and Marguerite were waiting for him.
Hal greeted him effusively, apologized for the “misunderstanding,” and announced that they were ready to depart for England whenever he wished. Greatly relieved that Adam’s “gentle persuasion” had worked, Henry welcomed his son and daughter-in-law warmly, thankful that they’d avoided a confrontation. The lodge was neither large nor spacious, ill suited to accommodate the retinues of two kings and a queen, but Henry’s servants did their best to provide a more elaborate meal than Henry would otherwise have expected, and after the dining was done, Hal held court in the great hall, laughing and jesting and charming with his usual ease, basking in the attention he was attracting. He did not notice when his father withdrew, ceding him center stage.
Henry slipped out of a side door, stood for a time staring up at the starlit April sky. His initial pleasure had slowly ebbed away as the evening wore on, leaving him with an edgy sense of unease. Was this to be the pattern for years to come? Hal would balk, be coaxed into compliance, and all would be well-until the next time he took offense. How could the thinking of his own son be so alien to him? How had they ever gotten to this road that led nowhere?
It was a mild night and others were outside, too. As he was recognized, several men would have approached him, but he waved them off impatiently. But then he saw one man he did want to speak with, and he moved to intercept William Marshal as he ambled from the direction of the latrines.
“Marshal,” he said, stepping from the shadows into the knight’s path. Beckoning, he led the younger man away from their audience of eager eavesdroppers. Will followed, but his stiff posture and ducked head conveyed his discomfort as clearly as words could have done. He showed no surprise when Henry launched into a low-voiced, angry reprimand, for he’d been anticipating his sovereign’s displeasure.
“I expected better from you, Will. You are one of the few men of Hal’s household who has a grain of common sense and a speaking acquaintance with honor. Why have you failed so dismally to protect my son?”
“My liege…what would you have me say? I told you at Avranches that I could not spy upon him.”
“I am not asking that of you,” Henry snapped. “But I do expect you to give him the benefit of your maturity and your good judgment, and I see precious little evidence of that. When his legion of lackeys and drones and leeches seek to poison his mind against me, what do you do? Do you stay silent? Or do you join in with the rest of the baying hounds?”
“Sire, that is not fair! I would never speak against you to the young king. I have always encouraged him to mend this rift between you. But mine is not the only voice he heeds.”
That was not what Henry wanted to hear. He needed to believe there was at least one rational voice to counsel his son, for his own words seemed to be falling upon deaf ears. “Then what good are you to me?” he said harshly, and turned on his heel before Will could respond, heading back toward the great hall. Will trailed unhappily after him, but knew better than to try to plead his case when the king was in one of his tempers.
Hal was encircled by his knights, and they were applauding and cheering so enthusiastically that Henry wondered sardonically if he’d just ordered another wine-keg broken open. Gesturing to Will, he said, “Tell the ‘young king’ that the old one wants to speak with him upon the dais.”
Hal soon sauntered in his direction, an arm draped around Marguerite’s waist, his face flushed with wine, his eyes bright with laughter. “You wanted me, Papa?”
“I am going to my own chamber, will leave the festivities to your keeping. Enjoy yourselves, but remember that men bed down in the hall at night, so if you carouse till dawn, they’ll get no sleep.”
Hal promised to keep that in mind, then turned as one of his knights approached, fervently expressing his eternal gratitude and loyalty. Hal sent him off with a laugh and a quip, then explained for Henry’s benefit that Giles had suffered a stroke of bad luck; his palfrey had gone lame on the ride to Bures and the village farrier had given a dread diagnosis, that the horse had foundered and must be put down. “Giles has barely two deniers to rub together, and a tightfisted father who’d see him mounted on a goat ere he’d help out. So I offered him one of the horses in my stable. He’s a good lad, is Giles, so why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” Henry agreed dryly, for he knew that he’d end up getting the bill for the stallion Hal would buy to replace the one he’d so magnanimously bestowed on Giles. But he reminded himself that generosity was a virtue, lauded in a prince, and he asked Hal if he’d like to join the hunt on the morrow for the elusive, sheep-killing wolf.
“I’d like nothing better! I’d ask a favor of you, though-that I be given the wolf’s pelt to make a mantle.”
Henry blinked in surprise. “Why? You know how difficult it is to get rid of the stink of wolf.”
Hal grinned and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “You know Adam d’Yquebeuf,” he said, naming one of the most sycophantic and fawning of his knights. “He’s not a bad sort, but sometimes I think that if my boots got muddied, he’d offer to lick them clean.”
Henry understood, for that was always a risk of kingship; a crown too often drew the servile and obsequious as well as the capable and confident. “So you are going to give that poor sod a fur cloak that is likely to reek to high heaven,” he said, “knowing he’d wear it day and night if it came from you.” Hal laughed and Marguerite giggled even as she pretended to disapprove of his mischief-making, but Hal looked thoughtful when Henry then pointed out that since d’Yquebeuf was so often in his company, he’d be exposed to the rank wolf smell, too. Before bidding them good night, he offered Hal one final boon, seeking to ease his mind by removing any doubts about the dual obligations of homage, and told his son that he would receive Hal’s homage ere they sailed for England. But he was taken aback by his son’s reaction. Hal’s face shadowed and he glanced away, no longer meeting his father’s eyes.
A pile of correspondence had been heaped on the table in his bedchamber, and Henry had planned to tackle it before he went to bed. But he was too restless to concentrate, and instead of summoning his scribe, he began to root through a coffer for something to read; the recipient of an excellent education, he never traveled without books. The first one he picked up was Wace’s Roman de Brut, a history in verse of the English people. Wace had dedicated it to Eleanor, though, and that reminder was enough for him to put it aside. He flipped through Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae next, a mythic history of the English kings and the legend of King Arthur, and eventually settled upon Commentarii de Bello Gallico. But even Caesar’s own account of the conquest of Gaul could not long hold his attention, and he sent one of his squires to fetch his son.
Hal did not look pleased to be dragged away from the revelries in the hall, and did not seem reassured when Henry dismissed his squires so they could speak in private. “Help yourself to wine,” Henry said, and Hal quickly drained a cup, almost as if he needed to fortify himself for this interview. For a fleeting moment, Henry was assailed by a treacherous memory from his past, the day he’d awakened his wine-besotted father to confide that he would be marrying Eleanor as soon as she could shed the French king.
Geoffrey had cursed him freely and loudly for this unwelcome invasion of his bedchamber, and when Henry had laughed and said he had a great favor to ask, he’d grumbled, “Quit whilst you’re ahead, Harry, whilst you’re still in my will.” Henry’s news had sobered him, of course, and he was soon marveling that “Marriage to Eleanor could make you master of Europe one day…Christ Jesus, Harry, Caesar might well envy you!” He’d later warned Henry, though, that he should save his passion for his concubines, not his wife, offering the cynical counsel that “the best marriages are those based upon detached good will or benign indifference. But unfortunately for you, the one emotion you will never feel for Eleanor of Aquitaine is indifference.”
The memory was troubling. Any remembrance of Eleanor was painful, especially recollections of those early years. But recalling the easy camaraderie and barbed banter he’d enjoyed with his father, he also felt a deep sense of loss, of regret and bafflement that he did not have the same close relationship with his own sons. Where had he gone wrong?
“Papa?” Hal was regarding him in perplexity. “Why did you summon me? You pulled me away from a game of hazard when I was winning!”
“Hal…I know that others sought to convince you I had a nefarious motive in not demanding homage from you as I did your brothers. You need not look so surprised, lad; nothing travels faster than gossip. I daresay at least half of these boon companions of yours are in the pay of the French king, and I expected no better from them. But I never imagined that you’d be taken in by such slander. Jesu, lad, how could you believe that of me?”
Hal had stiffened, but by the time Henry was done speaking, he’d been disarmed by the naked pain in his father’s voice. Hal hated discord and quarrels, could not understand people like his brother Richard, who seemed to thrive on strife and controversy. He truly wanted to be at peace with his father, truly regretted their constant
