exempted because of his status as a crowned king. Afterward a lavish feast was planned, but before the meal and the entertainment began, Henry summoned his sons to the castle solar. They entered to find him already waiting for them.
“Come in, lads,” he said cheerfully. “Ere we go back to the great hall, I want to tell you of my plans for this coming year.”
They exchanged guarded glances, for experience had taught them that they were not always in accord with his plans. He was standing by the hearth and they quickly joined him by the fire, for the chamber was chill and damp, with drafts seeking entry at the shuttered windows and winter cold seeping in from every crack and fissure.
“It is time you started to earn your keep,” Henry said with a smile. “No more lolling about like pampered princelings.” His gaze lingered fondly for a moment on his second son, for Richard had come to full manhood in the past year; at seventeen, he was taller than most grown men, even taller now than Hal. “Come the morrow, you’re off to Poitou. My scouts tell me that the Poitevin barons are champing at the bit again. I want you to rein them in.”
To Richard, that sounded almost too good to be true. “I’ll have a free hand to restore order?” he asked warily, and when Henry said that he would, he grinned. “Do I have to wait till the morrow? I could be ready to leave within two hours.”
Henry grinned, too, remembering how eager he’d been at Richard’s age to prove himself. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.” He turned then toward Geoffrey, saying, “And you’re to go into Brittany, lad, to deal with Eudo de Porhoet and the rest of those Breton bandits. Roland de Dinan will accompany you. I know his loyalty has been suspect in the past, but that is only to be expected of a Breton lord; they play at rebellion the way other men play at dice. He has been steadfast for the past nine years, which counts as an eternity in Brittany. I can trust him with your safety, and you’ll learn much from him.”
Geoffrey glanced from Henry to Richard, back to his father. “Why do I need a wet-nurse if Richard does not?”
“I’d not call Roland a wet-nurse to his face, lad; he’d not like it. And the reason you need more guidance than Richard is simple. He’s a twelvemonth older than you and passed much of last year on his own in Poitou, where by all accounts he acquitted himself well.”
Richard’s face flushed with pleasure, but almost at once he felt a twinge of guilt. How could he take pride in his father’s praise as long as his mother remained entombed at Sarum?
Geoffrey was not satisfied with his father’s response, but unlike his brothers, he never wasted time or energy in arguments he was sure to lose, and he subsided with a shrug and a neutral “As you wish.”
Hal had been a silent observer until now. No longer able to conceal his impatience, he interrupted when Henry began to expand upon the unreliability of the Bretons. “What of me?”
“You may be sure I’ve not forgotten you, lad,” Henry assured him. “You’ll be spending the coming year as a king in training. I have to venture into Anjou, but I expect to be back in Normandy within a few weeks. Then we will take ship for England, you and I.”
Hal struggled to hide his dismay. “Together?” he said glumly, his hopes dashed. He’d known that his father was planning to return to England and, when he listened as Richard and Geoffrey were given authority and commands, his own expectations had soared. Why should he not be entrusted with Normandy? Or at the least, Anjou. Instead, he was to be his father’s shadow, at his beck and call day and night, with no more independence than an indentured apprentice. Where was the fairness in that?
“This time together will give us a chance for a new beginning, Hal, whilst being a learning experience for you,” Henry said, with such enthusiasm that Hal mustered up an unconvincing smile, and tried to ignore his brothers, who were laughing at him behind Henry’s back. Let them mock all they wanted, for the last laugh would still be his. He was the one who was king, even if it did seem like an empty honor more often than not.
The Earl of Essex reached the coastal city of Caen in late March, and headed for the ducal castle. He was at once ushered into the king’s solar, where Henry was occupied in confirming to Montebourg Abbey the chapel of St Maglorius on the Isle of Sark. He looked up with a smile as Willem entered, then reached for his great seal. A number of men had gathered to witness the charter, but once it was done, they exited the chamber, leaving Henry with a handful of his most trusted inner circle: the Archbishop of Rouen; Maurice de Craon, his English justiciar; Richard de Lucy, his Norman constable; Richard du Hommet; the abbot of Mont St Michel; his natural son Geoff; and the newly arrived Willem, returning from a diplomatic mission to the court of the Count of Flanders.
Willem had just begun his report, though, when they were interrupted by a message from Henry’s eldest son, presently at Rouen. Henry at once ordered the man to be admitted, explaining to Willem that he and Hal would soon be sailing for England. He was somewhat surprised by the identity of the messenger, for Hal’s letter was delivered by his vice-chancellor, Adam de Churchedune, not the sort of errand normally undertaken by men of rank.
“Take a seat, Adam,” he said, for the cleric was not a young man, and then broke Hal’s seal, began to read his missive. Almost at once, he looked up, his expression so blank that the other men knew at once something was very wrong. “Hal refuses to accompany me to England,” he said, and he sounded so shocked that the normally even-tempered Earl of Essex felt a stab of hot rage, fury that the king’s ungrateful whelp was once more giving his father grief.
“I do not understand,” Henry confessed. “When we parted last month, all was well between us. What new grudge can he be nursing now?”
“Does it matter?” Willem said. “You’ve been more than patient with him, my liege. If it were me, I’d command him to come to Caen straightaway and nip this nonsense in the bud.” As Willem glanced around, he saw that his words were well received by the other men; several were nodding in agreement and Geoff was muttering under his breath, too outraged by his brother’s antics for circumspection. But Hal’s chancellor was shaking his head emphatically.
“My lord king, that would be a great mistake.” Leaning forward, he said earnestly, “I offered to take Lord Hal’s message myself so that I might speak with you in confidence.”
None of the others were surprised by this revelation; they’d taken it for granted that Henry would have put men he could trust in Hal’s household, men whose loyalty would be to the sire, not the son. Henry looked down again at Hal’s letter, so terse and succinct, so brusque and defiant. Glancing up at the chancellor, he said, “I hope to God you can explain this, Adam,” too shaken to pretend he was not angry, perplexed, and hurt by Hal’s latest transgression. “I thought we’d put all this lunacy behind us last September.”
“My liege…it grieves me to say this, but the young king, your son, is as constant as wax. I do not doubt that he has a good heart. He is easily swayed, though, swings like a weathercock in a high wind, and of late he has been listening to the wrong men again, to those who wish you ill. They have planted a poisonous seed in his mind, warning him that you want to lure him to England so that you may then imprison him like the queen.”
Henry was stunned. “And he believed that?”
Adam nodded somberly. “Alas, he did, my lord. They played skillfully upon his doubts, his resentments, and stirred up his fears by suggesting that there was something sinister in your decision not to demand homage from him. They argued that homage is an act of mutual obligation, claimed that you did not want to accept his homage because you did not want to be held accountable as his liege lord, proof that you must be plotting treachery once he was in England and utterly in your power.”
“That is ludicrous! I waived homage to honor Hal.”
“I know that, my liege. But now you see why I say it would be a mistake to command his presence at Caen. That would only confirm his suspicions, convince him that his so-called friends had spoken true.”
Henry slumped down in his seat, suddenly as weary as if he’d spent a full day on the hunt. “What would you suggest?” he said at last, and when the chancellor urged gentle persuasion, words of reassurance rather than rage, he agreed to take that approach. But he felt defeated even before he began. Christ on the Cross, were they to start the madness all over again?
Wolves were usually hunted only from September’s Nativity of Our Lady to March’s Annunciation. But upon Henry’s arrival at his hunting lodge, the villagers of Bures asked him to track down and slay a lone wolf that had been killing their sheep. He set out early the next morning. His lymer hounds had no luck in picking up the rogue wolf’s scent, though, and men, horses, and dogs returned tired and disappointed at day’s end, where he found Hal
