I’d count them little case
If the Queen of England
Lay in my embrace.
On Tuesday, the thirtieth of June in the French town of Perigueux, the English king bestowed the honor of knighthood upon his seventeen-year-old cousin, Malcolm, King of Scotland. The ceremony was an elaborate one and Hywel ap Owain found it fascinating, for he’d never witnessed the ritual before. Malcolm had been bathed to wash away his sins, then clothed in a white tunic, which symbolized his determination to defend God’s Law. Within the great cathedral of St Front, Malcolm’s sword was blessed, and Henry then gave him his gilded spurs and bright, shining blade, instructing him that he must use his weapon to serve the Almighty and to fight for Christ’s poor. A light blow to the shoulder and it was done.
As they milled about outside in the garth after the ceremony, Ranulf told Hywel that Malcolm’s grandfather had been the one to knight the sixteen-year-old Henry Fitz Empress. “I can scarcely believe that was ten years ago,” he said, “but I suppose I’ll be saying that, too, when another ten years have raced by and it is my son whom Harry is knighting.”
Hywel was only half-listening, his mind on getting back to the Castle Bariere, where an abundance of wine and food and shade awaited them. Gazing up at the bleached-bone expanse of sky, he winced. The abbey was built upon a hill and afforded them a fine view of the cite’s brown-red roofs and the moss-green surface of the River Isle, as sluggish and slow-moving as the few townspeople out and about in the noonday sun. His temples were damp with perspiration and Hywel was suddenly very homesick, not for family or friends or even absent bedmates, but for the incessant rains, cooling winds, and early morning mists of Wales.
He glanced toward Henry, but the king was still deep in conversation with Malcolm and his newfound allies, the Count of Barcelona and the Viscount of Beziers and Carcassonne, embittered enemies of the man they would soon face at Toulouse. The turnout of highborn lords to the English king’s banners had been impressive. Virtually every baron of England, Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine had come in answer to his summons. Henry had allowed his English knights to pay scutage in lieu of military service, and used the money to hire soldiers, mercenaries who would fight as long as he had need of them. He had the most formidable siege engines Hywel had ever seen, trebuchets and mangonels and even Greek fire, the incendiary weapon of the crusaders. Despite the stifling summer heat, the thought of this army being turned loose upon Wales was one that Hywel found chilling.
“There is William de Tancarville,” Ranulf said suddenly, nudging Hywel with his elbow.
Hywel had met the Chamberlain of Normandy on several occasions, but he did not understand why Ranulf should be pointing him out now with such enthusiasm. “So?”
“You see de Tancarville’s squire? Not the one with freckles, the other. I heard an amazing story about that lad yesterday, told to me by William d’Aubigny, who was a witness and swears it to be gospel truth.”
Hywel’s interest was piqued. “I am listening.”
“The lad is John Marshal’s son. Are you familiar with Marshal? He was one of my sister Maude’s supporters, but he is presently out of favor with Harry, who recently deprived him of Marlborough Castle. I’ve always been convinced that Marshal’s veins flow with ice water, not blood, for he was once trapped in a burning bell tower and still balked at surrendering, an act of bravado that cost him an eye. But I’d never heard about the incident at Newbury, mayhap because I was dwelling in Wales by then.”
“What happened at Newbury?”
“Stephen was still king then, and he’d demanded that Marshal yield up his castle at Newbury. Marshal requested a truce so he could consult with my sister Maude in Normandy, and he offered his youngest son, William, as a hostage. He then took advantage of the truce to refortify Newbury. And when Stephen warned him that the boy’s life would be forfeit if he did not surrender the castle, he sent a message back that Stephen could go ahead and hang the boy, for he had the hammer and anvil to forge other and better sons.”
“Jesu! Not only does the man have ice water for blood, he has a stone where his heart ought to be. What saved the boy, then? Did Marshal relent at the last moment?”
“No. Luckily for the lad, Stephen did. They’d taken him out to be hanged. He was only about four or five and thought it was a game of some sort. But once the hangman put the noose around the boy’s neck, Stephen could not go through with it.”
Hywel turned for a better look at young William Marshal, truly one of Fortune’s favorites, and then slapped away a buzzing horsefly. “If we do not get into the shade soon, I’m going to be broiled alive. When I calculated all the risks I’d be encountering on this campaign, I was most worried about French arrows or the French pox. Who knew that the French sun would be my greatest foe?”
Ranulf shook his head slowly. “For the life of me, I cannot figure out why you did come along. No more talk about being bored or wanting to see Paris. Tell me the truth, Hywel. Why are you here?”
“To keep you out of trouble, why else? I am much too fond of Rhiannon to see her a widow.”
Neither one had heard Henry’s approach and they both jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. “What are you two arguing about?” he asked, for they’d been speaking in Welsh, a language that still eluded him.
“I’ve been trying to get Hywel to reveal the real reason behind his inexplicable desire to see the Toulousin.”
“I need another reason besides my wish to serve the king?” Hywel asked, so blandly and blatantly disingenuous that Henry and Ranulf both burst out laughing.
“I think I could hazard a guess as to why Lord Hywel wanted to come,” Henry said to Ranulf. “What better way to take the measure of a man than to fight alongside him?” And although Hywel laughed, too, Ranulf saw his eyes narrow slightly, as if from the sun’s glare, and knew that his nephew had solved the mystery of the Welsh prince’s presence in the army of the English king.
Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux, leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest, listening impassively as the French king was berated by his brothers. Robert, Count of Dreux, and Philippe, Bishop of Beauvais, were both outraged by what they saw as Louis’s failure to stand up to the English king and they were not shy about making their feelings known.
Louis did not seem troubled by their effrontery. For a man who was God’s Anointed, he was remarkably unassuming, shrugging off familiari ties that would have enraged other kings. His chancellor, Hugh de Champfleury, looked much more offended than his royal master, gnawing at his lower lip as if to bite back his protests.
The chancellor held no high opinion of the king’s brothers. He thought Robert was a blustering bully and Philippe a fool. He did not doubt that Louis would get to Heaven long before either one of them made it through those celestial gates; Robert was especially sure to spend several centuries in Purgatory. He’d never known a better man than Louis Capet. But the qualities that made him such a good Christian did not necessarily make him a good king, and he feared Louis would fare badly in this test of wills with Henry Fitz Empress, a fear shared by every man in the abbey guest hall.
Louis had moved to a window and he stood gazing out at the sun-dappled cloisters; whenever he had a choice, he preferred the hospitality of monasteries to neighboring castles. Now, as Robert stopped fulminating, he said, “I understand your consternation, and I assure you that I share it.”
“How very comforting,” his brother said with a sneer. “We can all grieve together for the loss of Toulouse. But mark my words well, Louis, for who’s to say what that Angevin whoreson and his slut will set their eyes upon next? You let him gobble up Toulouse and you could end up fending him off at the very gates of Paris!”
As usual, Robert had vastly overstated his case, but there was still enough truth in his complaint to cause the other men to nod and mutter amongst themselves. Literal, as always, Louis patiently explained that Henry Fitz Empress had no claim to the French throne, thus making any assault upon Paris unlikely in the extreme. This was not an argument to win any favor with his barons, still less with his brothers. Nor did he help matters any by adding honestly, “Alas, I cannot say as much for Toulouse. How can I dismiss his claim out of hand when it was one I once made myself?”