Devil's Brood

CHAPTER ELEVEN

September 1173

Gisors, Normandy

Henry agreed to meet his sons and the French king on September 25 between Gisors and Trie in the Norman Vexin, at a huge, spreading elm tree that had often been the site of peace conferences. Accompanied by the Earls of Essex and Pembroke, the Constable of Normandy, the Archbishop of Rouen, his son Geoff, and his household knights, Henry arrived at noon. The French were already there. Henry reined in his stallion, but made no move to dismount.

It had been six months since he’d last seen his sons. In the past, he’d been separated from them for longer than that, most recently during his sojourn in Ireland. But he was acutely aware now of the changes that those months apart had wrought. Richard seemed to have added a year or two to his age, for his shoulders had broadened and his stubble had become a full-fledged golden beard. A shadow on Geoffrey’s upper lip and peach fuzz on his cheeks had not been there at Christmas. The sight of Hal was the most painful. The sunlight gilding his curly, fair hair, he looked regal and resplendent in a scarlet mantle and matching cowhide boots with gold turned-down tops, a natural magnet for all eyes-just as on that night at Chinon when he’d saluted Henry with a dazzling smile and a silver cup of drugged wine.

Hal was standing beside the French king, with Richard and Geoffrey close by, proclaiming to the world that they were united, allies, and he-their father-was the enemy. Henry fought back a wave of baffled hurt and anger, waiting until he was sure his voice would not betray him. Ignoring Louis, he locked his eyes upon Hal.

“I am not here to negotiate with you and your brothers, Hal, nor to bargain with you. I have come to tell you what I am willing to offer to mend this rift between us and restore peace in our family. You may choose between England and Normandy. If you choose England, you will have half the crown revenues and four royal castles. If you prefer Normandy, you will be entitled to half the ducal revenues, plus all the revenues of Anjou, and three castles in Normandy, one each in Anjou, Maine, and Touraine.”

Hal’s mouth had dropped open; his eyes were as round as moons. Without waiting for his response, Henry shifted in the saddle so that he faced Richard. “I am offering you, Richard, half the ducal income from Aquitaine and four castles.”

Richard’s reaction was more guarded than Hal’s, but his surprise was still evident and Henry suppressed a smile, thinking that they suddenly looked less like defiant rebels and more like lads getting an unexpected birthday treat. Turning his gaze upon his third son, he said, “For you, Geoffrey, I am willing to be no less generous. As soon as the Pope sanctions your marriage to Constance, you will come into the full inheritance of Brittany.”

A stunned silence fell, broken at last by Hal. “May we have time to think it over?”

Henry was disappointed that it could not be resolved then and there; he truly did not see why they’d need to discuss his offer. But he did not want to appear to be pressuring them. “You may give me your answers on the morrow. And know this, that I am willing to put the past behind us, as if this foolhardy rebellion had never been. Whatever our differences, you are my sons, of my blood, and nothing is more important than that.”

Henry signaled, then, to his men, swung his stallion in a circle, and rode away without looking back.

Henry was staying at Gisors Castle, and Louis had chosen to lodge at Chaumont-en-Vexin, a formidable royal fortress just six miles away. Not long after their return, Raoul de Faye was standing on the steps of the great hall, his eyes roaming the bailey. When he finally saw his brother, the Viscount of Chatellerault, emerging from the stables, he shouted “Hugh!” so urgently that the other man looked around in alarm. By then, Raoul was halfway across the bailey. He pulled Hugh aside, his fingers biting into his brother’s arm, but Hugh did not protest, for he’d never seen Raoul so angry, so agitated.

“Have you spoken yet to Richard or his brothers?”

Hugh shook his head. “No…have you?”

“I had just a few words with Hal. I did speak with Louis, though, and that gutless weasel wants to accept Harry’s peace terms and skulk back to Paris. When I reminded him that Harry had not said a word about Eleanor’s fate, do you know what he told me? He said very piously that it was not for him to meddle in the sacrament of matrimony, that what happened in a marriage was between a husband and his wife and the Almighty. He has no stomach for continuing the war and is willing to let Eleanor pay the price for his blundering, God curse his craven, sanctimonious soul!”

“Lower your voice,” Hugh warned. “You’re attracting attention. What of Hal? What did he say?”

“Enough to make me suspect he wants to take Harry’s bait. Did you see how his eyes lit up when Harry offered him half the crown revenues? I’d wager he’s already planning how to spend the money. He and Louis are together in the solar now, and if he has any doubts, you may be sure Louis will argue them away.”

“He does not have a brain in that handsome head of his, does he?” Hugh said bitterly. “Does he not realize that-Wait, there’s Geoffrey!”

Geoffrey looked startled to see both his great-uncles bearing down upon him with such haste; he hadn’t realized men their age could move so fast. When Raoul demanded to know if he was willing to accept his father’s offer, he did not answer at once; he was learning to be wary even with family. He’d talked it over with Hal and he was leaning toward acceptance, for he knew that he could not hope for more than Henry had offered, not at fifteen. He also knew that these men would not be happy to hear that, and so he temporized, saying only, “I admit it is tempting, but I have not made up my mind.”

His evasion did not work, though, for they began to berate him for his indecision, but then Raoul spotted Richard coming around the corner of the mews. They immediately called out his name, hurrying to intercept him. Geoffrey was forgotten, but he was accustomed to being utterly overshadowed by his elder brothers, and he chose to overlook the slight and follow them, sure that this would be a conversation he ought to hear.

Richard had halted, although he made no attempt to meet them halfway. As soon as they’d reached him, Raoul put to him the question he’d just demanded of Geoffrey. Richard answered readily. “No, I am not willing. He offered money, and much more than I expected, but only money. Nor did he make any mention of my mother and the part she played in the rebellion.”

Raoul heaved a great, gusty sigh. “Thank God Jesus that someone else noticed that! His offer is a bribe, a lavish, tempting bribe, but a bribe all the same. It is a bribe, though, that your brother seems willing to take. He and Louis are meeting even as we speak, laying their plans for the morrow-”

“Where?”

When Raoul said the solar, Richard spun around and headed across the bailey, so swiftly that the others were hard pressed to keep up with him. The great hall was crowded, and several intense discussions were going on, the most heated one led by the Count of Dreux, Louis’s volatile younger brother. Robert was gesturing emphatically, his face a mottled shade of red, and those gathered around him seemed to be in agreement, for they were nodding and murmuring among themselves. The Earl of Leicester was pacing back and forth by the open hearth. As soon as he saw Richard, he swerved toward him.

“Richard! We need to talk. Your father said nothing about your allies. If you make peace with him, what happens to me or Hugh of Chester?”

Richard brushed by him as if he’d not spoken, and plunged into the stairwell. Taking the stairs two at a time, he did not pause before the solar door, shoved it open, with Raoul and Hugh on his heels and Geoffrey a few steps behind. Louis and Hal were seated at a trestle table with Henri of Blois, the Count of Champagne, his brother Etienne, the Count of Sancerre, and Louis’s youngest brother, the Archbishop of Rheims. There were other men there, too, but Richard did not know their names, clerks and priests who labored anonymously for the French king since his chancellor had resigned the year before. They turned startled faces toward the door as Richard burst into the chamber.

“I am sorry I am late. The messenger you sent to fetch me must have gotten waylaid or lost. Surely you did send someone to find me, for this is as much my decision as it is Hal’s.”

It did not take much effort for Louis to imagine those barbed words coming from Henry’s mouth. He was genuinely fond of Hal, but he’d never warmed to Richard, and he realized now how easily that indifference could turn into active dislike. Forcing a smile, he said, “Come in, Richard. I assure you that we were not trying to keep anything from you.”

Richard ignored him as completely as Henry had done just hours earlier. “Hal, is it true you mean to accept the offer?”

Hal was irked by his peremptory tone. He chose to let it go, though, for too much was at stake for their usual brotherly squabbles. “If he’d made this offer to me at Christmas, I’d never have rebelled. So, yes, I am accepting it. Why would I not?”

“I can understand that you’d not want to be burdened with any real authority. Having to govern would interfere with your tournament time. But did you spare even a thought for our mother’s safety?”

Angry color scorched Hal’s skin. “Of course I did! That was the first thing my father-by-marriage and I discussed. He pointed out that she has not taken an active part in the rebellion. All that our father knows for certes is that she let you and Geoffrey go to Paris with me, and that is easily explained. If I assure him that she did not know of my plans, that none of it was her doing, I am sure-”

“Christ on the Cross! I cannot believe we came from the same womb, for you do not have the sense God gave a goat!”

Hal shoved his chair back, coming quickly to his feet. “How dare you-”

“Enough!” Raoul shouted, loudly enough to drown out Hal’s outraged response. “If you do not want to hear it from Richard, hear it from me, then, Hal. You know I have a spy at your father’s court. He has reported that Harry does not believe you or your brothers would have rebelled if you’d not been beguiled into it, and he has no doubt who bears the responsibility-the French king and your mother. He does not just think she aided and abetted you. He is convinced that she was the instigator, for as long as he can blame Eleanor, he need not blame himself.”

“You exaggerate,” Louis said sharply. “I have spies, too, at his court, Hal, and they tell me something quite different.”

Hal looked from Louis to Raoul to Richard, then back to his father-in-law. “If my mother is to bear the blame for this-”

He got no further, for the door banged open again. This time the intruder was Louis’s brother Robert. His suspicions flared as soon as he saw Henry’s sons, and he glowered at Louis. “What is going on up here? Why are we not discussing this in council, Louis?”

Louis glared back at him. “It is not for you to question me, my lord count,” he said coldly, making use of his brother’s title as a pointed reminder of their respective status as sovereign and subject. “It was my intent to summon them once I’d spoken with my son-in-law.”

Robert was not impressed by Louis’s assumption of kingly authority. “I am gladdened to hear that,” he said, and smirked. “I shall go back to the hall and tell the others that we are about to hold a council meeting.” And he exited the solar before Louis could stop him. Louis was furious, but Robert had maneuvered him into a corner and he saw no other option than to hold a council. Rising, he gathered his dignity about him as if he were donning robes of state, and strode from the solar. The others were quick to follow.

Raoul lingered behind, though, and stepped in front of the Count of Champagne as he started toward the door. Henri of Blois and his brother Thibault were the most influential of Louis’s lords, his sons-in-law by their marriages to his daughters by Eleanor, Marie and Alix, and brothers-in-law by his marriage to their sister, Adele. Raoul had not often crossed paths with them until the rebellion, and he’d been surprised to find that Henri was quite likable. His beautiful, elegant countess had joined him in Paris, eager to meet her young half brothers, and they’d developed an immediate rapport. Raoul was very taken with Marie, too, for she reminded him of a youthful Eleanor, and as she was quite curious about the mother she’d not seen since she was seven, Raoul had passed some pleasant evenings in Marie and Henri’s company.

It was Henri to whom he turned now, for the count knew Louis far better than he did, and he was desperate to glean insights about the French king, to learn anything that might help him to avert this impending catastrophe. “You cannot approve of this so-called peace, Henri, for what does France stand to gain by it?” He did not ask the count how he would benefit. His brother Thibault would get Amboise Castle should they win, but rather remarkably, Henri had demanded nothing of Hal in return for his support.

“Not much,” Henri admitted. “If it were up to me, I’d not be so quick to agree to terms with the English king. But it is Louis who wears the crown, and as much as that galls his brother Robert, it is Louis who decides if it is to be peace or war. And as you saw, he has chosen peace.”

“Why? I do not understand the workings of that man’s mind. Why go to such great lengths to stir up a rebellion against Harry and then call it off as if it were a game of camp-ball halted by rain? I know he wants to see Harry humbled, weakened. So why will he not do all he can to make that happen?”

“Ah, Raoul, you do not understand Louis at all, do you? You share the English king’s view of him as somewhat simple, easily swayed by others, with sand where his backbone ought to be. But he is more complicated than that. He is very devout; his great tragedy is that he was plucked out of that monastery when his elder brother died, for he’d have been far happier as the monk he was meant to be. As a good Christian, he loathes war; as a king, he is forced to wage it. But in his heart, he believes that shedding blood is a mortal sin, so when his campaigns go awry, as they usually do, he concludes that the Almighty is punishing him for violating the commandment that states, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

“But he started this war, not Harry. Why goad Harry’s sons into rebellion if he were not willing to see it through to the end?”

Henri smiled faintly. “I said he was complicated, not consistent. Louis hates the English king almost as much as he loves God. For more than twenty years, Harry has bested him at every turn. He could not keep Harry from wedding his queen, or from winning the English Crown, or from expanding his realm until it now rivals Charlemagne’s. Had he not been so starved for success, he’d not have let himself be talked into that farce at Verneuil. But you may be sure that any satisfaction he gained from it was all too fleeting, a poisoned brew by morning, for even if he does not always heed it, Louis is cursed with a conscience, a most inconvenient virtue for a king.”

The count paused, as if deciding how candid he ought to be. “A man so beset with self-doubts does not deceive himself about his capabilities. He may not admit it, but he knows he is an inept battle commander, Harry a brilliant one. He thought Thomas Becket had given him the weapon he needed, a way to defeat Harry beyond the battlefield, and when the archbishop was so foully murdered, midst his grief there was satisfaction, too, that Harry would finally reap what he had sown. You can imagine his frustration when Harry managed to avoid excommunication and then to make his peace with the Church. You have to feel some sympathy for him, Raoul. He is like that figure in Greek myth…what was he called? The poor king condemned forever to roll a stone uphill, only to have it roll back down again. Well, that is Louis, constantly struggling to thwart Harry at something, anything, and constantly losing.”

“I might have more sympathy for the man,” Raoul said tautly, “if he were not so willing to make my niece the scapegoat for his sins.”

“Does that truly surprise you? He has never forgiven Eleanor for daring to wed Harry rather than waiting dutifully for him to select a husband for her. And he has never forgiven her for then giving Harry five sons when she gave him only daughters. But if you cannot muster up sympathy for Louis, neither can I find sympathy to spare for your niece. She meant to use Louis for her own ends, so she can hardly complain once she discovers that he was using her, too.”

Raoul felt resentment flicker, but he did not allow it to catch fire. He’d long known that Eleanor’s French allies were of two minds about her part in the rebellion. They welcomed the aid offered by the Duchess of Aquitaine, but they were not comfortable with the rebel queen, the faithless wife. Raoul held his tongue, though, for he’d not yet gotten what he needed from Henri. “What if we could make Louis believe that this was one war he could win? That if he held firm, he could have a great victory over Harry?”

“If you can give him that certainty, the king will prevail over the monk, to borrow that memorable phrase coined by your niece. But it will be no easy task. I know that at times it seems as if he can be led by the nose like a bridled gelding. But he can also be very stubborn, his the stiff-necked obstinacy of the weak. And between them, Robert and your young Richard have him determined to make peace on the morrow, if only to punish them for their defiance. So it will not be enough to convince him that he can finally gain that victory over Harry. You will have to offer him a way to save face, too, to reverse himself without sacrificing his pride.”

Henri smiled then, signaling that the lesson was over. “We’d best go down to the hall whilst there is still time to change Louis’s mind. I will be interested to see if you can put my advice into action.”

Upon his return to the great hall, Raoul joined his brother, who whispered that Robert had just stormed out after a particularly acrimonious exchange with Louis. The French lords were gathered around the dais, save for the Count of Evreux, who had withdrawn to a window-seat, watching the proceedings with the detached amusement of one being entertained by minstrels or jongleurs. Louis was seated upon the dais, and a chair had been provided for Hal, but he’d not remained in it for long and was fidgeting like a horse about to bolt, although he kept his gaze fastened upon the French king and his brother all the while.

Richard was standing on the dais steps, looking at Louis with a hawk’s unblinking intensity. “You still have not answered me, my liege. How would my lady mother fare under this ‘peace’ of yours?”

Raoul silently blessed Richard for putting the question so bluntly, for going right to the heart of the matter. But as he glanced around the hall, he could find little sympathy for Eleanor’s plight, and with a chill, he realized that the only one standing between Eleanor and disaster was her sixteen-year-old son.

Louis was finding it harder and harder to maintain a civil tone with this prideful young lordling, who seemed to have inherited the worst qualities of both his parents. “I understand your concern for your mother, lad, but you must trust me that-”

For Richard, the French king’s patronizing smile was the spark that set his smoldering temper ablaze. “I am the Duke of Aquitaine, not your lad! And I do not give my trust freely. It must be earned.”

Louis saw no further reason to humor this impudent brat. “You need to be reminded, Richard, that you came to me as a supplicant, and you and your brothers promised to be guided by my advice and that of my council.”

Richard’s upper lip curled. “But not all promises are kept, my liege…are they?”

This not-so-subtle reference to Verneuil hit its target, and Louis’s face twitched as if he’d been struck. “You are a foolish boy, and you’ve said more than enough!”

“Not nearly enough! Hear me on this-all of you.” Richard swung around, his eyes raking the hall. “I will have no part of this so-called peace.”

Louis had half risen from his chair. “Then you will stand alone!”

“No,” Hal said suddenly, “he will not.” Coming down the steps of the dais, he stood beside Richard and looked at his father-in-law, head high. “My brother and I do not often see eye-to-eye, but he has convinced me that he is right and it would be folly to accept our father’s offer.”

Richard and Louis were staring at Hal, the former with gratified surprise, the latter with angry disappointment. When Hal shot a meaningful glance toward Geoffrey, he hesitated briefly and then sauntered over to join them. “I will not be accepting the offer either.”

“And how do you expect to fight your father without French help?” Louis demanded scornfully. “You’ll find that your words ring as hollow as your titles!”

“They’ll have my help!” Heads turned toward the Count of Dreux, standing in the open doorway of the hall. Once he was sure that all eyes were upon him, Robert swaggered forward to stand beside Henry’s sons. “And they ought to have yours, for they have sworn allegiance to you for Normandy and Aquitaine, so you owe them a liege-lord’s protection!”

“What would you know about a king’s duties and obligations? You’ve never worn a crown, and that is your true grievance with me, Robert-jealousy, pure and simple!”

Paying no attention to Robert’s enraged reply, Raoul shoved his way over to the window-seat where Simon de Montfort was lounging. “I need your help. I know how to get Louis to change his mind, but he’ll not heed Eleanor’s uncle. You have to be the one to tell him.”

“I’d like nothing better than to continue the war, but Louis will not heed me, either.”

“He listened to you at Verneuil!”

“Yes…and soon regretted it. Have you not noticed how coldly he has treated me since then? It is a wonder I have not gotten frostbite by now. No, you need someone else, someone he truly trusts…and that has never been me.”

Raoul turned away, searching the hall frantically for the right face, one whom the French king “truly trusts.” For a moment, his eyes rested upon the Count of Champagne. Henri had nothing to gain, though, nor to lose, whether it be peace or war. But his brother…his brother had long lusted after Amboise Castle, and a premature peace would take that glittering prize from his grasp. Within moments, Raoul had drawn Thibault of Blois aside, speaking quietly and urgently in the count’s ear, and then he held his breath as Thibault strode toward the dais.

“I am astonished,” he declared, “that our sovereign lord should be spoken to so disrespectfully. The Duke of Aquitaine must be forgiven, for he is young and has not yet learned to govern his temper or his tongue. But you, my lord Count of Dreux, have no such excuse.”

Robert was quite willing to aim his rage at a new target, but Thibault did not give him a chance to retaliate. “May I speak to the council, my liege?” Mollified by his deference, Louis graciously gave his permission, and Thibault mounted the steps of the dais.

“We can all agree that the English king’s offer was surprisingly generous, and this from a man not known for spending with wild abandon.” There were some chuckles at that, and even Louis smiled. “We need to consider what that means, my lords. Henry Fitz Empress proclaimed his willingness to welcome his sons back with open arms, as if their rebellion had never been, and then to reward them lavishly for that very rebellion. What does that tell us? That he is desperate to make peace with his sons. Think about that, my liege, my lords, think about the leverage that gives us. If Henry will offer so much in his opening gambit, how much more will he concede if only we hold firm!”

Thibault paused, saw with satisfaction that Louis was listening intently. “This is a rare opportunity, my lord king. We have something that the English king very badly wants. I say we take advantage of that, deny him his peace until he is willing to pay the price we set upon it. And he will pay it, for as he said himself this morn, nothing is more important than blood, than his sons.”

A hushed silence greeted Thibault’s words; even Robert had the sense to keep quiet. Louis leaned back in his chair, and then nodded gravely. “As always, you are the voice of reason, my lord count, the only one in the hall. We would be fools, indeed, if we let this chance go by. On the morrow, we shall tell the English king that he will have to do better, much better.”

Raoul’s first reaction was the exhausted relief that so often marked the end of a bloody battle. Too weary to celebrate, he found an empty window-seat and slumped down upon the cushions, closing his eyes, not looking up until his brother was standing beside him, asking if this was his doing.

“Indeed, yes,” he said proudly, and began to laugh. “How I love the way Fortune’s Wheel tilts when we least expect it. I daresay you remember what almost befell Eleanor when her marriage to Louis was dissolved and she was seeking to reach safety in her own lands.”

“Of course I remember. Twice she was almost abducted by overly eager grooms.”

“And one of them was Count Thibault, who was sorely disappointed when she was warned that he’d planned to seize her in Blois and force her to wed him. I always thought it ironic that Louis would then marry her daughter to him. But it is even more ironic,” Raoul said with a grin, “that Thibault, of all men, should now be her unwitting savior!”

As they rode from Gisors to the meeting place under that venerable elm, Henry was in good spirits, listening as Willem boasted to Geoff about their capture of Louis’s castle at Chaumont-en-Vexin six years ago. “It was a great triumph for your lord father, brilliantly executed.”

“He says that because he was one of my commanders,” Henry interjected and Willem grinned.

“Modesty has never been one of my failings. Whilst your father tempted the garrison to rush out and engage him, Geoff, his Welsh routiers swam the river and got into the town. The garrison was soon put to flight by our men and when they tried to retreat back into the town, they found it was in flames. Chaumont was where Louis was keeping his army’s provisions, so he was greatly grieved by its fall.”

“Staying at Chaumont last night must have given him a bad dream or two, then,” Geoff said gleefully and Henry turned in the saddle to smile at him.

“I hope so, lad, I surely hope so!”

Ahead they saw the towering branches of the elm, and beneath its vast shadow, the French had gathered. Henry was amused that they’d claimed the shade, for that much he was willing to concede to them. His sons were standing together at a distance from Louis, and he took that as a good sign, although he did not feel much need to look for favorable omens, so sure was he that their answer would be the one he wanted. How could it not be? He was offering forgiveness and substantial revenues and more independence than they’d ever had before, and he was offering it despite the collapse of their rebellion. What greater proof of his sincerity could there be than that?

Upon dismounting, he gave Louis a terse greeting, for it would be years, if ever, before he’d forgive the French king for Verneuil, and then walked over to his sons. “You’ve had the night to think it over. What is your answer?”

Hal seemed to have been designated as their spokesman, for he was the one to step forward. “Our answer is no. We cannot accept.”

This was one of the few times in Henry’s life when he was caught utterly off balance, and his intake of breath was audible to Hal. He looked at this stranger who was his son and he could not understand how it had ever come to this. “Out of curiosity,” he said at last, “would you mind telling me why?”

Hal was making a disquieting discovery, that it was easier to defy Henry when he was enraged and hurling threats. For just a moment he’d seen his father’s vulnerability, seen his hurt, and somewhat to his surprise, he found he could take no pleasure in it. “It…” Clearing his throat, he said simply and with no hostility, “It is not enough.”

“Not enough,” Henry echoed incredulously. “Again, out of curiosity, you understand, just how much money will it take to buy back your allegiance?”

Stung, Hal cried out that was not what he meant, but it was Richard who now drew Henry’s attention. “We are not talking about money.”

Henry regarded his second son, looking intently into grey eyes very like his own. “What, then?”

“You gave us no assurances that Hal will have any say in the governance of England or Normandy. Nor have you said that I will be able to rule Aquitaine as is my right.”

Henry’s anger was diluted by a vast weariness, for he’d had this very argument so often with Hal. “As I’ve told your brother more times than I can begin to count, that is because of your youth and inexperience. Why do you lads find this so hard to grasp? An aspiring goldsmith does not expect to become one overnight; he knows he must first serve an apprenticeship. Why should it be any different for young princes?”

“You did not serve an apprenticeship,” Richard pointed out coolly, “before your father turned Normandy over to you.”

“And you were just seventeen,” Hal chimed in, “fully a year younger than I am now!”

Henry wanted nothing so much at that moment than to grab them both and shake some sense into them. “That happened because I had proved myself by then, and my father knew my judgment could be trusted.”

“Yes, but you will not give us the chance to prove ourselves!”

This was an old and familiar argument of Hal’s, but before Henry could respond to it, Richard stepped in front of his brother. “There is more. Even if you agree to give us a share in the governing of Aquitaine and England or Normandy, there is another obstacle in our path to peace. You said you were willing to forgive us.”

“I said it and I meant it.” Henry glanced from one to the other; Geoffrey, as usual, was forgotten. “I will forgive you, I swear it upon all I hold sacred.”

Richard raised his chin, met his father’s eyes challengingly. “Can you also forgive our mother?”

Henry stiffened and, as he looked at his sons, never had the gap between them seemed so wide to him, so impossible to bridge. “So be it,” he said flatly. “We are done here.”

As Henry started to turn away, there were startled murmurs from the French, and he marveled wearily at their surprise, for he’d warned them from the first that he’d not come to bargain with his sons. He’d only taken a few steps toward his horse, though, before Louis hastened after him.

“You are a fool, Harry Fitz Empress!” The French king’s voice shook with fury as he confronted the man he blamed for most of his life’s disappointments. “Do you not see what you are throwing away? You are losing your sons! Do you truly value your pride more than you do them?”

“They were not lost,” Henry snarled, more than willing to turn upon Louis the anger he’d not wanted to let loose upon his sons. “They were lured away, and if there is any justice in this world, you’ll answer to the Almighty for it. You may not even have to wait till Judgment Day to atone for this particular sin. You have a son, too. Who knows-one day he might grow restless under your tutelage, look elsewhere for advice and support. If so, I will most gladly return the favor.”

“You can rant and threaten all you want, blame me, your queen, blame everyone but yourself. It changes nothing. You had a chance today to win your boys back, and you trampled upon it. It is not a chance that will come again. Do you know how we celebrated your son Richard’s sixteenth birthday? I knighted him, Harry. I knighted him, not you!”

Louis’s taunt drew blood. Henry looked at the other man with loathing, and then turned accusing eyes upon his second son. “My congratulations, Richard,” he said scathingly. “What an honor for you, to be knighted by the victor of Verneuil.”

Richard’s reaction was unexpected; he grinned. But then Henry realized why; Richard had not been at Verneuil, felt none of the shame. And as their eyes met, they shared a moment of odd understanding, one of mutual contempt for the French king.

It was very different, though, for Louis and Hal. Louis turned beet-red and spun on his heel. Hal flushed darkly, too, and cried out that Verneuil was not his doing.

Henry turned back toward his son. “Yes, it was your doing, Hal. All of this is your doing. Part of being a man is taking responsibility for your actions. I hope you learn that one day. But based upon what I’ve so far seen, I doubt that you will.”

Hal went white. Humiliated, hurt, indignant, he glared at his father, sure in that moment that he hated Henry, that he would always hate him. “It will be war then,” he warned, his voice hoarse and none-too-steady. “And you may be certain of this-that I will never offer you terms as generous as those you offered me! If you want peace, you will have to beg for it on your knees!”

Henry’s eyes glittered. “What do you know of war, boy? It is not dressing up in scarlet boots and wearing a sword on your hip, or promising half your kingdom to the Scots and the Flemings, or swaggering about like the hero in a minstrel’s chanson. You want to know about war, you ask the Count of Boulogne, the Earl of Chester, and the burghers of Verneuil. But you cannot, can you? The Count of Boulogne is rotting in his grave, the Earl of Chester is rotting in one of my prisons, and the citizens of Verneuil are too busy grieving for their dead and the French king’s lost honor.”

Hal started to protest again that he was not responsible for Verneuil, realized just in time that he’d only be proving Henry’s point, as Henry continued remorselessly. “I suppose you could ask the allies you have left, but they are dwindling rapidly in case you’ve not noticed. The Count of Flanders and the Scots king have cut you loose. So have the Breton rebels, who were only too happy to surrender to me at Dol. So who does that leave? Your brothers, who’ve yet to bloody their swords? Your formidable father-in-law? The fearsome Earl of Leicester? Indeed, Hal, I am shaking in my boots at the very thought of facing such worthy adversaries!”

That provoked a choked cry of utter outrage, but it did not come from Hal. Thrusting aside the French lords in his way, the Earl of Leicester strode over to confront Henry. “Are you calling me a coward?”

Henry found it remarkable that his late justiciar, a man of honor and integrity, could ever have spawned such a worthless whelp as this. “I’d say your conduct at Breteuil speaks for itself,” he said contemptuously.

The look Leicester gave him was murderous. “I retreated in good order when I saw that I could not hold the castle!”

That was so preposterous a claim that Henry laughed in his face. “You bolted at the first sight of my banners. I daresay I could have sent our camp laundresses to take the castle and you’d still have run like a spooked sheep.”

Leicester saw Henry through a red mist of rage. “I am not running now, you Angevin son of a whore!” he shouted and drew his sword.

There was instant pandemonium. Amazed, Henry dropped his hand to his own sword hilt, making ready to defend himself. But his men were already in motion. Willem’s blade caught the sun as it slid from its scabbard, and Geoff, not as experienced but just as eager, unsheathed his weapon almost as swiftly. The others were no less quick to react, though. Hal and Richard were yelling at Leicester, the Count of Champagne had darted forward to get between Henry and the earl, and Will Marshal, appearing from nowhere, was there, too. But the French king was the most horrified of all.

“Have you gone mad?” He was staring incredulously at Leicester, as if the earl had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. “How dare you draw your sword upon a king?”

“I have a right to defend my honor!” But as he glanced around, Leicester saw this was a cock that wouldn’t fight. He’d managed to do the well-nigh impossible-temporarily unite them all in a common cause, for there could be no greater crime in their world than to kill a man who was the christus domini, the Anointed of the Lord. Jamming his sword back into its scabbard, Leicester shouted defiantly at Henry, “This is not over! When we next meet, it will be on the battlefield in England!” Whirling then, he shoved his way through the press of men, yelling for his men and horses.

The Archbishop of Rouen had taken it upon himself to lecture them all on the sin of spilling blood during God’s Truce, and Louis’s brother, the Archbishop of Rheims, added his moral authority to Rotrou’s, both men uneasily aware of how contagious violence could be. With that same thought in mind, Henry’s men had brought over his stallion. Swinging up into the saddle, he paused to stare down at his sons and the French king.

“You wanted war?” he said. “Then by God, that is what you’ll get!”

The Lady Beatriz, one of Eleanor’s attendants, halted in surprise as she entered the queen’s bedchamber, for it was dusk but the hearth had not been lit and no lamps burned on the table. Glad that she’d brought a candle, she hastened over to light the oil wicks, intending to have some harsh words with the servants for being so neglectful. As an oil lamp sputtered and ignited, she caught movement from the corner of her eye, turned, and then recoiled in surprise.

“Oh, my lady, how you startled me! I had no idea you were here.” Moving toward the silent figure in the window-seat, she gasped as her candle illuminated the queen’s face. “Madame, are you ailing? Shall I fetch a doctor?”

“I am well, Beatriz,” Eleanor said, but the girl was not convinced, for the older woman was ashen. Her gaze darting from Eleanor’s hollow eyes to the parchment crumpled in her lap, Beatriz dropped to her knees, stretching out a hand in mute entreaty. “My lady…forgive me if I have overstepped my bounds, but you look so troubled. Something is wrong, I can tell. Is there nothing I can do?”

Eleanor looked down at the kneeling girl. Most of her ladies-in-waiting did not serve her for long, eager to find husbands at the royal court. But Beatriz, a young widow and distant cousin on her mother’s side, had been with her for more than four years. Her uncle Raoul had recommended Beatriz, and at first Eleanor had wondered if he’d put the girl in her household to spy upon her. But Beatriz had passed every test she’d set for her, and Eleanor had no doubts about her loyalty or her love. She’d only had two female confidantes in her life, though, her sister Petronilla and Maud, the Countess of Chester, and she was not about to confess her heart’s pain to a sweet child young enough to be one of her daughters. Yet Beatriz was right. She was in great need of solace, in need of one she could truly trust.

“There is something you can do for me, Beatriz,” she said, and managed a flickering smile. “Fetch my constable.”

As he’d aged, Saldebreuil de Sanzay’s eyes had begun to fail him, and his vision was tolerable only at a distance these days. It did not help that the letter was in Raoul de Faye’s own hand, for his scrawl was not as legible as a scribe’s uniform script. He was too proud to ask Eleanor to read it to him, though, and she was too distracted to notice his difficulties. He eventually solved the problem by holding the letter out at arm’s length. When he looked up, there was an expression upon his face that she’d rarely seen before, one of fear-for Richard, for Aquitaine, above all, for her.

Fear. She’d not often had to deal with it, for hers had been a privileged life. She’d been insulated from fear by her high birth, her crown, and her headstrong nature. In her forty-nine years on God’s Earth, she could honestly say that she’d rarely been afraid. Even during those times when she’d been placed in physical peril-the assault by the Saracens in the Holy Land, the capture of her galley by pirates in the pay of the Byzantine Emperor, the ambush by the de Lusignans-there’d been no time to dwell upon the danger until it was over, and then there was no need. Now…now there was nothing but time, and as she’d sat in her darkened bedchamber after reading Raoul’s letter, she’d thought of the unforgiving wrath of the man she’d married and could not deny that she was afraid of what the future might hold, afraid that she may have made the greatest mistake of her life.

“You were not told of this peace conference, then?” Saldebreuil asked quietly, and she shook her head.

“I knew nothing of it until Raoul’s letter arrived.” She gazed down at her clasped hands, noticing the golden glimmer of her wedding ring. Why was she still wearing it? “I expected the Count of Flanders to take charge of the rebellion. Had I thought the reins would be left in Louis’s hands, I’d never have risked it.”

He nodded bleakly. “It has gone wrong from the first, my lady. If Hal had not fled from Chinon when he did, we’d have had the time we needed to complete our plans, to coordinate our strategy. They ought to have attacked all at once, on multiple fronts. The assault upon Normandy began promisingly enough, but it all fell apart when the Count of Boulogne was slain, and gave your husband the chance to quell the rising in Brittany. If the Scots king had only persevered, if they’d invaded England at the same time…” His words trailed off, for he recognized his complaint for what it was, a soldier’s lament for lost opportunities and bungled choices.

“Raoul thinks I ought to have gone to Paris with him and my sons. But how could I do that? How could I leave Aquitaine? What sort of a message would that have sent to my lords and vassals if I’d run away like…like a flighty, fainthearted woman?”

“In all honesty, Madame, I doubt that your presence in Paris would have changed things much. You have more common sense than any man I’ve ever known, and more courage. But we both know they’d not have heeded you. You’re crippled by your skirts, and your lads by their years. Had he only been older, Richard could have…”

Again, he left the thought unfinished, for he was too much of a realist to embrace those most frivolous of regrets, the ones rooted in the barren soil of What If and If Only. Instead, he said briskly, “Well, at least we’ve been granted a second chance. I think it likely the Count of Flanders will soon rejoin the hunt, for he is not a man to mourn for long, not when all of Kent can be his for the taking. And when he does, the French king’s mishaps will not matter as much. We must remember, too, that the Scots king is still a player in this game. And whilst he may not be your husband’s equal on the field, he has something the other rebels do not-the resources of a kingdom to draw upon.”

“Yes,” she said, “but so does Harry. Our spies tell us he has enough to hire twice as many Brabancon routiers as he has now in his pay.” As she’d spoken, she was tugging at her wedding band until it slid from her finger. Clenching it tightly in her fist, she said morosely, “I wonder how long it will be ere they come calling into Aquitaine.”

Saldebreuil had no answer for her, but then she’d not expected one, and after that, they sat for a time in silence as the shadows lengthened and night came on.