“You’ll be returning, then, to Normandy,” Geoff exclaimed, his eyes alight. “May I go with you? It may be our only chance to fight side by side!”
Henry had never understood the appeal that war held for other men. Even in his youth, he’d not been bedazzled by dreams of glory, had always looked upon war as a necessary evil, a king’s last resort. “You’re sounding rather bloodthirsty for a bishop, lad,” he teased. “Speaking of that, we will have to get the Pope’s approval of your election once the rebellion is finally over. Would you fancy going to Rome yourself? Let me know if so, and I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
Geoff’s face shadowed, and he glanced away, saying nothing. Henry did not notice. Ranulf did, though. He knew most people would share Henry’s view, that he was bestowing a great honor upon his son, especially one born out of wedlock. But Ranulf had learned a hard lesson with his own eldest-that sons did not always share their fathers’ aspirations, and he understood, as few others did, that an unwanted honor could be a heavy burden. Giving the reluctant bishop a sympathetic look, he sought to change the subject before the silence could become awkward, and admitted that he hoped to go home to Wales now that the rebellion in England was won.
“I wish there were a way to lure you and Lady Rhiannon to my court and keep you here,” Henry said. “But I know I cannot compete with the siren songs of Wales. Go with my blessings, Uncle. You’ve more than paid your dues. As have your Welsh countrymen.” Turning to Geoff, he lavished praise upon his Welsh ally, Rhys ap Gruffydd.
“Not only has he kept the peace along the marches, Rhys even led a contingent of Welshmen to fight for me in England, laying siege to Derby’s stronghold at Tutbury.”
Geoff was impressed. “The Welsh are usually ones for taking advantage of English strife.” At once regretting his candor, he glanced apologetically at Ranulf. “No offense, Uncle. How will you reward Rhys for his loyalty, Papa?”
“By giving him what he most wants-a free hand in Wales. I wish it were so easy to reward your rogue prince, Ranulf. Davydd ab Owain has been no less steadfast for me than Rhys. But now he is asking for a boon in return, one I’d rather not bestow upon him.”
“What does he want?” Ranulf asked curiously. “Horses, cattle? Gold? Surely not a border castle? I doubt even Davydd would be that brazen.”
“What he wants,” Henry said, “is my sister. Did you notice that Benedictine monk over there, Ranulf? That is Brother Simon, sent from Basingwerk Abbey to ask for Emma’s hand in marriage. Davydd wants to be able to boast that he is the King of England’s brother-in-law, I suppose. He also knows that she’d bring a few English manors as her marriage portion. I daresay he’s heard that she is a beauty, too, and that never hurts. I’d as soon tell him nay. I liked Hywel, the brother he killed, and I agree with your dismal view of his character. But I will probably have to give my consent if I hope to keep the peace along the border. As thin-skinned as Davydd is, he’s like to take a refusal as a mortal insult.”
“Yes,” Ranulf agreed reluctantly, “he would.” He did not know Emma well at all, remembered her as very fair and rather prideful, but he sympathized with any woman yoked to Davydd ab Owain. “What will Emma think of this?”
Henry shrugged. “She probably will not like it much at first. My family seems cursed with strong-willed women, and Emma is definitely one of them. But it is a good match for her. Whatever his other failings, Davydd is a prince. If she bears him sons, they can expect to rule over most of Gwynedd one day.”
Geoff did not know the Welsh prince at all and barely knew his aunt Emma, so he did not have any real interest in whether they wed or not. “Do you know what I find most miraculous, Papa? That the Scots king was captured at the very same hour that you were concluding your penance at Canterbury!”
Henry laughed, a laugh Geoff had not heard in quite a while. “Thomas was ever one for showing off,” he said with a grin, “and he always had a flair for drama. He wanted there to be no doubts whatsoever that he and the Almighty had forgiven me. Not even Louis Capet can argue otherwise now.” Glancing from his son to his uncle, he surprised them, then, by offering a rare, unguarded glimpse into the depths of his soul, saying quietly, “It is a blessing to be at peace with God again-and with Thomas.”
“I shall honor St Thomas for the rest of my days,” Geoff promised, and Henry’s gaze lingered upon his face.
“You are my true son, Geoff. The others, they are the baseborn ones, the bastards.”
Geoff was speechless. Swallowing with difficulty, he blinked back tears, which Henry and Ranulf tactfully pretended not to see. Looking from one to the other, Ranulf felt a deep and abiding gratitude that Harry’s wounds no longer bled. God Willing, mayhap now they might begin to heal. “You asked me once if I thought Thomas was a saint,” he said, smiling. “Who could have guessed that it would be Thomas himself who’d answer you?”
Once he was satisfied that the English rebellion was quelled, Henry turned his attention to ending hostilities in France, and landed at Barfleur on August 8, exactly one month since he’d sailed for England. He’d brought back with him the Earls of Leicester and Chester and the unfortunate Scots king, and after depositing them safely at Falaise, he struck out for Rouen. By the night of August 10, he was within fifteen miles of the city, and ordered his men to make camp for the night, intending to enter Rouen on the morrow.
Lifting a smoldering oil lamp, Henry leaned over to illuminate a parchment map. “Take a look at this,” he directed, and Rhys ap Gruffydd’s son Hywel crossed the tent to study the map. Rhys had dispatched Hywel as a gesture of solidarity at the start of the rebellion, and since Henry now had one thousand of Rhys’s Welshmen at his disposal, it made sense to put them under Hywel’s command.
“This is Rouen, here. It is not an easy city to besiege, protected by the River Seine on one side and by hills on the other. I’ve been told that the French did not have enough men to surround the city, and they have concentrated upon the east. They are employing their soldiers in eight-hour shifts, so that they can continue bombarding Rouen day and night with their siege engines and crossbowmen. But because the townsmen still control the bridge to the west, they have continued to bring in supplies and need not fear being starved into submission.”
“So we can march right into the town through the west gate,” Hywel said, marveling at the ineptitude of the French commanders. “It sounds like a waste of time, effort, money, and men. What is the point of laying siege to a city unless they are cut off from reinforcements?”
“You’d have to take that up with Louis Capet,” Henry said cheerfully. “As for me, I am just thankful that my foes are conducting this campaign with the military skills of a mother abbess. Look over here, Hywel. This area east of Rouen is heavily wooded. I well remember the havoc you Welsh wreaked upon my men on my last incursion into Wales. It was like fighting phantoms, forest demons who’d strike without warning, then fade back into the shadows ere we could retaliate. What I propose is turning your men loose upon our French friends. Can you circle around behind their lines and cut off their supply wagons?”
Hywel grinned. “I thought you were going to offer us a challenge. That will be too easy!”
Henry grinned, too. “I promise to find you something more perilous next time,” he said, and then turned as one of his men ducked under the tent flap.
“My liege, a man has just ridden into camp, bold as you please, and asked to see you. He said to tell you-this is going to sound daft, but he said ‘planta genesta.’ ”
He sounded so puzzled that Henry burst out laughing. “I will see him straightaway,” he said, and dismissed the other men in his tent, allowing only Willem to remain as they awaited the mysterious stranger.
“I am not going to ask,” Willem said at last, and Henry took pity on him, saying with a smile, “ Planta genesta is the Latin name for the broom plant. My father liked to wear a sprig on his cap, and when I was thinking of a code word, that just came to mind.”
“I take it I am about to meet one of your spies?”
“One of the best, Willem, one of the very best,” Henry said, as a young man was ushered into the tent. He was as dark as a Saracen, with unfashionably long hair and slanted black eyes that laughed up at Henry as he knelt before the king. “Willem,” Henry said, “meet…well, you may call him Luc.” Gesturing for his visitor to rise, he pointed toward the table. “There is a flagon of wine; help yourself. Why are you not at the siege with Louis?”
Luc rose as lithely as a cat, and then strode over to pour himself some wine. “The French king heard an alarming rumor that you’d sailed for Normandy. I kindly volunteered to ride to Barfleur and keep vigil, for it occurred to me that would be an easy way to pass on my report once you arrived. It was a surprise, and a pleasant one, to find you almost within hailing distance of the city walls. Your eerie ability to appear in a puff of smoke has saved me
