London - Edward Rutherfurd [160]
It was a few minutes later, standing in the huge, cavernous space of Westminster Hall, that he saw a group of men coming towards him. There were half a dozen of them, in rich cloaks; they were walking quickly to keep up with the figure in the middle. And as soon as he saw who it was, Silversleeves caught his breath and ducked behind a pillar.
Unlike his courtiers, King Henry II of England was as usual simply dressed in plain green hose and jerkin, like a huntsman. Of medium height and strongly built, he might have inclined to fat if his ceaseless, driven activity had not always burned it up. This morning, as at all times, he was brisk, trim and all-seeing.
Perhaps, if Pentecost had not tried to hide behind his pillar, he might have been ignored. Instead, as he instinctively pressed himself against the grey, Norman stone, he heard a harsh voice call out in French: “Bring me that man.” King Henry did not like people hiding from him.
A moment later, they were face to face.
Though he worked in Westminster Palace, Silversleeves had never seen King Henry close before. This was not surprising. His northern kingdom occupied only part of Henry Plantagenet’s time, and even when he was on the island he was constantly travelling from place to place, hunting as he went.
A freckled face. Norman, ginger hair, close-cropped and flecked with grey. Dear God, the Conqueror’s great-grandson. Hands nervously twisting a length of twine. A restless Plantagenet, too. A terrifying combination. Eyes grey and piercing.
“Who are you?”
“A clerk, sire.”
“Why were you hiding?”
“I wasn’t, sire.” A stupid lie.
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Pentecost, sire.”
“Any more? Pentecost what? Of where?”
It was no use. “Silversleeves, sire.”
“Silversleeves.” Henry Plantagenet frowned, searched his mind, and remembered. “Silversleeves. Aren’t you one of those louts who attacked my armourer?” Silversleeves was very pale, Henry’s eyes suddenly harder than stone. “Why weren’t you hanged this morning?” He turned to the courtiers. “Weren’t they hanged?” The courtiers nodded. “Why hasn’t this one been hanged? Why weren’t you hanged?”
“I am innocent, sire.”
“Who says so?”
“The Bishop of London, sire.”
For a moment King Henry was silent. Then a flush began to appear just below his left ear, quickly spreading over his face. There was a sound like a snort from his nose. Silversleeves noticed that the courtiers were starting to back away.
“A criminous clerk,” he hissed. A rogue hiding from the king’s justice behind the skirts of the Church. It was the very matter that had poisoned his relationship with his old friend Becket. A criminous clerk skulking in his own hall at Westminster. He snorted again.
And then Silversleeves had the privilege of witnessing the other characteristic for which the king’s family was famous: a Plantagenet rage.
“Viper!” King Henry’s face had suddenly become so suffused with blood that it darkened to ochre, as though some wooden effigy from an antique royal tomb had come to life. His eyes were so bloodshot they seemed to glow. He brought his face close to Pentecost’s until they almost touched, and in his nasal French, beginning in a harsh whisper and rising to a furious shout, he spoke his kingly mind.
“You long-nosed son of a whore! You hypocritical, half-baked priest. You think you’ve dodged the gallows?” Here his voice began to rise. “You think you can cheat the king, you crapulous toad? Do you?” He glared straight into his eyes. “Well? Do you?”
“No, sire,” Pentecost stammered.
“Good!” His voice rose further. “Because you shall not. By the bowels of Christ, I promise you, you shall not! I, personally, will have your case