about to tell the other man that he could go off to bed when one of his squires hurried back into the chamber.
“My liege, men have just ridden into the bailey, are seeking an audience with you straightaway. I told the steward that they should wait till the morrow, but when he told me who they were, I thought you’d want to see them. It is the Bishop-elect of Winchester and your uncle, the Lord Ranulf.”
Henry nodded. Richard of Ilchester was one of his most trusted officials. As Archdeacon of Poitiers, he’d supported Henry unwaveringly in the clash with Thomas Becket, even enduring excommunication at the archbishop’s hands. His reward for such loyal service was the bishopric of Winchester. And Ranulf was known to be very close to the king, bound as much by affection as by blood. Their presence here in Bonneville conveyed a message in and of itself, and it was not an encouraging one.
The two men were soon ushered into his chamber. They both looked exhausted, and as soon as greetings were exchanged, Henry told them to find seats, ordering his squire to fetch some wine. They waited until it had been served and they were alone again with Henry and Willem before revealing the urgency of their mission.
“My liege, we have been sent to entreat you to return to England as soon as possible.” The bishop sagged back in his chair, never taking his eyes from Henry’s face. “If you do not, you are in danger of losing your kingdom.”
Henry said nothing, his gaze flicking from the bishop to Ranulf, who took that as his cue to speak up. “My lord king, the bishop speaks true. We have not been able to keep the Scots from ravaging the border lands, and they’ve been raiding into England. They have taken castles at Appleby, Leddell, and Harbottle, and Robert de Vaux has been so hard pressed that he was forced to seek a truce, agreeing to surrender Carlisle if you cannot relieve him by Michaelmas. The Scots king then sacked Warkworth and slaughtered many of the townspeople.”
The bishop leaned forward, his fists clenching on his knees. “We have naught but dire news, my lord. The rebellion has flared up again in the Midlands. They attacked and burned Nottingham and the garrison at Leicester is still holding out, refusing to surrender. And bandits and masterless men are taking advantage of the unrest to commit crimes of their own. The king’s roads are no longer safe; it is as if we are back in the dreadful days when Stephen ruled. There was rioting in London, my liege-in London!”
Henry’s continuing silence was beginning to unnerve them, for they were accustomed to his taking command of a crisis, taking decisive action. Just when the stillness in the chamber was becoming intolerable, Henry turned and looked at the bishop as if he were seeing him for the first time. “You are half dead on your feet, Richard. Go to bed. You, too, Uncle.”
The bishop did, but Ranulf stayed, sensing that Henry’s need for comfort was greater than his own need for sleep. When he looked over at Willem, the earl raised his shoulders in a silent shrug, for he, too, was at a loss. They watched Henry in silence, neither one knowing what to say, and both started when he suddenly spoke out.
“Ranulf? Did you know that the Count of Flanders has sworn upon a fragment of the True Cross that he will invade England within a fortnight from tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I know.” He knew, too, that Count Philip had already dispatched an advance guard of three hundred knights, but he could not bring himself to say anything about it, not sure if Henry had heard, and not wanting to give him any more grief.
Henry was staring down at the ashes in the cold, empty hearth. “My French spies tell me that Louis and Philip and their lackeys hope to lure me to England so they can attack Normandy once I am gone.”
“That may well be true, Harry,” Ranulf said carefully. “But England is already in flames. Can you stand by whilst it burns?”
“I truly thought I’d won this accursed war last year with those victories at Dol and Fornham St Genevieve. But this rebellion is like a snake, shedding one skin only to grow another. Does it ever end?”
“You will prevail, Harry,” Willem declared. “I have no doubts whatsoever. I know Philip of Flanders well, and he is no match for you on the battlefield. As for that fool on the French throne, he is no more a leader than that beggar we passed on the road this noon. Men would not follow him out of a burning building. And your sons…” Here he paused, his voice trailing off, and Henry gave him a ghostly grimace of a smile.
“Ah, yes,” he said, “my sons, my loyal, loving sons.”
Ranulf sat up straight, remembering that he did have news that might give Henry comfort. “I can think of no better words to describe Geoff. Have you heard what he did, Harry? He called out the men of Lincoln as their bishop-elect and lay siege to Roger de Mowbray’s castle at Kinnardferry. He captured Roger’s son and razed the castle to the ground. He then joined forces with the Archbishop of York and took de Mowbray’s castle at Kirkby Malzeard.”
“Did he, by God?” This time Henry’s smile was more convincing. “He is a good lad, is Geoff.” He’d picked up his wine cup, but now set it down, untouched. “I thought I told you to go to bed, Uncle. You, too, Willem. I need you both alert and awake for the council on the morrow.”
Willem did as he was bid, but Ranulf still hesitated. “I am not tired,” he lied, “if you want to talk…”
“No,” Henry said, “I am going to bed myself.”
“Shall I summon your squires?”
“No…not yet. I want to be alone for a while.”
Ranulf looked searchingly into the younger man’s face. Priests often spoke of life as a “vale of tears,” warning that “all is vanity and vexation of spirit,” reminding their flocks that “man that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble.” Yet he doubted that most Christians, sinners though they be, ever reached that dark, desolate place where hope withered on the vine and the voice of the Almighty was silent. But he had-he’d lost the woman he’d loved, a friend closer than a brother, and all sense of purpose. Stricken by grief and guilt, he’d wandered alone in the wilderness, caring for naught until he rediscovered divine mercy and his faith in a Welsh mountain valley. He had never forgotten, though, the pain of feeling forsaken by God, pain he saw reflected now in his nephew’s eyes.
“God’s Blessings upon you,” he said, but no more than that, for he knew Harry’s anguish was beyond his power to heal. He could only pray that the Almighty and Jesus, the Only Begotten Son, would take pity upon Harry, show him the path to salvation in his time of greatest need.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
July 1174
Falaise, Normandy
Eleanor had not fully appreciated what a charmed life she led until it was taken away from her. From birth, she’d had the best that their world had to offer, never thinking to question her good fortune. She’d chaffed under the constraints imposed upon women by society and the Church, but she’d not wondered why she’d been so blessed. People were expected to accept their lot in life as God’s Will, which was easy to do for a woman born beautiful and a duke’s daughter.
In the months since her betrayal in Loches Forest, though, the reality she’d known had vanished, leaving her a stranger in an alien land. The most mundane tasks were now a challenge. For the first time, she faced the normal vexations and disappointments of daily life. She’d only brought a few gowns with her, and she’d lost so much weight that they no longer fit all that well; moreover, they would eventually become threadbare and worn if she could not replace them. Accustomed to having servants who heated her baths, she now had to make do with a basin and cold water. Washing her long hair was a test of endurance. In the past, she had only to express a wish for a delicacy, however exotic, and it would appear upon her table as if by magic. Now the monotony of her meals had robbed her of her appetite, and she found herself craving oranges from Spain and wine from Gascony and spices from Cyprus and Sicily.
But her physical privations were tolerable. It was her emotional hardships that were scarring her soul. Theirs was a world in which only hermits and recluses scorned the company of others; until her captivity, she’d never slept alone in a chamber before. Her concept of privacy went no further than being snugly cocooned behind bed-hangings with her husband. Now there were days when she did not hear the sound of another human voice. She was not a woman to thrive in solitude, and the loneliness of her confinement was hard to bear.
So was the boredom. When she remembered how glibly she’d complained of the tedium of her life at the French court, she winced for the young, spoiled girl she’d once been. With nothing to occupy herself but her own thoughts, she was unable to escape the misery of her plight, reliving that harrowing confrontation with Henry and
