Richard was ushered into Henry’s tent by startled guards. He had a quick glimpse of the men-his father, the Earl of Essex, Maurice de Craon, and Richard du Hommet, the constable of Normandy-all of them looking no less astonished than the guards. At the last moment, his courage failed him, and he looked away, not wanting to watch their triumphant faces as he humbled himself. Fumbling with the belt of his scabbard, he unbuckled his sword. It was his prized possession, a gift from his mother on that day two years ago when he’d been invested as Duke of Aquitaine, fashioned by the best bladesmith in Bordeaux, with a thirty-inch double-edged blade, an enameled pommel, inlaid with silver for that was thought to prevent blunting, engraved in Latin with the words In Nomine Domini, the ultimate symbol of knighthood. He’d called it Joyeuse, said to have been the name of Charlemagne’s celebrated sword, which flashed lighting in the heat of battle. He’d never expected to surrender it, and giving it up now was as painful as any physical wound.
Coming forward, he carefully placed the sword and scabbard on the ground, then sank to his knees before his father. “I am here to seek your forgiveness, my liege,” he said hoarsely. “You may do with me as you will.” To his horror, tears filled his eyes, and he angrily swiped at them with the sleeve of his tunic before nerving himself to look up at Henry. To his amazement, he could see tears shimmering in his father’s eyes, too. Henry reached down, holding out his hand.
“Of course you are forgiven,” he said, and when Richard took his hand, he was raised to his feet and then gathered to the older man in a tight embrace.
Richard was not sure what he’d expected, but not this warm welcome, this genuine and manifest joy. His father’s companions seemed to share it, too, treating him as if his was the return of the Prodigal Son, not the surrender of a beaten rebel. Wine was brought out, and then food, venison like the meal being served back in his own camp. Richard held his plate awkwardly, not sure if he could swallow a morsel. “I ought to send word to my men,” he said hesitantly. “Raoul de Faye and Saldebreuil de Sanzay are there, amongst others. Need I…need I fear that they will be punished for my sins?”
Henry reached for another piece of bread, unable to remember when he’d been so hungry. “No,” he said, “I mean to issue a general pardon for all who took part in the rebellion.”
Richard’s shoulders slumped, so great was his relief. “Thank you,” he mumbled, for that seemed expected of him. All around him, the other men were laughing and talking, gesturing with their wine cups, and his sense of unreality grew ever stronger. Could it truly be this easy?
“We will return to Poitiers on the morrow,” Henry declared, “and ride into the city together so that all may see peace has been restored. And at Michaelmas, we will meet your brothers and the French king, put all this foolishness behind us.” He shifted so that he could look directly into Richard’s face. “I mean to do right by you and your brothers. The provisions will not be as lavish as the terms I offered last year, but I think you will be pleased.”
“Thank you,” Richard said again, the words coming automatically to his lips with a calm that belied his inner turmoil. He knew it would be wise to keep silent, to do nothing to threaten this rare moment of harmony. But he could not do that. “May I ask you a question?”
Henry nodded. “Ask,” he said, with a slight smile, and Richard drew a deep, bracing breath.
“You have forgiven me for taking up arms against you. You have said that you do not mean to imprison or disinherit the others who joined the rebellion. You have been more generous than I dared hope. But there is this I must know. Can you not find it in your heart to forgive my mother?”
The mood in the tent was transformed as soon as the words had left his mouth. He saw the other men stiffen in the way he’d seen people react when caught out in a storm, listening uneasily to the rumble of thunder and scanning the skies as lightning flashed overhead.
Henry did not speak for a time, struggling against the tide of raw emotion unleashed by the mere mention of Eleanor’s name. He’d not wanted to make Joanna choose between them, for she was a child, an innocent who could not be blamed for loving unwisely. He’d not intended to extend that privilege to his sons, for surely they’d forfeited that right by swallowing her poison so willingly. But as he looked now at Richard, he realized that it would not be that simple, that easy. He saw emotions in Richard’s face as conflicted as his own-fear and defiance and confusion and love, love for the woman who’d betrayed him so cruelly. He was going to have to learn to live with that, with Richard’s misplaced loyalty, at least until the boy came to see the truth about his mother.
“That took courage,” he said at last, “and you’ve earned an honest answer…this one time. I will not speak of this again, Richard. I know this is not what you want to hear. But it cannot be helped. No, lad. I cannot forgive your mother. Not now, not ever.”
On September 29, Henry met the French king on the riverbank of Montlouis-sur-Loire, not far from Tours. The day was overcast and dark clouds were gathering ominously along the horizon. Henry and Richard arrived at the same time as the French, and after an awkward exchange of greetings, they moved into the village churchyard so they could take shelter in the church if the storm broke.
“Before we discuss terms for peace,” Louis said earnestly, “your sons wish to express their remorse and grief that it ever came to this.”
Henry frowned, not sure if he could long endure Louis at his most sanctimonious and self-righteous. As if he were a Good Samaritan, who wanted only to heal this lamentable family feud! But Hal and Geoffrey had taken their cue and were coming forward to kneel respectfully before him. Hal’s distress seemed genuine; Henry could not help wondering, though, what he regretted most-that he’d rebelled or that he’d lost. He did not want to let such suspicions mar their reconciliation, and he did his best to put any doubts aside as Hal and then Geoffrey expressed their sorrow, their contrition, and their resolve to make amends, to be the dutiful, loving sons that he deserved.
When their penance was done, Henry played his part and offered them absolution, raising them up for the formal kiss of peace and then quick, paternal hugs. “What’s past is past,” he said, “and it is forgiven.”
Beaming, Louis then embraced Hal and Geoffrey, too, but when he took a step in Richard’s direction, he was warned off by the expression on the youth’s face, and contented himself with declaring his joy that this breach was mended, quoting from Scriptures to prove his point. Honor thy father, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee; that thy days may be prolonged. And if some noticed that he’d diplomatically edited the Holy Writ by excising any mention of thy mother, none were tactless enough to comment upon it.
Hal and Geoffrey now offered strained greetings to Richard, who was even more laconic in reply. Hal then took Henry aside, seeking a moment alone. Withdrawing into the cemetery that bordered the churchyard, they walked among the wooden crosses and flat gravestones as Henry waited, with rare patience, for his son to speak.
“Not the most auspicious of settings, is it?” Hal said wryly, gesturing toward the moss-covered grave markers. “Making peace in a burial ground is like getting wed in a whorehouse. But I do want there to be peace between us, Papa. That I swear to you upon the surety of my soul.”
Henry was as moved by the tears in Hal’s eyes as he was by his words, and he felt a surge of gratitude that the Almighty and St Thomas had given him this second chance, an opportunity to make things right with his sons. “I also want that, Hal,” he said, and when they embraced, he truly believed that they’d made a new beginning. From the way Hal’s eyes were shining, he could see that Hal believed it, too.
“As much as I enjoy watching Louis wriggling on the hook,” he said, “we’d best rejoin the others so I can end the suspense about my intentions.”
Hal was one of those anxiously awaiting Henry’s judgment, for all knew this was not a genuine peace conference. As the victor, the English king would be the man dictating the terms of that peace, and they would have to swallow his brew, however bitter they found it. He could only hope that his father would be lenient as he followed Henry back into the churchyard.
Henry wasted no time on preliminaries. “I mean to issue a general pardon to all those who took part in the rebellion,” he said, before adding a proviso. “There are four exceptions, however, four men who will not be included in the pardon: the Scots king, the Earl of Leicester, the Earl of Chester, and the Breton lord, Raoul de Fougeres. They will have to bargain for their freedom, and only after I feel they can be trusted to honor their oaths.”
There were murmurings of relief, for all who owed homage to Henry had been well aware that he could have charged them with treason. Hal edged over toward Will Marshal to murmur sotto voce, “See, I told you that there was no cause for concern. I knew my father would not punish you for being loyal to me.”
