“God’s Bones,” Henry breathed. “What proof have you of this?”
Brien grinned. “My lord knew that was the first question you’d ask, my liege. I bear a letter from Sir Ralf, attesting to all that I’ve told you. And on the morrow you ought to receive further confirmation from the Archbishop of York, for he was dispatching a messenger, too. He was not as fast a rider as me, though!”
Henry snatched up the letter Brien was holding out, but he made no attempt to read it. “Tell me the rest,” he said, and Brien needed no urging.
“I have to admit, sire, that he fought valiantly, spurred his stallion into our midst once he realized he was trapped between us and the castle. But one of our men speared his fine grey destrier, and the king’s legs were pinned when the beast fell. He surrendered to my lord de Glanville, and was taken under guard back to Newcastle and then, on to Richmond. That traitor Roger de Mowbray fled like a hare before hounds, but none of the Scots knights would abandon their liege lord, and surrendered when he did.” Brien was not happy at having to compliment his Scots foes, but he was a fair man, and he added, “They acquitted themselves well, my liege, brave men all.”
He was being offered more wine, which he accepted happily. “You are indeed favored by God, my lord king. I am honored to be the one to bring you such glad tidings.”
Henry laughed. “Ah, Brien, you will want for nothing for the rest of your born days,” he promised. “Land, gold, it will all be yours for the asking.”
Brien laughed, too. “For now, my lord, I ask only for a bed and a meal to fill my empty belly!”
Others were crowding into the bedchamber now, drawn by the uproar, and in the ensuing pandemonium, it was left to Henry’s squire Warin to realize the full significance of Brien’s message. “My lord,” he cried, tugging on Henry’s sleeve in his urgency to be heard. “Brien said that the Scots king was captured on Saturday, around dawn. My liege, that was when you were completing your penance at St Thomas’s tomb!”
There were exclamations of wonder and most of the men made the sign of the cross. Henry stared at the squire, and then sat down abruptly on the settle. “You are right, Warin,” he said in awe. “This is indeed his doing.”
Word was spreading like wildfire throughout the palace, and Henry’s bedchamber was soon thronged with celebrants, both jubilant and reverent. Willem and Ranulf had pushed their way through to Henry’s side, and Gilbert Foliot had also succeeded in reaching the king. “My lord,” he cried, “should we ring the bells to awaken the city?”
“No,” Henry said, “let them sleep. The morning will come soon enough.” Glancing around, he knew that none of these blissful, boisterous men would get a wink of sleep. Neither would he, for his exhaustion was magically vanished, his fever forgotten. “We might as well move these revelries over to the great hall,” he said, grinning when his declaration was met with raucous cheers; he knew these men would have cheered if he’d announced they must all take holy vows.
“I do want to awaken my cousin, the Bishop of Worcester,” he said. “Send someone to fetch him, Gilbert. And once he gets here, I want to go to the abbey church and give thanks to St Thomas for our victory, for his miracle.”
For his two-hundred-seventy-mile dash, Brien was rewarded by Henry with “ten liveries of land” and an estate in Norfolk.
Hal and the Count of Flanders had decided to send their fleet on ahead of them, and their ships had sailed into the same storm that had inundated Canterbury. During those hours that Henry did penance for his sins, their fleet was scattered by the high winds, and the threat of invasion was over. Just as people gave credit to the martyred archbishop for the capture of Henry’s greatest enemy, they saw the dispersal of the Flemish fleet as yet another proof of St Thomas’s favor.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
July 1174
Northampton, England
Ranulf halted on the steps of the great hall, watching as a large group of horsemen rode into the castle bailey. When he recognized their leader as Henry’s illegitimate son, he hastened over to bid Geoff welcome and as soon as the latter dismounted, they embraced with the euphoria that all of Henry’s supporters shared these days.
“I’ve brought seven hundred knights with me,” Geoff said proudly. “Can we find beds for them all?”
“We’ll manage,” Ranulf assured him. “Your men are going to be disappointed, though, for the fighting is done.”
Geoff blinked in surprise. “All done?” he asked, trying to conceal his own disappointment. “I heard that the garrison at Huntingdon Castle surrendered. But what about Hugh Bigod and the Earl of Derby?”
“Hugh Bigod skulked out of his lair and pleaded for the king’s mercy two days ago. And on Tuesday we will be receiving the submissions of the Earl of Derby, the Earl of Leicester’s constable, Roger Mowbray, and our disgruntled bishop, Hugh of Durham.”
Geoff could only shake his head in amazement. “Then the rebellion in England is truly over!”
“I think that happened the moment the Scots king was taken at Alnwick. For all the talk of rats deserting a sinking ship, they have nothing on rebel lords trying to save their skins. They damned near trampled themselves in their rush to make peace with the king. Speaking of kings, you missed quite a spectacle this morn-the arrival of the Scots king.”
“I would have enjoyed seeing that,” Geoff said, with vengefulness that he knew did not befit a bishop-elect. But he did not care, wanting to savor every moment of their victory over Henry’s enemies. “Was he taken before my lord father in shackles?”
“No, but he arrived with his feet tied under his horse, an affront not usually inflicted upon kings. For all that he calls himself William the Lion, he seemed more like a docile stable cat to me. He managed to cling to his dignity, but there was no bravado, none at all. He is going to have to pay a huge price for his freedom, and he well knows it.”
Leaving the castle steward to figure out where to lodge these new arrivals, they started across the bailey. “You’ll be a sight to gladden your father’s eyes,” Ranulf said. “He was right proud of your triumphs in the North. Who knew you had the makings of a first-rate battle commander?” he joked, amused when Geoff actually blushed. “I should warn you, though, lad, that your father is hobbling about with a crutch, and he is as bad a patient as you’d expect him to be.”
“Was he wounded in the siege of Huntingdon?” Geoff asked, sounding so alarmed that Ranulf hastened to offer reassurances, explaining that Henry had been injured the day before when the Templar Tostes de St Omer’s horse had lashed out suddenly, striking the king in the leg.
That allayed some but not all of Geoff’s concerns, for he knew how easily wounds could become infected; he’d never forgotten the fate of a boyhood friend, who’d died in agony after stepping on a rusty nail. Once they entered the great hall, he headed for the dais, so eager to see his father that he barely heard the greetings and congratulations trailing in his wake. Henry was just as delighted to see his son, and waved Geoff up onto the dais so they could talk with a modicum of privacy. He brushed off Geoff’s concerns for his injury, saying wryly, “It is downright embarrassing, getting kicked by a horse at my age. And it was not even my horse!”
Ordering chairs for Geoff and Ranulf, he did his best to get his aching leg comfortable on a cushioned footstool, and then made his son very happy by asking to hear all about Geoff’s military exploits. Geoff needed no further urging and launched into a detailed account of the captures of Roger Mowbray’s castles at Kinnardferry and Kirkby Malzeard and his success in penning up the rebel garrison at Thirsk. Henry listened attentively, asked all the right questions, and waited until Geoff was done before sharing his own news with his son.
“A messenger reached me this morn with unwelcome word from Normandy. After learning that I’d sailed for England, the French king recalled Hal and the Count of Flanders and they are now laying siege to Rouen.”
