“Usually the dirtier and sweatier they are, the more fun they’ve had. So this hunt must have been truly memorable!”
When the men came trooping into the solar, Rhiannon soon discovered that Eleanor had not been exaggerating. Ranulf was pungent, muddied, soaked with perspiration, and in very high spirits for a man who’d been in the saddle since daybreak. So was Henry, who startled Rhiannon by planting an exuberant kiss on her cheek before grabbing for his wife. “Here you go, love,” he declared. “I saved the hunt’s prize for you.”
Eleanor looked dubiously at the object he’d dropped into her lap. “This had better not ruin my appetite,” she warned, gingerly unwrapping the deerskin covering. “What is it?” she asked, puzzled. “It looks like… like gristle.”
“It is a bone from a hart’s heart,” Henry explained, grinning at the wordplay. “Well, actually you are right and it is gristle. But legend has it that this so-called bone is what prevents the hart from ever dying of fear. They say that if it is made into an amulet, it protects a woman in childbirth.”
“Harry, you spoil me. Other husbands may give their wives gemstones, but how many women ever get gristle from a dead deer?”
“Not just any deer,” Henry protested, “a hart of twelve of the less!” And so universal was the love of hunting that even Rhiannon knew enough of its terminology to comprehend that he meant a stag with twelve tines on its antlers.
“Oh, that does make all the difference,” Eleanor agreed dryly and gave Henry a kiss that got her face smeared with some of her husband’s mud. Sprawling beside her in the window seat, he shouted for wine and launched into an enthusiastic account of the hunt, with his brother Will and his uncles Ranulf and Rainald and the Earl of Leicester all interrupting freely whenever they felt he was claiming too much credit. Servants hastily fetched flagons of wine and Eleanor gave orders for baths to be made ready, warning that not a one of them would be allowed to take supper that night without being scrubbed down first. The mood was ebullient and raucous, and Ranulf realized just how much he’d missed the humor and energy of his nephew’s court. He and Rhiannon would have to spend more time in England, he decided.
Having exhausted the dramatic possibilities of the day’s events, the talk ranged back to past hunts, each man summoning up his favorite story. Ranulf told them of Loth, his beloved Norwegian dyrehund, who’d once brought a stag down by himself, and Henry boasted of tracking a huge black wolf who’d been slaughtering livestock in the villages around Angers. When it was his turn, Rainald told of a hunt for the most dangerous prey of all, a tusked wild boar that he and Henry and Thomas Becket had brought to bay in the New Forest. The men had retreated into a pond to await the boar’s charge, a common practice that enabled the hunters to take advantage of their longer legs. The trick, as Rainald explained it, was to get far enough from shore so that the boar could no longer touch the bottom.
“Becket balked at going into the water, though. He was not fearful of facing the boar’s tusks, but he was loath to get his new furred mantle wet-you remember, Harry? So he braced for the charge on the bank. But the boar sped right by him, plunged into the pond, and impaled himself on Harry’s spear, as clean a kill as I’ve ever seen.”
“It was a good kill,” Henry agreed. “Though when he came churning through the water straight at me, there was a moment when I thought it would take one of God’s own thunderbolts to stop him!”
Ranulf was not surprised Rainald’s tale had not put Thomas Becket in the best of lights, for Rainald was no friend to the chancellor. He’d always found Becket to be good company, though, and he said curiously, “Just where is Thomas these days? Off on some mysterious mission for the Crown?”
Henry looked amused. “You might say that. I am meeting the French king soon to discuss the future of the Vexin, amongst other matters. So I sent Thomas ahead to blaze a trail for me. I’d wanted to send Eleanor, for she’s had some experience at charming Louis-” He pretended to flinch when Eleanor jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “But she balked, so I had to settle for Thomas.”
“Tell Ranulf and Rhiannon about his entry into Paris,” Eleanor prompted her husband. “Better yet, read from his letter, for you’ll never remember all the glittering details otherwise.” Adding, “And whilst you’re up, I need a cushion for my back.”
Henry unfolded himself from the window seat. “Imagine how she’d order me around if I were not a king.” Tossing Eleanor a cushion, he began to sort through a pile of letters spread out on the table.
“Here it is. Envision this if you will. First came two hundred and fifty footmen, followed by Thomas’s hounds and greyhounds and eight wagons, each pulled by five horses and guarded by a chained mastiff. Ah, yes, each of the wagon horses also had a monkey riding on its back.”
Henry’s mouth twitched. “Then came twenty-eight packhorses laden with gold and silver plate, clothes, money, books, gifts, and such. After that came Thomas’s retinue: two hundred squires, knights, falconers with hawks, clerks, stewards, and servants. And finally came Thomas himself, mounted on a stallion whiter than milk, looking more like a king than most, I daresay.” With that, his grin broke free. “For certes, more kingly than me!”
“Well,” Ranulf acknowledged, “if his aim was to bedazzle the French with English wealth and splendor, he must surely have accomplished that. Mayhap too well! For how can you possibly overshadow him? You plan to bring along elephants and trained bears and Saracen dancing girls?”
Henry laughed, glancing over at Eleanor. “Saracen dancing girls? Alas, as intriguing as that suggestion sounds, I doubt that-” Interrupted by the sound of the opening door, he strode forward to confer briefly with the man who’d just entered, not loudly enough for the others to hear, and then startled them by plunging out into the stairwell. They could hear his boots echoing on the stairs, and then silence. No one spoke after that, waiting uneasily for his return.
He was soon back, a crumpled letter in his hand. “Will,” he said, and his brother tensed, for Maude had been ailing again. Henry read his fear and swiftly shook his head. “It is not our mother,” he said. “It is Geoff. Will… he is dead.”
His brother’s mouth dropped open. The others shared his astonishment, for Geoffrey was just twenty-four. “What happened, Harry? Was he thrown from his horse?”
“Or caught with another man’s wife?” Rainald blurted out, before thinking better of it, relieved when no one paid his tactless suggestion any heed.
Henry was shaking his head again. “He got a chill after going swimming, and a fever followed. It was very quick…” His voice trailed off, and as his eyes met Will’s, he saw the same thought was in both their minds. This was how their father had died, too, death coming without warning to claim him in his prime.
What puzzled Rhiannon was the lack of sorrow in their voices. They sounded shocked, but not grief-stricken. Tugging at her husband’s sleeve, she whispered, “Are there none to mourn him, Ranulf?”
“Yes,” he said somberly. “There is one.” Crossing the solar, he said, “Will you be going to France straightaway?” When Henry nodded, he said, “I want to come with you.”
Henry nodded again, unsurprised. But Rhiannon gasped and Ranulf heard. “I must go, lass. My sister has lost a son.”
Rhiannon could not hide her dismay. She did her best, murmuring that she understood. But Eleanor knew better. Leaning over, she touched Rhiannon’s hand in silent sympathy, for they would be stranded together in England. Once again, she thought morosely, Harry would be miles away when she gave birth to his child.
Thomas Becket was standing by an open window, watching as monks from the priory went about their daily chores. As soon as word had reached him in Paris of Geoffrey’s death, he’d ridden for Rouen to pay his condolences to the empress and to await Henry’s arrival. Knowing Henry, he’d known, too, that he would not have long to wait.