the Palace’s Great Hall, Will was surprised to see Hal and Richard seated together, for they did not often seek out each other’s company. Clearly the news from Brittany must be grave, indeed. All Simon could tell him was that a messenger had arrived with word of a calamity, but no more than that. Hal and Richard were sitting with Raoul de Faye, Marguerite, the Count of Leicester, Robert Beaumont, and his wife, Peronelle. As Will approached, Richard and Hal slid over on the bench to make room for him beside them. He took his seat, ignoring the disgruntled looks he was getting from several of Hal’s knights; he well knew that some were jealous of his privileged status and since he could do nothing about it, he did his best not to let it bother him.
“Simon said there was a setback in Brittany?”
Hal nodded, and Richard gave a short laugh that sounded uncannily like Henry’s. “To call it a ‘setback’ is like calling the Expulsion from Eden a minor misunderstanding. It was a disaster, Will. Last Thursday Hugh and Raoul de Fougeres and all their knights surrendered Dol Castle to my father. The rebellion in Brittany is over.”
“Sweet Jesu,” Will breathed, for this was far worse than he’d expected. “I did not even know King Henry was in Brittany, thought he’d returned to Rouen after…after Verneuil.”
“He did,” Hal said glumly, “but as soon as he learned Hugh and the Bretons were trapped in Dol, he hastened west, and once he arrived on the scene, they panicked and ran up a white flag.”
“A disgrace,” the Earl of Leicester muttered, shaking his head in disgust, and Hal, Richard, and Will exchanged glances, all of them sharing the same thought: that Leicester had abandoned his castle at Breteuil and ran for his life as soon as he’d gotten word of Henry’s approach. None of them voiced that thought, though. It would never occur to Will to do so, and the brothers were learning some hard lessons in diplomacy; Leicester was a valued ally, even if they both thought he was a horse’s arse.
Will diplomatically ended the silence that had followed Leicester’s accusation, asking, “What happened to them after they surrendered?”
It was Raoul de Faye who answered him. “Actually, they were treated rather leniently under the circumstances. Harry let most of them go once they’d sworn homage to him again and promised not to take part in further rebellions. He even freed Raoul de Fougeres after he’d offered up his sons as hostages for his good behavior, and did not declare any of their estates forfeit to the Crown…at least not yet.”
Raoul did not sound particularly happy about the Bretons’ good fortune, and Will understood why. Word of Henry’s forbearance would quickly spread, reassuring other rebels that they could submit to the Crown without fearing they’d lose their lands or their lives. It was a shrewd tactic for a man fighting a civil war. “What of the Earl of Chester?”
“He was not as lucky.” Hal frowned, for he was fond of Hugh. “My father sent him under guard to Falaise Castle, where he’ll be held prisoner…”
His words trailed off, but Will knew the phrase he was reluctant to say. “At the king’s pleasure.” Hugh of Chester could be freed if Henry won the rebellion. He could also be held for the rest of his earthly days. And for one as high-strung as Hugh, the uncertainty would gnaw at his nerves his every waking hour. Glancing at Henry’s sons, Will wondered if they feared their father might treat them as harshly as he had Hugh. He certainly did, feared for Queen Eleanor, too, since Hugh’s imprisonment showed that Henry could not forgive family betrayal as easily as he could the disloyalty of vassals and liegemen.
“Poor Hugh,” Hal said softly, “and poor Bertrada and Cousin Maud. I cannot give them such sad news. You do it for me, Uncle Raoul. But when you write, offer them hope for his early release. Women are not meant to bear such heavy burdens.”
Will did not understand how Queen Eleanor’s son could make such a nonsensical statement and, judging from
