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 musc
ular. 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…”