“It shall be done, sire.” He willingly shouldered the burdens that Henry was laying on him for they went some distance towards relieving those he was already carrying. Perhaps if he made atonement to God at the Holy Sepulchre he might achieve a measure of forgiveness for the sin of robbing the shrine of Saint Amadour.
Tenderly the knights of the Young King’s mesnie lifted their lord from his bed and laid him on the pallet of ashes on the floor. His body was as light as the corpse of a fly sucked dry by a spider. When Geoffrey de Lusignan hesitated to set a rope around his neck, Henry insisted, his command whistling through blue lips. They gave him a cross to clasp between his hands, and then, swords drawn, they stood vigil around him, while the priests prayed for his soul.
While still capable of speech, Henry whispered his desire for his eyes, brain, heart, and entrails to be interred at Grammont Priory, and his corpse to be buried in the church of Notre Dame in Rouen.
“It shall be done, sire,” William reassured him, “as you wish…”
“As I wish…” Henry gave a bitter smile. “In the name of God, remember me.” He did not speak again. Sunlight poured through the open window, and William watched the doves circling above the red-tiled cote beyond the sweet chestnut trees. The breeze carried the scent of dust and flowers. In the high summer of his life, Henry Plantagenet, son and heir of the King of England, was dying. The pattern of sunlight moved across the floor and brushed the edge of the bed of ashes. It tinted Henry’s hair with bronze lights and picked out three grey strands at his brow line. His chest rose and shuddered as he fought for air, but his lungs would not draw properly and there came a moment when they did not draw at all and his soul left him.
For a spun-out moment there was silence. Not only had the Young King left them, but he had taken the hopes, aspirations, and livelihoods of the knights of his mesnie with him. William knelt at Henry’s side, his knees in the ashes overflowing the pallet. He checked for breath, for the pulsebeat beneath the skin, and felt only sun-heated stillness. Crossing himself, he rose and stepped back. “God rest his soul,” he said. The soft rustle of cloth and clinking of weapons followed his words as the others crossed themselves too. William half expected a cloud to roll across the sun, or the dovecote to come crashing down, but there was no such drama to usher Henry’s soul from the world.
The others were looking at him, waiting for direction. William locked his emotion in a watertight part of his mind shut away from everyday thought. “There is much to be done if our lord is to be borne to Rouen,” he said, cladding himself in pragmatism. “His father must be told.” Stooping to the body, William gently slipped the sapphire ring from Henry’s finger. “Where’s Wigain? Take this to the King at Limoges. Tell him that William Marshal says that Henry, the Young King, son of the King, has died of the camp fever and that we will bring his body to Limoges on our road to Rouen.”
“Sir.” It was no easy thing William was asking of the clerk: to bear to a father the news of his son’s death, especially when the father had refused to attend the deathbed, but it had to be done, and Wigain had acted the messenger on the first leg of that journey.
Wigain bowed to William, then stooped to lay the palm of his hand on Henry’s brow. “Last time I’ll see him,” he said with a tremor in his voice, and then abruptly left the room.
William clenched his jaw and beckoned one of Henry’s squires. “Go to the kitchens and bring a cleaver and the sharpest knives you can find,” he commanded. There was bile in his throat and saliva in his mouth. He swallowed hard.
The squire’s eyes widened. “A cleaver, sir?”
William nodded. “Our lord must be prepared for his journey.”
William leaned against the garden wall, inhaling the scent of roses, lilies, and lavender as he strove to replace the stench of blood and entrails with sweeter aromas. It had been one of the worst ordeals he had ever endured, to stand witness whilst Henry’s body was opened by his two huntsmen, their tunics protected by blood-blackened leather aprons. The eyes, brain, and entrails had been removed for burial at Grammont, and the cadaver’s interior packed with fistfuls of grey salt crystals, which had rapidly reddened. The body had been wrapped in several layers of winding sheet and sewn into a shroud, then packed in a bull’s hide and placed in a lead coffin. After searching through several chests, William had managed to find a good silk cloth with which to cover the coffin, and on top of this was laid Henry’s banner, his shield, and sword.
“Sir.”
He turned to find Rhys waiting for him, his expression anxious. The groom was holding William’s black palfrey. The Young King’s horses, gifted to William on the deathbed, had been sold to pay for the expense of the coffin, the pall, and the wages of the cart driver.
William nodded, drew another deep breath, and turned to his mount. In the Young King’s honour, every knight of the household wore full mail and the company glittered in the sweltering sunshine like a full fishing net. William pushed his shield to his back and grasped a lance bearing Henry’s red and gold banner. The townspeople had emerged from their dwellings to see the cortège on its way and many of the women were wailing, their hair unbound and strewn with ashes. William stiffened his spine and tried to maintain an impassive expression, but it was hard with emotion tightening his throat. He heeled the palfrey to a measured walk and led the column out of Martel. Soft dust rose from beneath the horse’s hooves and the cart creaked and swayed beneath its burden.
As they reached the edge of the town, one of Henry’s mercenary leaders, a Basque named Sancho, rode out from his camp and blocked the road with his company, refusing to let the cortège pass. Spurring up to William, Sancho seized his palfrey by the bridle. “You go no further, Marshal, until me and my men receive the money that your lord owed to us,” he growled into William’s face. He had oily curls, eyes as black as olives, and a scar running between his nose and upper lip, causing the latter to curve in an expression caught between a sneer and a smile, both of which were deceptive. William knew him to be as dour and stolid as gouty town burgher.
William raised his right hand to prevent the knights of the mesnie from drawing their weapons. He didn’t want the funeral journey marred at the outset by an unseemly brawl if he could help it, and Sancho had sufficient men to make a hard and bloody fight of the proceedings. “And how much would that be?” he asked. It took an effort, but his voice emerged level and reasonable.
Sancho viewed him through narrowed lids. “A hundred marks will suffice. In view of the tragic circumstances, I’ll waive the small coin.”
William shook his head. “You must know that our master did not have such a sum at his disposal. All you see here is what we have. Are you so governed by money that you would have us strip the pall from the coffin and sell off the lead in which our lord’s body is sealed?”
“No, Marshal, you know that I would not,” Sancho’s tone was regretful but obstinate. “But I seek payment for what is owed. No more, no less. You are in charge of his mesnie. If you will pledge yourself for that sum, then I will let you go on your way.”
William could see that short of a pitched battle, there was no other choice and so nodded his acceptance to the Basque, at the same time wondering where on God’s earth he was going to find the sum of a hundred marks to honour such a promise. His word was his bond; he had never broken it yet, but Sancho might be waiting a long time.
The mercenary drew off and assembled his troops to ride at the rear of the cortège. William didn’t gainsay him; the men would serve to swell the importance of the funeral procession, and he was in no position to argue. Nevertheless his shoulder blades prickled at having Sancho behind him.
King Henry beckoned William to enter the room of the peasant house in Mas not far from Limoges. The King had taken refuge from the summer heat earlier that day and now it served to shelter his grief from the world while he mastered it. The air in the room was stifling and pungent with the aroma of simmering vegetables and garlic.
Henry dismissed all the servants and pointed to the flagon and cups on the rude wooden trestle, indicating that William should pour. “How did it happen?” he demanded. His hands shook as he took the wine from William’s hand. “Spare me no details. I need to know.”
William told him as if delivering a battle report: tight-lipped but courageous in the face of a disaster, and Henry took it with the same stoicism, although his knuckles whitened on the goblet stem and beneath the red of sunburn his complexion was grey.
“He died with nobility even though the fever and the voiding of his bowels had robbed his dignity,” William concluded. “And he asked you to forgive him.”
A muscle worked in Henry’s cheek. “I’m not sure I can do that…”
William made an involuntary movement and Henry looked at him from faded blue eyes. “For dying,” he said. “The rest hardly matters now, does it?”
William forced himself to take a drink of the warm red wine. The sour, tannic taste almost made him gag. “What do you want me to do now, sire?”
