Best of all, there was no sign of the chaplain. Hoping that his luck had changed for the better, John approached the stone font and filled the cup to the brim. But then he paused. What if they did not believe this was holy water? It was John’s experience that the world was not a trusting place and they were likely to be skeptical of his claim, especially since he’d succeeded where they’d failed. After pondering the problem, he moved quietly up the aisle toward the High Altar. There were two silver chalices upon it. If he put the holy water in one of them, they could not doubt him. But taking a church chalice was not the same as filching a kitchen cup. What if there was a hue and cry over its disappearance? Well, he could return it afterward. Anyway, how could it be stealing if it was his to begin with?
He poured the water from the cup into one of the chalices and smiled, pleased with his handiwork. It was then that the door to the chapel swung open. He ducked down behind the High Altar, holding his breath. Footsteps were echoing up the aisle of the nave; risking a glance, he caught a glimpse of a priest’s cassock. To his relief, the footsteps soon receded, but he decided to stay where he was until he was sure the priest was not loitering outside.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he stuck his finger in the chalice, relieved when the water did not burn. A pity he could not figure out a way to spill it on Geoffrey. He was surely a sinner, guilty of adultery and fornication this very day. To John, those were the least of his sins. Having brothers so much older than he had been a trial, for when they were not ignoring him, they were amusing themselves by playing pranks on him and making him feel foolish. His most vivid Christmas memory was of such an episode. He’d been very young, four, he thought. It was one of those rare times when he’d been summoned from Fontevrault with Joanna to his father’s Christmas Court at Bures. It was only a hunting lodge and there was not enough room to accommodate so many people. Both of his parents were short-tempered and edgy, not showing any taste for the revelries; years later, he would realize that this was the infamous Christmas Court when his father flew into such a rage and doomed Thomas Becket with a few ill-chosen words. At the time, though, he’d known only that no one seemed to be paying him much mind.
He had dim memories of playing with Joanna in the great hall, chasing each other around and being scolded by their mother. But the memory he’d have liked to forget continued to burn brightly in the back of his brain. He’d been disappointed to find that Hal was in England. He was still drawn to Richard and Geoffrey, though, for at thirteen and twelve, they seemed very grown-up to him, and so he’d trailed after them, much to their annoyance. One day he’d followed them into the village cemetery, where he’d fallen into an open grave and was trapped there for what had seemed like hours. They’d later sworn that they’d not heard him crying for help, but he had never believed them. After that, he no longer tried to be included, avoided them whenever he could.
He’d just risen, intent upon sneaking out, when the door opened again. He dropped down again, so hastily that he spilled some of the holy water upon his mantle. The priest was back. He did not enter, though, saying, “I will remain outside, my lord, make sure that you are not disturbed.” Footsteps now sounded, a heavier tread than the priest’s, and John peeked from behind the altar cloth, saw to his horror that it was his father.
Henry moved toward the High Altar, and John shivered, for they were now separated only by a length of embroidered cloth. His father had knelt, began to pray. John caught random words, but not enough to make sense, for his Latin studies were not that advanced. He stayed very still, hoping Henry would soon go away. He made no move to leave, though, murmured a name, “Rosamund,” and John stiffened, for he knew that was his father’s leman. He risked another look, saw that Henry had buried his head in his hands, and was stunned to realize that his father was weeping. The sight frightened him. He’d never imagined grown men cried, and for certes, not his father, not the king. Knowing that this was a scene no one was supposed to see, he panicked and decided to creep toward the sacristy, where there were more places to hide. If he were very quiet, his father ought not to hear him. But his fear made him clumsy, and as he rose to a half-crouch, the chalice slipped from his grasp, tumbled onto the tiles with a sound loud enough to be heard in Heaven.
Henry’s head came up sharply. Outraged that even here in God’s House he could not have privacy to grieve for Rosamund, he got swiftly to his feet and strode toward the High Altar. “Who is there? How dare you spy upon me!”
He was shocked to find his youngest son huddled behind the altar, his eyes enormous in the white blur of his face, Eleanor’s eyes, although he’d never seen in them what he now saw in John’s-sheer terror. “Johnny?”
“I am sorry,” the boy mumbled, “so sorry…I was not spying, I was not!”
“I know, Johnny, I know. It is all right, lad. I am not angry, not with you. You just took me by surprise.” Henry was appalled to see how the boy was trembling. Christ Jesus, was he afraid of his own father? Kneeling so that he could look into John’s eyes, he said, “I am sorry I yelled at you, lad.”
John did not know what to say, so he kept silent, for he’d learned silence was usually the safest way.
“I had grievous news yesterday,” Henry said softly. “One very dear to me has died. I’d been deluding myself, refusing to admit how ill she really was. Grown men ought to know better, but we can be as foolish as children that way. As if denying what we fear will somehow make it any less true…”
John had not thought his father feared anything on God’s Earth. “I am sorry,” he said again, feeling as if the very ground were shifting under his feet.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, Johnny. I am glad that you are here.”
John blinked. “You are?”
“Yes,” Henry said, and gathered the boy into his arms. “I was feeling very alone today. I needed to be reminded that it is not so, that I have you, I still have a son…”
John did not move, even though his father was holding him so tightly that it hurt. His cheek was scratched by Henry’s beard, and he inhaled the scent of wine and sweat and horses. He still did not know what to say, but his father did not seem to require any words. Getting to his feet, he held out his hand. John took it and followed him from the chapel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
June 1177
Paris, France
Marguerite’s bedchamber was shadowed and still, although outside the morning sun was bathing Paris in blinding white light. As Hal entered, one of his wife’s attendants rose from her seat by the bed and came to meet him. Most of her ladies were high-spirited, pretty girls, but Agace was well into her forties, for she’d been with the young queen since the latter’s childhood, and they often seemed like mother and daughter to Hal. He was thankful that she’d been with Marguerite during her delivery, and he was heartened now by her vigil, sure that no evil would befall Marguerite as long as the formidable Agace was on guard.
“How is she this morn?” he asked softly, and smiled when she assured him that Marguerite had passed a peaceful night. “Our lad,” he said, “is doing well, too. His wet-nurse said she got him to take a little more milk, and that is surely a good sign, no?”
Agace regarded him somberly, wondering if he was truly so oblivious of his son’s danger. Marguerite’s labor had been long and difficult and at one point, they’d been terrified that her life was bleeding away. She’d finally given birth to one of the smallest babies Agace had ever seen, his skin so red he seemed badly sunburned. She’d been so sure he was stillborn that she burst into tears. The midwife had breathed life into his little lungs, but she was not sanguine about his chances of survival, telling Agace privately that the baby had many battles ahead of him. Three days had passed since his birth, and Agace saw no great improvement in his condition. No one had told Marguerite of their fears, but Agace knew she shared them. Each time she cradled her son, she seemed spellbound by his every breath, mesmerized by the feeble sound of his heartbeat.
The midwife had been far more candid with Hal than Marguerite. To no avail, Agace now realized. He could not face the fact that his son might die, and so it was not going to happen. Hal’s reality was whatever he wanted it to be. She felt honor-bound to warn him, nonetheless, that he ought to be braced for the worst, as it was not for mortal men to understand the mysterious workings of the Almighty. “My lord, the midwife said that babies born early are-”
“Hal?” Marguerite’s voice came sleepily from the bed, and he hastened to her side, Agace and her forebodings forgotten.
“I am right here, my heart.” Leaning over, he kissed her gently. “I have something for the new mother,” he
