TWO
Sir Henry found his son asleep the following morning on a bench in the great hall, and he stood over the young man for long minutes, taking note of the disrepair of his clothes, the ragged, unkempt look of his hair and short beard, the reek of his unwashed body, and the lined gauntness that marked his face after two months of solitary hiding. He did not know how long his son had been sleeping there, but it had been after two in the morning when he had sent Jonquard, his stable master, to fetch the lad, and it was not yet seven, so it was improbable that the two could have returned more than an hour ago. He heard noises coming from an anteroom, where servants were cleaning up the debris of the previous night, and he decided to leave the boy to sleep undisturbed for as long as he could, for he doubted that his guests would be stirring for at least another hour and perhaps longer. He went directly then to the kitchens, where he instructed the cook to prepare enough hot water for a full bath, and to have some of his scullions transport it upstairs to the masters chamber; they were to light the fire in the brazier there and then to prepare his bath and summon him when it was ready.
The cook offered no sign that he saw anything strange in any of that, although Sir Henry had not used the wooden bath in his chamber since his wife died, but had bathed in the kitchens, like everyone else in his household, as recently as two months earlier. He merely nodded and told his master it would be done immediately.
Henry then made his way to the main gate tower, where he stood for a while, observing the scene beyond his walls and searching for any sign that he and his were under surveillance. When a servant came looking for him, something over a half hour later, to tell him that his bath had been prepared, Henry went to wake André.
André sprang awake, wide eyed and tense, as soon as his father touched him, and then he spent several moments peering about him, as though wondering where he was. Henry put him at his ease at once.
You could not have had much rest, I fear.
André blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes of sleep.
Enough to do me, Father. I had slept for almost seven hours before Jonquard came with your summons, so I am well rested. I lay down here simply because the house was quiet when I arrived, and I must have dozed. Whats wrong? Why did you send for me?
Duke Richard is here. He came late last night, alone save for another knight, and I told him your story. He asked me many questions, but he believes your tale, although he requires more information than I could give him, before he can do anything. And so he ordered me to summon you. He smiled down at his son. But you are hardly fit to meet a Duke and a future King, looking and smelling as you do. There is a fresh hot bath prepared in my chamber. Go you and use it, then make yourself presentable. Dress in some of your own finery so that you look like a knight rather than an indigent beggar. You have time. There is no need for breakneck speed, for Richard has not yet risen, although he may at any moment. When he comes down he and I will break fast together, and he told me last night he will wish to see you immediately after that, so do not fall asleep in the bath, no matter how tempting it might be. I will send for you when it is time.
Andrés relief was plainly evident to Sir Henry, who felt much the same way, and a moment later the boy was gone, obedient to his fathers wishes.
The Duke appeared not long after that, in company with de Sablé, and both men greeted their host cordially, Richard asking immediately if André had yet appeared. Henry confirmed that he had and would join them when summoned, and then he led them into the anteroom, where Ector, showing remarkably few signs of having been awake for half the previous night, awaited them with a solid breakfast that he cooked personally for them, over a brazier set in the main fireplace, now swept clean of ashes from the previous nights fire. As soon as they were ready, he served the three men fresh duck eggs whisked in a flat pan with goats milk and butter until they were solid, then salted and folded over fresh mushrooms and onions and accompanied by light, fluffy fresh-baked rolls straight from the kitchen ovens. They ate him out of stock, and after Ector had supervised the removal of the remnants of their meal and left the room, Richard turned to Sir Henry.
Bring in young André and lets hear what he has to say for himself. But before you do, let me warn you that, if my suspicions prove correct, you might hear things for which you are unprepared. If that should be the case, I want you to say nothing, is that clear?
St. Clair nodded, not even curious about what Richard thought he might be unprepared for. In his estimation, nothing could surpass his relief at seeing his sons name cleared. It is, my liege.
WELCOME, SIR ANDRÉ ST. CLAIR. You look older more mature than when we last met. But then you are two years older, at least. As are we all. Stand easy.
The young knight relaxed from the upright military stiffness he had maintained since marching in the door and coming to a halt before the table to salute his liege lord formally and ceremoniously, fist clenched upon his breast. He spread his feet more comfortably and placed his arms behind his back, gripping one wrist with his other hand, but continued nevertheless to stare respectfully at a spot somewhere slightly above the Dukes head.
Your father has been telling us about your recent misadventures, and I admit I am surprised to see you looking as wholesome as you do, after two months of living in hiding. You look remarkably well.
He looks miraculously well, Sir Henry thought, hardly able to believe the change in his sons appearance. You should have seen him but an hour ago.
André had made good use of his fathers stout wooden bath and had obviously used Henrys short grooming shears and metal mirror to trim his hair and beard in the morning light from the window. Now he stood before them as a knight, complete in a suit of supple mail over which he wore a mantle the twin of his fathers own, the blazon of St. Clair embroidered finely on the left breast. He carried no weapons, however, and his mailed hood hung down at his back, leaving his head uncovered, for as an accused felon, he had no right to bear arms, especially in the presence of his Duke.
Remarkably well, Richard repeated, musingly. And remarkably guiltless, for an arraigned priest-killer.
André St. Clair did not even blink, and Richard, who had pushed his chair back from the table, waved a hand towards his companion. This is Sir Robert de Sablé, who rides with me for Paris, to meet with King Philip. He is a man of great wisdom and sagacity, for all his apparent youthfulness, and he is familiar with your situation, explained to us by your father although I know not whether he be convinced of your innocence in this matter. You may greet him.
The young knight swiveled his head towards de Sablé and inclined it respectfully, and de Sablé returned the nod, his face expressionless.
Richard crossed his long legs and locked his hands below the upper knee, then bent forward and spoke quietly to André.
This is not a formal court, Sir André, but an inquiry into the details of your story, as one of my vassals. And I must tell you here and now that, irrespective of my own beliefs, my main concern is this matter of the vanishing woman. With her dead body to back up your tale, your allegations against the priests would be unshakable. But lacking her completely as you do, without even a name or a description, you cannot provide even a smidgen of proof that she ever existed. We have no complaints of a missing woman anywhere, no knowledge of who she was or where she came from, and no possibility, it appears, of that knowledge miraculously appearing. Look me in the eye.
André did as bidden, and the two gazed at each other for long moments before Richard said, It was the sodomy report that convinced me yours is more probably the true account of what occurred. But this other matter, your lack of evidence to demonstrate the truth of what you allege, could prove insurmountable. That, in itself, is likely to hang you unless, by some miracle, you could conjure the womans name.
Eloise de Chamberg, my liege.
Eloise de Chamberg And whence came she, this spectral Eloise?
From Lusigny, my liege. Its nigh on thirty miles south of Poitiers.
I know where it is, man. I own the place. But why have you said nothing to anyone about knowing who she was?
St. Clair shrugged. I could not, my lord. I have spoken scarce a word to anyone in months. Jonquard, who knew my hiding place and showed it to me that first day, never came near it afterwards for fear of being followed. He would ride by every few days and leave provisions for me in a clump of bushes under a nearby oak, and I would collect them after he had gone. It was only last night, on my way here, that I learned from him the full extent of what has been going on. That may sound strange to you, knowing how much time has passed, but it is true.
André did as bidden, and the two gazed at each other for long moments before Richard said, It was the sodomy report that convinced me yours is more probably the true account of what occurred. But this other matter, your lack of evidence to demonstrate the truth of what you allege, could prove insurmountable. That, in itself, is likely to hang you unless, by some miracle, you could conjure the womans name.
Eloise de Chamberg, my liege.
Eloise de Chamberg And whence came she, this spectral Eloise?
From Lusigny, my liege. Its nigh on thirty miles south of Poitiers.
I know where it is, man. I own the place. But why have you said nothing to anyone about knowing who she was?
St. Clair shrugged. I could not, my lord. I have spoken scarce a word to anyone in months. Jonquard, who knew my hiding place and showed it to me that first day, never came near it afterwards for fear of being followed. He would ride by every few days and leave provisions for me in a clump of bushes under a nearby oak, and I would collect them after he had gone. It was only last night, on my way here, that I learned from him the full extent of what has been going on. That may sound strange to you, knowing how much time has passed, but it is true.