RHUDDLAN
By Nancy Gebel
Copyright 2011 Nancy Gebel
Cover Photograph of Eilean Donan Castle Copyright 2011 Anne-Marie Gebel
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PART I
Chapter 1
May, 1170
Westminster Palace, near London
The wine was surprisingly good. Hugh thought it must have come straight from the ship.
The flavorful taste of the wine was surprising because the king was not one to pay much attention to anything he wore, ate or drank with the result that his household tended to be just as careless, and a visitor to the court could well find himself choking down a cup of muddy, stale liquid which had been offered to him under the guise of wine. The king never seemed to notice—even when he was drinking it himself.
Perhaps it was due to the solemn occasion of the day that the tables in the great hall had been shrouded in fine linens and spread with a mouth-watering feast of roasted pig and venison, stuffed plover and pheasant, cheeses, imported figs and oranges, and above all, that pleasing wine. Servants hurried back and forth with platters and pitchers, making the rushlights in the sconces on the walls flicker wildly from the movement, attending to the lively, jovial crush of important guests. The king and his eldest son, who just that day had been crowned as his successor, sat at the raised dais with their counselors and other notable persons.
It was probably a combination of the large crowd inside the hall and the excellent condition of the wine which assured that much more of it was drunk than usual, that overheated many of the guests and caused the celebration to spill outside, down into the ward. And in the air of that fine spring evening, the loud and boastful conversations of the inebriated, mostly young men gathered in chatty clusters turned to tales of their exploits in war. One boast was challenged, and honor had to be defended. Swords were drawn. Half-drunk and half-serious, two opponents faced each other in a ring formed by their cohorts.
Watching from the top of the stair, idly swirling wine in his cup, Hugh had a clear view of the fighting men. One was a red-faced, red-haired giant of a man whom he had heard on previous occasions, bragging about this or that in a booming voice intended to impress. The other knight Hugh didn’t know. He was shorter than his adversary by a full head and grossly outweighed. In fact, his slight build, almost girlish-looking as he crouched in a defensive posture with his sword clutched firmly in both hands, going up against this Goliath would have made a comical sight if the red-haired knight hadn’t been glaring in such deadly earnest.
But the lithe knight soon proved himself more than equal to the fight. At first he kept moving, stepping lightly aside as the big man slashed his sword downwards and whirling away from his sideswipes. If he offered his own sword it was only to block a thrust or divert a stroke. After only a short time at this dance, the big knight began to tire. He was hot and had eaten and drunk too much at the feast. He was forced to turn round and round to find his opponent and jab out at him, and he was breathing hard. His friends shouted out encouragement and this seemed to rally him, but Hugh could tell the man wouldn’t last much longer. Not long ago he’d been laughing and joking; he probably couldn’t even remember what had prompted this battle and his heart wasn’t in it anymore.
The other knight saw what Hugh saw. His fair head sparkled under the torchlights and Hugh caught the satisfied expression on his face. He’d only been waiting for the precise moment to strike. As the big man lunged gracelessly towards him, he jumped easily out of his path and raised his own sword in a threatening manner.
Just then Hugh felt himself jostled roughly aside and when he turned to protest, he saw it was the king who had pushed his way onto the stair, followed by an entourage of curious soldiers, and that the king was furious.
“Bolsover!” he thundered down into the ward.
The blond knight checked his would-be blow and dropped the point of his sword immediately. He looked up at the king with a bland face. “Your Grace?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing! Who’s that other man?”
Bolsover’s opponent panted out his name, not daring to meet the king’s eyes.
“We were merely showing each other our technique, Your Grace,” Bolsover said in an easy tone. “We apologize if we’ve disturbed you.”
The king stared narrowly at him. “This is a celebratory feast, not a tournament, Robert!” he snapped. “There are ladies within who have no interest in seeing the color of your blood tonight. Do you understand me? Save your exhibitions for another time!”
Bolsover inclined his head without another word and the red-headed knight bowed hastily. The king turned, scattering his bodyguard and the onlookers who had crowded onto the stair behind him, and strode back into the hall.
Hugh made his way down to the ward. Bolsover was in the midst of a small group of soldiers, leisurely cleaning the dust from his sword by wiping it across the top of his leather boot, but the soldiers fell away when they recognized Hugh.
The young man glanced up. “My lord earl of Chester, isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“I saw the whole thing,” Hugh said. “I admire your footwork.”
Bolsover laughed. “Then you’re the first one who ever has,” he said, returning the sword to his belt. “The knights who trained me despaired of ever making me into a competent soldier. Too much dancing and not enough slashing, they’d say.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it was only a bit of fun. The day was too somber, wasn’t it?”
“Coronations are meant to be solemn occasions, I think,” Hugh answered with a little smile. He added curiously, “You weren’t planning to kill the man?”
“No! And the king knew it! He just didn’t want anyone stealing the thunder from his precious son.” But he spoke good-naturedly. His eyes held Hugh’s, mischievous and daring. “Henry’s a good man to serve,” he said.
“Which Henry?” Hugh inquired. “The old one or the young one?”
Bolsover laughed again. “That’s right! I have two masters now, haven’t I? Well, I’m sure the old Henry will set the young one up in his own household somewhere in the depths of Normandy, and somehow I’ll contrive not to be sent with him.” He spotted a squire hovering nearby and called him over. “Alan! Fetch the earl a cup of wine, and bring me water.”
There was something appealing about Sir Robert Bolsover, Hugh thought. He possessed a rare self-assurance for someone so young, for he couldn’t have been much past twenty, but the impish glint in his eye also meant he didn’t take himself too seriously. His figure was slender but not soft, and in all his movements he carried himself straight and resolutely. He was clean-shaven and wore his dark blond hair fashionably short and neat. But it was his face that Hugh’s gaze kept returning to, almost against his will it seemed; Bolsover’s intelligent blue-grey eyes and wry mouth. He had never before met a man who appeared to be thumbing his nose at the world.
Hugh himself wasn’t old—twenty-six—but he was one of the wealthiest men in Henry II’s empire, with estates stretching across the breadth of England from his earldom in Cheshire on the Welsh marches to Lincolnshire in the east, as well as property in Normandy, and hence, one of the most powerful. Such responsibilities had served to dampen whatever youthful enthusiasm he might have once had, while simultaneously imbuing him with an air of permanent impatience; the mild arrogance born of wealth and power. He was used to being around important men, as his father had died (some said he’d been poisoned) when he was young and he had spent the remaining years to his majority as a royal ward, and had learned to have scant regard for the mundane aspects of life. He was not ostentatious or loud, but neither was he content to melt into the background. It was merely that he understood his due and insisted upon receiving it.
So when he was confronted with the mocking smile of a man who obviously didn’t share his demeanor, he felt himself attracted in the way that opposites attract. He wasn’t certain of the reason. Perhaps, he thought, he wished he might be even just a little carefree as Robert Bolsover seemed to be carefree. To not be so constantly aware of his position. To have a joke at the king’s son’s expense…Or perhaps he simply found Bolsover’s charismatic personality a pleasing contrast to his own.
The squire, whom Bolsover introduced as Alan d’Arques, a young kinsman of his from Normandy, returned with the wine and a skin of water. As he drank, Hugh watched his companion raise the spout of the skin to his lips and thirstily gulp down its contents. With a satisfied belch, Bolsover wiped away the water that had trickled down the sides of his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the empty skin back to his squire.
“Tell me one thing,” Hugh said. “You say you were only having a bit of fun. But that big knight with whom you were fighting looked very serious. Didn’t you think it was a dangerous undertaking to incite someone like him to challenge you? Didn’t you think you might actually be killed?”
Bolsover leaned towards Hugh and grinned broadly. “Not for one moment.”
The celebration of the coronation of the king’s son, young Henry, or the Young King as he would now be known, lasted a week. Although he found himself hoping for the opportunity of another private meeting with Robert Bolsover, Hugh only met him again while he was in the company of fellow knights or in attendance on the king. To his delight, Bolsover was unfailingly charming to him in his passing comments. Hugh observed the esteem in which the young knight’s companions held him, and how even King Henry seemed to be amused by his antics. Bolsover was always noticeable, whether he was competing in the contests the king had devised to honor his son or heartily laughing at some bawdy joke someone had told him at the dinner table. Hugh’s eyes were constantly seeking him out.
There was one person among the vast audience which had come to witness the coronation who was aware of this sudden infatuation and that was Sir Roger of Haworth, a member of the earl’s personal bodyguard. Haworth was an intimidating figure, possessing a physique and temperament which were eminently suitable for his job. He wasn’t much above average height, but his body was so solidly muscular that he seemed larger than most of his peers, and neither his mouth nor his eyes ever smiled. His origins were obscure, but Hugh had taken a liking to him several years before and had removed him from the ranks of the common men-at-arms and placed him in his own bodyguard. Although it wasn’t normal practice to make knights of men who were not of noble birth, Hugh had flouted convention, giving Haworth a warhorse and bestowing the honor on him. No one was going to argue with the earl of Chester when he declared all his personal attendants were to be knights.
Haworth was a faithful servant. He was always at Hugh’s back and waited only for the opportunity to draw his sword on his master’s behalf. Hugh’s appreciation for the man had grown as time had passed, and he often confided in Haworth. Because of his status, the earl wasn’t a popular man and his quiet demeanor made him even less accessible. Roger of Haworth was probably the only intimate he had, and Hugh had never expressed an interest in finding another.
Until now. Haworth saw the way the earl’s eyes followed Sir Robert Bolsover and how instead of displaying his usual polite disinterest at the tournament, the earl’s face lit with animation whenever Bolsover took the field. Haworth didn’t say anything; he retreated further into the background but was ready to come forward when Hugh beckoned him. Hugh’s attitude towards him hadn’t changed at all. Nonetheless, Haworth was jealous.
“Would you just look at that pompous ass!” William fitz Henry muttered to his friend, Sir Richard Delamere, as the two stood nearby a colorful blue and white tent crested with rippling pennants and prepared to join the day’s tournament. Delamere shifted his helmet from one hand to the other and patted his back to satisfy himself that his dagger was stuck securely in his belt. He didn’t bother to look up because he knew to whom William referred. It was an old and occasionally tiresome story. “You don’t know how much it galled me to go on my knees and do homage to him,” William continued darkly. “I knew without looking that he was laughing at me!”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Delamere said, yawning. “I don’t think he was paying much attention to the proceedings. After the first half dozen or so barons, his eyes seemed to glaze over.”
“That proves my point! He has no idea what an honor my father has just bestowed on him! He’s a vain, empty-headed, self-important fool and God help us all when it comes his turn to rule!”
“Yes, it’s hard to believe that young Henry is the king’s flesh and blood,” Delamere agreed. “He’s as lazy as the king is industrious. You’re more your father’s son than young Henry.”
“But born of the wrong mother…”
Delamere rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck from side to side. He was tired. He’d spent the better part of the previous night drinking and joking with friends and would have preferred to be snoring away in some quiet corner in the palace instead of standing on windy ground, weighted down by his heavy hauberk, and waiting for the call for the mock battle to begin. And listening to William, who could drink the night through without any visible effect the next morning, go on and on about his half-brother. He yawned again and swore. “Damn! I wish they’d get this thing started so I can do my bit and leave.”
“By the way,” William said, turning towards his friend with a little smile, “where did you disappear to last night?”
“I don’t remember exactly where,” Delamere answered. “But it was very warm and soft…and pleasant.”
“You have a lucky talent for attracting women.”
“It’s not a talent, Will, but a skill. If you would simply try not looking so displeased all the time and acting in a more friendly fashion, you’d find yourself rewarded handsomely.”
His friend made an impatient gesture. “I haven’t the time to go through all that.”
“Who says you need much time?” Delamere laughed.
King Henry and his retainers rode up a hillock which overlooked the field, a signal that the tournament was to begin shortly. There had been two minor matches in the days before and one that had been a kind of practice contest involving the squires of the knights, but this final tournament was to be grand and just about every knight who had come to the coronation was entered. The king had divided the field into two groups: men from the west country against the men from the east. The groups were to line up on opposite ends of the field and at a blast of the trumpet charge each other as if engaging in genuine battle, with true weapons, although actual killing was discouraged. Instead, apart from the glory of one side defeating the other, the tournament was an opportunity for knights to make a bit of money. They were permitted to take prisoners, who would then buy their freedom with ransoms of coin, horses, armor and weapons. A wealthy knight was obviously a prime target for capture, and it behooved him to have a handsome bodyguard.
Squires brought up their horses and William checked the bridle and saddle on his roan before giving it an idle pat on the neck. The horse had been a gift from his father when he’d been knighted several years earlier. Henry had been as pleased as a child when he’d presented it as he’d taken great pains to find a mount which could comfortably accommodate his son. William’s nickname was ‘Longsword’ because he was taller than average.
At twenty, he was the eldest of all Henry II’s children, the product of an illicit liaison between the young duke of Normandy and the sister of one of his knights. He had been acknowledged by his father from his birth and schooled and trained in the household of one of Henry’s advisors. The son bore little physical resemblance to the father. Besides a difference in height, his build was lanky rather than stocky. He had darker, browner hair and a narrower face. While Henry’s expressions were easily read, William’s were masked. He already had a reputation as an excellent soldier but was simultaneously considered ruthless and unforgiving, unlike his more politic father.
While the squire held his stirrup, he mounted the big horse and was handed up his helmet and shield. With a resigned sigh, Richard Delamere followed suit. He’d already decided to hang well in the rear of the fray and to swing his sword only if absolutely necessary. On any other day he would have been as eager as the next man to fight and possibly win some money, but today his head ached. Money, even glory, didn’t seem attractive at the moment.
William Longsword wasn’t interested in financial reward either, but glory was another matter. At tournaments, he always went straight after the most important or most proficient knight on the field, to test himself and to be recognized.
He nudged his mount close to Delamere’s. “A pity my beloved half-brother isn’t fighting today…”
“He’d be on our side anyway, Will. It wouldn’t look right if you made a prisoner of one of ours, don’t you think?”
Longsword shrugged. The heavy chain mail jingled dully. “I was thinking more of fatally injuring him.”
Delamere grinned. “Careful, Will, that’s a treasonous statement now! The king might punish it by putting you in the Young King’s household.” He squinted into the distance. “Who’s that he’s talking to? Bolsover?”
“Bolsover actually likes him.”
“Bolsover is simply expedient,” Delamere corrected.
They watched as Robert Bolsover bowed to the Young King, who rode off to join his father’s party. The stage for the tournament was a large, fairly level meadow a few miles from Westminster Palace, bounded on one side by the Thames and disappearing into forest some distance in the south. There was a rise to the east and it was here that the king and his entourage, including the queen and her ladies, had settled to enjoy the mock battle. Knights comprising the two competing sides had already begun to leave their tents and ride out onto the field.
Suddenly Longsword whistled sharply. “Look, Richard—who’s that? Opposite us?”
“I believe it’s the earl of Chester,” his friend said, staring at the colors which bedecked a distinctive coal-black destrier. “But what’s he doing? He never enters tournaments.”
“Then he’ll be an easy opponent,” said Longsword. “Is that not the finest animal you’ve ever seen? And huge!”
Delamere understood right away what he meant. “He’ll be surrounded by retainers, Will,” he warned.
Longsword clamped his helmet down firmly and took up his reins. “I need a challenge. My arm is getting weak.”
“More than likely he’s just in there for appearance! Perhaps there’s a lady he’s seeking to impress. The king wouldn’t like to see one of his most important men injured just because you want his horse!”
“If he doesn’t fight me, I won’t harm him!” Longsword said impatiently.
Delamere tried once more to dissuade his friend. It wasn’t that he thought William had no chance; rather, he knew if Longsword was determined to go after the earl, then he would be compelled to back him up. Visions of hovering on the outskirt of the field until he could gracefully withdraw from the battle were fast disappearing.
“Will, he’s far out of reach! Be sensible—he’s on the other side of the field; we’ll never get through!”
But he was shouting words at Longsword’s back. The lanky knight had already kicked his horse into a gallop and gone to join his fellow combatants. With an inward groan, Richard Delamere followed him.
It wasn’t William Longsword who ended up with the earl of Chester’s horse.
As the wealthiest man on the field, Hugh was assured the dubious distinction of being the prime target of the knights from the eastern lands, not all of whom deigned to step aside when they recognized the king’s bastard at their shoulders. And the earl’s impressive bodyguard had all but encircled him, rendering him immune to attack. But somehow, at some point during the wholehearted skirmish between attackers and defenders, and obscured by the shouts of excitement and the confusion kicked up by flailing arms and horses’ hooves, Sir Robert Bolsover managed to slip quietly into the protective ring and, after a minor struggle, tip the sharp point of his sword into the exposed neck of Hugh fitz Ranulf. The gesture brought to an immediate end that particular contest. The other warriors rode off to find different prospects. Longsword, who had been fighting like a madman and had even succeeded in knocking two of the earl’s men to the ground where they were nearly trampled to death by their horses, was an ungracious loser. He glared angrily at Bolsover as the latter flashed an arrogant smile of triumph back at him and was only prevented from attacking him by a hasty admonishment from Richard Delamere. He dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and stormed off in a spray of turf, followed less flamboyantly by Delamere, who considered that he had done more than his share of fighting and was returning to his tent.
Bolsover and the four knights who had fought with him led the captured earl and his men to their own tent. Squires pulled helmets and hauberks from sweaty heads and tired bodies. They ran to fetch wine and damp, cool cloths so that prisoners and jailers alike could refresh themselves. When such comforts had been provided and the small talk had petered out, the negotiations for release were begun. The earl, who chose to direct all his remarks to Robert Bolsover, readily agreed to all terms.
“We should have demanded more,” groused one of the victorious men when Hugh didn’t blink an eye at the ransom he was being forced to pay.
Bolsover laughed. “Divide my share between the four of you. I want nothing but the earl’s horse and his sword.”
“That horse alone is worth half the ransom!”
“The earl’s horse was not part of the bargain!” Roger of Haworth protested angrily. He had been standing apart from the negotiators, but now he took a few unconscious steps toward the table.
The arguing men ignored him. “As usual, it was I who did half the work,” Bolsover drawled. “And I was the one to whom my lord earl surrendered.”
The exhilarating exercise he’d just had and the wine had gone to other knight’s head. He stood up so suddenly that his stool fell back with a thud onto the trampled grass which comprised the tent’s floor, his face red. “Are you saying the rest of us may as well not have been there?”
Bolsover lifted his shoulders. “I’m saying that I want nothing but the horse and my lord earl’s sword.”
“There was no mention of the horse in the negotiations!” Haworth sputtered loudly. “That’s an earl’s steed—not meant for any mere knight such as you!”
Hugh had not taken his eyes from Robert Bolsover. The younger man sprawled calmly and without concern at the table. At Haworth’s second outburst he had glanced up, but still said nothing to him. Instead, he turned his head towards Hugh. The blue-grey eyes sparkled and his mouth held just the semblance of a mischievous smile. All at once Hugh understood—Bolsover was playing a game, throwing his dice to see if he could up the ante, gambling to lose something he’d never had, anyway. Hugh was strangely excited. He was the one used to dictating terms and now this young rogue with his charming smile was changing the rules. Instead of being annoyed, the earl was flattered that Bolsover had chosen to play this game with him.
He cleared his throat. “No, Roger; you’re mistaken. Sir Robert laid claim to Avranches when he took me prisoner. And if I am to give him up, I’m happy to give him to the knight who was best able to bring me down.”
Haworth glared. “He’ll take money—”
“Avranches—an interesting name for a horse,” Bolsover interrupted smoothly.
“I named him for my hereditary lands in Normandy. I am the viscount of Avranches,” Hugh said. “As you can tell, then, I put great value on the animal.”
“Rest assured, so will I,” Bolsover said, with a slight incline of his head. “Honored as I am by the man who once rode him.”
“You didn’t have to give him up!” a wrathful Roger of Haworth exclaimed to his master when they’d returned to Hugh’s private quarters. “That smug bastard! He would have taken money instead—he’s greedy enough!”
“Lower your voice, Roger; we’re not on the tournament field any longer! Anyway, it’s just a horse. I’ve got plenty others, haven’t I?” He stretched one leg out so that Haworth could unlace his boot and laughed. “Probably even a few named Avranches.”
Haworth knelt at Hugh’s feet and gripped the heel of the boot. He looked up with a frown. “You’re not at all displeased to have lost so much, are you?”
“A horse, a sword and money, Roger. All easily replaced.”
“What about the humiliation?”
Hugh pulled his leg back and stuck out the other one. “Of losing? There’s no humiliation in losing a fair battle.”
“If it was fair,” Haworth muttered.
“What do you mean?” Hugh said sharply.
Haworth sat back on his heels. He gave Hugh a measured look. “I mean, it was very easy for Bolsover to get to you. We had them; we were holding them, but suddenly he was past us.”
“Are you saying you think I made it easy for him?”
“Did you?”
Hugh grinned. “What if I did? Come on, Roger! When was the last time I entered a tournament? Five years ago? Six? I’m the earl of Chester, for God’s sake; I have nothing to gain by throwing myself into the midst of a frenzy of swords and risking my life! Why did you think I wanted to enter this one?”
Haworth stood up quickly, a dark red flush spreading across his face. “To meet that worm Bolsover? You wanted to lose to him? To be taken to his tent and forced to negotiate your release? And what about us? You humiliated us by giving yourself up!”
“You’re my men, Roger!” Hugh said with a burst of anger. “You’re mine to tell what to do and where to go!” Then, when Haworth didn’t reply but stood a few paces apart, his face bowed towards the ground, Hugh relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “You’re jealous,” he said, amused.
“Not jealous,” Haworth answered stiffly, “Just unhappy with your decision. But you’re right, my lord; I’m your sworn man and must do what you tell me.”
Hugh got up and crossed the floor, silent as a cat in his stockinged feet. He put a companionable hand on the other man’s shoulder. “There’s no reason for this, Roger,” he said softly, cajolingly. “Bolsover’s attraction lies in his differences from everyone else in this place, but they’re almost certainly differences that would quickly grow tiresome if one were exposed to them too long. Don’t worry! Once we leave Westminster tomorrow, we’ll probably never see him again.”
Chapter 2
early January, 1171
Argentan, Normandy
A cold wind whipped through the hills surrounding the little town of Argentan and rattled the bare branches of the dormant trees in the apple orchards. Inside their timbered walls, the villagers huddled for warmth around the raised hearths in the center of their houses, and drank cider and gossiped about the latest news to come down from the castle. Outside, the sky was cold and black. Even the stars seemed to stare down harshly upon the frozen earth.
The latest news was indeed worthy of gossip. The archbishop of Canterbury, the most powerful cleric in all of England, had been brutally murdered at his altar only days after Christmas. Couriers had arrived on New Year’s Day to tell the grim tale to the king, who had been so shaken that he had locked himself away in his chambers and refused to see anyone or eat anything for three days. The festive atmosphere in the castle had been abruptly stifled. Villagers who had sundry business there came back with exciting stories about the pervasive, eerie silence throughout the stronghold, how the knights had removed their spurs while in its confines and walked their horses slowly in the ward so to make as little noise as possible…how the smith had been idle since the tragic news had been made known.
To the pious villagers of Argentan, the murder of Thomas Becket was more than a tragedy, it was a sin against the Church and so, against God Himself. The sensational story of the violent arguments between Henry and his chosen archbishop and Becket’s subsequent flight into the court of the French king, Louis VII, was well known to them even if the politics involved were not. That knights of Henry’s household would have taken it upon themselves to solve this crisis of church and state was reprehensible and only proved that the king’s belligerent, high-handed ways had spread to his men.
The members of Henry’s household, however, held a different view. Although they had been shocked by the report of murder, they couldn’t help but feel relieved that the stubborn, histrionic archbishop was no longer around to cause their king needless aggravation. Becket had been a thorn in Henry’s side since his elevation to the see of Canterbury and ultimately Henry had sought to have him deposed. In turn, Becket had taken refuge with Louis, who was Henry’s worst enemy, continuing his verbal attacks on the king of England from France. But Henry wasn’t a man to bear a grudge and Becket had once been one of his closest friends. He had wanted his son, Henry the Younger, to be crowned as tradition demanded: by the archbishop of Canterbury. Because of the estrangement, Henry the Younger had been crowned the previous May by the archbishop of York. In July, Henry attempted to remedy the situation by meeting with Becket and offering him a peaceful return to England. Becket had agreed, but once back in his own cathedral reverted to his former disregard for the king’s authority over the Church in England. Henry, who had remained on the continent, was frustrated and annoyed when word of Becket’s activities reached him. Unknown to him, four of his knights decided to persuade the archbishop to change his ways, and ended up killing him instead.
William Longsword and Richard Delamere walked the walls of Argentan castle in the cold night on watch duty. The harsh wind whipped up the ends of their cloaks and tore at their faces. They weren’t particularly vigilant; they didn’t suppose an armed force would deign to attack Argentan on such a disagreeable night; but concentrated instead on keeping themselves from freezing. Since the king had emerged from his chamber two days earlier, pale and drawn, everyone at the castle had taken to rushing around as industriously as he or she could without making a commotion. It was the general consensus that Henry needed to explode angrily at someone to make himself feel better, and no one wanted it to be him. Longsword and Delamere had volunteered for plenty of guard duty, wishing to be well out of the king’s lung range. They hadn’t counted on the wind…
“And all my beloved brother could say was, ‘well, who’s going to crown me now?’,” Longsword was telling Delamere, mimicking the Young King’s voice. They came to a flickering brazier set on a tripod and stopped to warm their hands.
“Did the king hear him?” Delamere asked.
“Unfortunately, no. Someone shut him up very quickly. And then my father had the effrontery to be snap at me because I wasn’t exhibiting suitable grief for the damned cleric,” he added indignantly. “I wasn’t demonstrating any! In my opinion, that’s suitable enough.”
“You didn’t say that to the king…”
“Of course not! There’s only one idiot in the family, Richard.”
Delamere pulled his cloak more closely around his shoulders and shifted his sword in his belt so that it stuck straight down and didn’t lift the hem of the cloth and create a draft. He bitterly regretted the archbishop’s death—but only because it had been announced at the most inopportune time. During the height of the New Year’s feast, amid the chords of the lute and viele straining from the musician’s gallery overhead, Delamere had just succeeded in convincing a pretty young woman to accompany him to a less crowded corner of the castle when the couriers had burst in and asked for an audience with the king. After that, there had been no more music and only astonished whispers among the guests.
“Will,” he said hesitantly, “perhaps you ought to watch what you say about the Young King…”
Longsword snorted. “After five minutes with my brother, anyone can see the truth in whatever I say of him.”
“Except the two people most important to your future,” Delamere stated flatly. “The king and his successor. You might one day find yourself on the far side of the kingdom.”
“What am I supposed to do, Richard? I’m not about to kiss his feet like Bolsover. He knows I don’t like him. Any of them, for that matter.”
Delamere sighed. It was no use trying to convince his friend to silence his tongue and smooth over the expression of contempt which invariably contorted his face when he was in the presence of the Young King. Longsword was by nature sullen and stubborn but he refused to even consider budging when up against his legitimate half-brothers. If he had been born last of them, he might have been more amenable, but to be the oldest and the most fiercely loyal to their common father and to see the lands and honors divvied among those who didn’t deserve them was such a travesty of right that it had made him quite bitter and unreasonable on the subject.
Robert Bolsover didn’t hold a high opinion of the Young King, either, but he was savvy enough to realize his future depended on ensuring his goodwill and that of his father, Henry II. Besides, it was his belief that an immature, lazy monarch was the perfect master for an ambitious, shrewd servant. And he was very ambitious.
He was the only son of a knight who had made his small fortune by choosing to side with Empress Maud during the civil war which had erupted after the death of her father, Henry I. His unwavering loyalty had come to the notice of the Empress’ son, Henry of Anjou, who, upon his ascension to the throne, had rewarded him with a castle at Oakby in Leicestershire. Robert had been a child of four at the time. His father’s subsequent preoccupation was to beget an army of sons which would carry on his name and perpetuate the Bolsovers of Oakby. He buried three wives in his attempt, but Robert was the only son he was destined to have.
Robert had been brought up and trained in the king’s household. He was used to constant activity and important people coming and going. He was used to being near the hub of political decision-making and part of an army of men close to his own age. He found, on his rare visits to his father, Oakby too small and provincial. And quiet. Robert Bolsover planned for a great deal more excitement than Oakby could provide in his future.
He’d been as shocked as anyone when Thomas Becket’s murder was revealed, but he’d never cared for the archbishop and could dredge up no morsel of pity for him. He wasn’t alone; in fact, the only person at court who seemed to care at all was the king. Bolsover was surprised that Henry was making such a public display of his grief. He’d often seen the king violently angry, although he would quickly recover, but his refusal to eat or speak with anyone for three days had caused some of his counselors to fear for his sanity. Henry was almost thirty-eight, not an old man, but he had been at war for more than twenty of those years, first for his throne and ever since against the king of France. His was not a peaceful reign; perhaps, Bolsover mused, he was feeling the pressure.
On the third day of the king’s self-imposed confinement, an impressive line of horsemen appeared on the winding road which followed the River Orne, flowing beneath the shadow of the fortress. Bolsover had been in the western guard tower and had recognized the pennants and colors of the earl of Chester. He’d gone down to greet Hugh and his entourage, and to explain the quiet, tense atmosphere in the castle.
Hugh had spent the Christmas feast in Avranches knowing the king had been unable to leave Normandy because of trouble King Louis was stirring up in a neighboring province. Avranches was several days’ hard riding away from Argentan, especially in January, but Hugh had an important request to make of the king and New Year’s seemed the most propitious time to ask. The murder in Canterbury Cathedral, however, had effectively shelved that business. Hugh would have been tempted to return to Avranches the next day if Robert Bolsover’s welcome hadn’t been so warm.
In retrospect, he was glad he’d stayed because when the king finally appeared and met once again with his counselors, he asked that Hugh be brought to him and then he thanked the earl for coming to tender his condolences. Hugh had merely accepted the king’s gratitude. No one, not even Hugh’s own men, knew the earl’s business with Henry. Let the king believe in his goodwill, he thought; it could only count in his favor.
And he was glad he stayed because Robert Bolsover seemed to seek him out as if he greatly enjoyed Hugh’s company. This was both flattering and satisfying. The young knight made himself so appealing that after only a few days of his arrival at Argentan, Hugh found himself confiding in him the true purpose of his visit.
It came about after breakfast when Bolsover insisted on bringing him to the stables, to prove that he was properly caring for the horse he’d won at Westminster. Without consciously realizing it, Hugh contrived to evade his bodyguard and meet with Bolsover alone.
The stables were crowded because of the size of the court, with the overflow accommodated in shelters down by the river. Grooms were cleaning tack or checking hooves, but no one was near the big black as he and Bolsover approached it.
“See?” Bolsover grinned, slapping the animal’s haunch. “Wasn’t I telling you the truth?”
Hugh nodded. “I never doubted you.” He barely glanced at the horse. Instead, he watched the younger man as he stroked the massive neck.
“I can’t tell you how many offers I’ve had for him. I live in fear that the king will take a fancy to him, or worse, the Young King. And there’s William Longsword, of course. He wanted this one very badly.” He turned to Hugh. “Do you remember him at the tournament?”
The earl shook his head. “The king’s bastard, isn’t he?”
“Yes; a vicious fighter. Never satisfied unless his opponent is trampled into the ground. But I understand he was like that from a child. Too much bitterness in the blood, I suppose.”
“For all that, I hear he’s loyal to the king to a fault.”
Bolsover laughed. “Doesn’t he have to be? He’s a bastard! He has nothing other than that which Henry gives him.”
Hugh smiled. Bolsover spoke whatever he thought. It was an innocent, and disarming, habit.
“My lord earl, I don’t know on what business you came to see the king, but if I can be of use I would be honored to help you. I feel I am in your debt for this fine animal…I may not have the ear of the king himself, but I speak often with the Young King, and I know he would be interested in what you had to say.”
“I’ve already seen the king…” Hugh said warily.
“Oh, I know! But not on your business. He only offered his gratitude for your expression of sympathy for that arrogant cleric. But you didn’t know of Becket’s death until you’d arrived here.”
Hugh gazed intently at Bolsover. The younger man held his eyes. Finally he said, “It wasn’t important. A small matter of land.”
Bolsover stepped closer to him. “My lord, if it concerns the earl of Chester it must be important. I beg you to discuss it with the Young King. Henry is growing old. I’ve never seen him react as he did to this murder. The young king has fresh ideas—and the support of his father-in-law, the king of France.”
“Young Henry is not even sixteen!” Hugh scoffed.
“Which is why he needs older, wiser heads behind him. My lord, already he chafes at the bit! Henry keeps him short of money and picks his household himself because he fears what his son will do once he breaks free!”
Hugh didn’t reply. He had no quarrel with King Henry save this one nagging issue which the king seemed reluctant to resolve, and every year that passed compounded the earl’s frustration and growing resentment. He considered the implications of Bolsover’s words. Perhaps he was right; perhaps it was time for new blood.
“Very well,” he said to the other man. “Arrange for me to meet with the Young King.”
Hugh’s father, Earl Ranulf, had also supported Henry during the civil war and in return for his not inconsiderable force, Henry had promised him the earldoms of Stafford and Lincoln once he had taken the crown. But Ranulf died in 1153, the year before Henry became king and the matter was dropped. Hugh was only six years old at the time and was promptly made a ward of the court, which meant Henry controlled the revenues from the vast estates the boy would inherit when he came of age. But Hugh’s mother, the dowager countess Maud, didn’t allow the matter of the lost earldoms to lie quietly. She continually harangued Hugh to convince Henry to bestow the titles and honors on the earl of Chester as had been promised to her husband.
A small matter of land indeed! Robert Bolsover could hardly believe his ears as he listened to Hugh tell his story to the Young King, who didn’t appear very interested but shifted in his chair and occasionally gnawed on a fingernail. The interview had been very casual and Hugh had been careful not to reproach Henry for his oath-breaking.
“But I don’t think he was listening, anyway,” Hugh said afterwards. “He was more concerned with picking off the scab on his knuckle.”
Bolsover slipped his arm around the earl’s neck. “It doesn’t matter. I was listening. And when the moment comes that he needs to know it, I’ll remind him.” He grinned at Hugh and playfully squeezed his neck in the crook of his arm. “Greedy, aren’t you? Not satisfied with just being the earl of Chester, you want to be earl of Stafford and Lincoln as well.”
“I have a lot of property in Staffordshire and Lincolnshire,” Hugh said defensively. “Most of my property, as a matter of fact. My father staked his life for Henry to be king and got nothing for it. It’s ludicrous to imagine these honors shouldn’t pass to me simply because my father died before he could collect them. And Henry hasn’t filled them. No one holds either title now.”
Bolsover sighed and rolled over onto his back. “I should like to be an earl.”
Hugh looked down at his smooth, lean chest and smiled. How they had ended up here, in the earl’s chamber, after the meeting with the Young King, he didn’t quite remember. But once it had happened, he realized it was exactly what he had hoped would happen from the moment he had first seen Bolsover dancing in circles around the red-haired brute in the ward at Westminster Palace. It was the reason he had permitted himself to be captured on the tournament field and why he had gone to the trouble of evading Roger of Haworth all day.
Thinking of Haworth suddenly troubled him. He swung his legs over the side of the plush mattress and walked across the chilly floor to the polished table near the flaming brazier. Light and heat reflected off his bare skin and tousled russet hair. His frame was solid and escaped a propensity towards carrying excess weight by almost constant activity on horseback. This had also strengthened his legs, which were finely shaped, thick and muscular. His arms were thin in comparison, although his right was somewhat larger because it was his sword arm. In an effort to build up these muscles, he practiced combat as often as he could, usually with Haworth.
He poured wine into a silver cup and sipped at it, making a face. Not nearly as good as what had been served at the coronation, but not as terrible as it might have been. Most wine was imported from Bordeaux, and Normandy was closer to Bordeaux than England so there was less chance for it to spoil. He took the cup back to the bed. Bolsover lay with eyes closed, entwined in the linen bedclothes, a fine sheen of sweat on his smooth skin. What a difference, Hugh thought, gazing upon him, between him and Roger. Although he enjoyed his time with his captain, Roger was as coarse and undemonstrative as Bolsover was lithe and passionate. But that wasn’t to say Haworth wouldn’t care about this little tryst; Hugh knew he would be deeply hurt, and the knowledge made him feel guilty.
Bolsover was a vision of beauty. His damp blond hair curled into little tendrils around his forehead. His chin was clean as if no beard had ever grown upon it. Just looking at him and realizing he had the prize he’d been lusting after for months was enough to drive away his feelings for Haworth and start Hugh’s heart beating faster again.
Suddenly Bolsover’s eyes flew open. A smile spread slowly across his face. “Did you bring that for me?” he asked. “I am thirsty.”
Without a word Hugh passed him the cup of wine.
Bolsover drained the cup and, reaching over the side of the bed, placed it on the floor. “You must be cold, standing there on the bare floor,” he said to Hugh.
“I’m not cold,” Hugh said in a low voice. “I’m burning.”
Bolsover laughed and rolled over to make room for him. “Come, then,” he commanded.
Hugh lay down on his side next to him. He put a hand on the younger man’s head and caressed his short hair. Bolsover’s grey-blue eyes watched his face.
“Why haven’t you married?” he asked the earl. “Is it because…of this?”
“No,” Hugh answered. “I will marry, someday. I need an heir, of course.” He lifted his free shoulder indifferently. “I’m sure the king will make some kind of arrangement…”
“A great political match? Perhaps he’ll find you a nice, rich widow, gently used.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Hugh said. His hand moved to stroke Bolsover’s shoulder, lean but hard with muscle. “Anyway, I have the feeling Henry will only approve of a marriage which will actually bring me very little. The reason he won’t give me Lincoln and Stafford is because he thinks I’ve got too much property already. And property means power.” Bolsover’s skin was warm to his touch, inviting. His hand traveled down further, to the solid mass of his hip.
Bolsover’s face was only inches from his own. His eyes were glittering with the promise of reckless fervor. Hugh stared into them and felt his breath start to shorten.
“Then, you’re in the enviable position of being able to marry for love, my lord…” the younger man whispered.
“It is a damnable position because I can’t love a woman…I need a wife only to make me an heir.”
“Then, my lord, any young maiden of good family will do?”
“I suppose…” Hugh moved forward to kiss Bolsover’s parted lips.
“My lord,” Robert Bolsover whispered just before Hugh’s mouth met his, “I have a sister…”
Chapter 3
April, 1171
Elstow Abbey, Bedfordshire
Eleanor had endured a fitful rest. It was the fault of the nightmare she had had just after falling asleep, which had been so terrifying that she’d fought against closing her eyes again. As was usual with dreams, the details had ebbed quickly away. She had lain awake trying to convince herself that she couldn’t possibly be afraid of something she couldn’t even remember, to no avail. The apprehension had persisted and the remainder of the night had passed torturously.
The morning was cold and damp but the birds sounded cheerful and the air smelled of rich earth. By the time she emerged from the church in the company of the other novices, the sun was there to blind her, promising a bright spring day. She noticed that everybody’s spirits seemed to be lighter, and her own tiredness was soon forgotten…as was her fear.
She had been a novice at the abbey for almost nine months, having arrived in the waning days of summer, escorted by two of her father’s guards. Her father himself did not come, nor had Eleanor expected it of him. Sir Thomas Bolsover rarely ventured past the gate of his well-fortified manor a day’s ride to the north. And Sir Thomas had little regard for his only daughter. Indeed, it was a wonderful miracle to Eleanor that, fifteen years after her birth, he had managed to remember her mother’s deathbed request: that the newly born Eleanor should be promised to the church. Eleanor had been a quiet, obedient child and she had entered her adolescent years in increasing dread that Sir Thomas, who took so little notice of her, would forget that he had a daughter for whom he must make some sort of provision.
Gwalaes, her inseparable companion in her father’s house, had encouraged her to speak up. There was no worse fate for a woman than to go unmarried and most girls of good family were betrothed long before their thirteenth birthday. Of course this date had come and gone without attracting the attention of Sir Thomas. That was when Gwalaes, who was as outspoken and stubborn as Eleanor was shy and dutiful, had started pressing her in earnest to confront her father or at least the steward who had his ear. Eleanor refused. Sir Thomas, remote and severe, terrified her and his steward wasn’t much nicer. The prospect of an empty future was horrible but at least not yet so horrible as the thought of confronting her father.
And there was no other person at Oakby to do it. Eleanor’s mother had died in the effort of giving birth to her and Gwalaes’ mother, a pleasant Welshwoman who had raised the two girls together, had succumbed to a fever when they were twelve. After that tragedy, they were left to themselves.
“There’s only one thing for it,” Gwalaes had announced one day. “When Robert returns you must ask him to speak to your father.”
Eleanor had considered the idea. Her brother was eight years older than she was, blindingly handsome and too busy to take any notice of her. Besides, she was almost in as much awe of him as she was their father. “Could you do it?” she said to Gwalaes. It was no secret that Gwalaes was madly in love with Robert Bolsover.
“All right,” Gwalaes had sighed, as if resigning herself to some brutal task that nevertheless must be done. Of course, her little grin gave her true feelings away.
It happened that Gwalaes hadn’t had to bother. Just before her fifteenth birthday, Eleanor was summoned to the hall and informed by Sir Thomas that she was to be sent to Elstow Abbey in a fortnight. No marriage for her; she was to be a nun. It was her mother’s dying wish.
“She probably didn’t want you to go through what she did,” Gwalaes had theorized when Eleanor had shared the news. “Being married to a man as disagreeable as your father and then dying in childbirth. Do you think you’ll miss it?”
Eleanor had shaken her head emphatically. “As long as I can be a nun, I wouldn’t want to marry. I’ve never met a man who wasn’t disagreeable, have you?”
“Robert,” Gwalaes had answered promptly.
It was true; Robert Bolsover wasn’t disagreeable. He was charming, humorous and gallant. Yet there was something about him which frightened Eleanor nonetheless and she knew she wouldn’t want to marry someone like her brother either.
She hadn’t realized how unhappy she would be to leave Gwalaes behind. But Gwalaes was a servant, supposedly Eleanor’s personal attendant although they were more like sisters, and she was to remain at Oakby. She hadn’t realized, either, how much she would miss Oakby. She had never before ventured out of its boundaries and even though Elstow was only a full day’s ride away, it was like another world. For the first few months of her novitiate, she was incredibly homesick.
But gradually she came to love Elstow and then she embraced wholeheartedly the prospect of becoming a nun like the ones there she so admired. At Elstow, a Benedictine house, the nuns were Norman gentlewomen; they spoke with modulated voices, they conducted themselves with dignity, they treated the abbey servants with a benevolent condescension. They were a breed with whom Eleanor had had no previous experience. She imagined that this was what her mother must have been like. They were encouraging and kind to her; they did not ignore her as her father had but took great interest in everything she did. She wanted nothing more than to be like them. She longed for her novitiate to be over so that she could be received into the order as a full, adult member.
After supper on that fine April day, she was summoned to the abbess’ quarters. She was nervous because she couldn’t remember committing any transgression but the abbess came forward to greet her with outstretched hands and kissed her on either cheek. “I had visitors this evening,” the abbess said. “Four men from your father’s house. They’ve come to escort you back to Oakby.”
Eleanor knew silence and obedience were highly prized virtues in women and in particular nuns, but the question was blurted out before she could stop herself. “Why, Mother Abbess?”
“I don’t know. Removing a novice from an abbey is a serious undertaking. Of course I asked them but they professed not to know.”
With a sudden rush of horror, Eleanor remembered the dream she’d had the night before. She knew something terrible awaited her at Oakby. “I don’t want to go, Mother Abbess!” she said desperately. “Please, please tell them it’s impossible!”
“Nonsense!” the abbess said brusquely. “It’s highly irregular but not impossible. You will go and then you will come back.”
But the icy fingers of the nightmare clutched at her heart. She felt that if she went, she would never return. “What if I refuse?”
The abbess stared at her with an astonishment which rapidly became anger. “You cannot,” she answered in a cold voice. “This isn’t a matter open to discussion. You must do what you’re bid.”
Another sleepless night and then a hard day of traveling. Eleanor wasn’t used to riding and the last horse she’d been on was the one that had brought her to Elstow nine months earlier. Her muscles soon ached from the constant effort of having to cling to the belt of the groom in front of her and trying to keep her balance. She was too shy to complain, with the result that they did not stop often for rest. But the physical discomfort was nothing next to her mental anxiety. What on earth did her father want with her? She could not possibly imagine. If she had been Gwalaes, she thought self-critically, she would simply have questioned the guards or the groom despite the abbess having told her she’d already done so and received no answers. Perhaps they would tell her what they wouldn’t tell the abbess. But she couldn’t.
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