Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

September 1184

Winchester, England

"Your son is so sweet, Tilda. May I hold him?”

“Of course, Alys,” Tilda said with a smile and surrendered her baby to the younger woman. She was making a special effort to be friendly because of her discomfort in Alys’s presence. She felt that her father and Richard had treated the French princess rather shabbily, cold-bloodedly using her as a pawn in their high-stakes diplomatic maneuvering. Her mother’s attitude seemed callous to Tilda, too. Eleanor was obviously in no position to influence Alys’s fate, but she’d shown a marked lack of sympathy for the girl in her conversations with Tilda, her only concern how Alys’s fortunes affected Richard. Tilda’s husband liked to tease her that she was too tenderhearted for her own good, and she supposed there was truth in that. She could not help pitying Alys, though.

As she glanced from Alys to her twelve-year-old daughter, Tilda found herself worrying what the future held in store for Richenza. Alys was not the only highborn bride to be treated as a commodity, after all. Alys’s half sister Agnes had found only grief in Byzantium. And then there was the still-grieving Marguerite, being used by her brother for bait as he fished for allies.

Tilda had heard people claim that a nuptial curse hung over the French House of Capet. Louis had certainly been shipwrecked in matrimonial seas, surviving a turbulent union to Eleanor, losing his second wife in childbirth, and not gaining the son he so desperately wanted until he’d sired four daughters and given up all hope. His sister Constance had been unhappily wed to two abusive husbands, and his nineteen-year-old son, Philippe, had already weathered one marital crisis.

Earlier in the year Philippe had attempted to repudiate Isabelle of Hainaut, the niece of his onetime ally turned enemy, the Count of Flanders, claiming that she had failed to give him an heir, an unfair accusation in light of her extreme youth; she’d been ten at the time of their marriage and was now only fourteen. Isabelle had outmaneuvered him, though, taking to the streets of Senlis as a penitent.

Barefoot and clad only in her chemise, she’d made a pilgrimage from church to church, attracting huge, sympathetic crowds as she prayed aloud to God to forgive her sins and protect her from the king’s evil counselors. The citizens had rioted in her favor, and when the flustered Philippe offered to find her a highborn second husband, she had responded, “Sire, it does not please God for a mortal man to lie in the bed in which you have lain.” Facing the disapproval of his subjects and the likely opposition of the Church, his pride assuaged by his young wife’s artful flattery, Philippe had relented and agreed to take her back. But Tilda still felt sorry for Isabelle, and hoped when her daughter was wed that she’d be treated more kindly than Philippe’s queen.

Alys laughed, not at all disturbed when Tilda’s infant son burped and spit up on the bodice of her gown. “You are so lucky,” she said wistfully. “He is such a beautiful baby.” Glancing over the child’s head toward Tilda, she hesitated before saying, “I was sorry to hear that your husband had no success during his trip to Germany.”

“It was a disappointment,” Tilda conceded. “But we remain hopeful. My father met the Archbishop of Cologne at Canterbury last month and entertained him lavishly in London. The archbishop had long been one of my husband’s fiercest foes, but my father got them together during the archbishop’s visit and brought about their reconciliation.”

The archbishop had suggested that Henry send an embassy to the Pope and ask him to mediate on Heinrich’s behalf with the emperor, but Tilda was not about to reveal something so politically sensitive to Alys. Nor was she going to tell Alys the real reason for the archbishop’s presence in England. His had been a diplomatic mission disguised as a pilgrimage; talks were under way for a marriage between Richard and the emperor’s daughter Agnes. Tilda hoped that the marriage would come to pass, for at least that would free Alys from her political purgatory. But she did not know Alys at all, and it could be that the young woman really wanted to wed Richard, especially now that he was a future king, so it seemed wisest to say nothing.

Tilda’s daughter was cooing over her baby brother with a motherly air that brought a smile to Tilda’s lips. Richenza-Tilda found it hard to remember that she was now called Matilda-and Alys were taking turns extolling little Wilhelm’s manifold virtues when Eleanor’s abrupt entrance put a halt to their cheery conversation. Her greeting to Alys was so curt that the younger woman flushed and Tilda felt a prickle of resentment on her behalf. But then she took a closer look at her mother’s ashen face.

“Alys, would you mind taking Wilhelm back to the nursery? My daughter will show you the way.” Catching the eye of Gertrud, her attendant, Tilda nodded her head and the woman rose and followed the others out. Turning back to her mother, then, Tilda was alarmed to find that Eleanor had sank down upon a coffer, almost as if she no longer had the strength to hold herself erect. “Maman…what is it? What is wrong?”

“It is happening all over again.”

Tilda had never heard her mother sound so vulnerable, so…old. “What is happening? I do not understand.”

“Your brothers are at war with one another. Only this time it is Geoffrey and John against Richard.”

“God in Heaven!” Tilda stared at Eleanor in horror. “You mean…they took Papa’s angry words seriously?”

“So it would seem.” Eleanor rubbed her temples with her fingers; she had a throbbing headache, and when she closed her eyes, she could see white light pulsing against her lids. “I am so tired,” she confessed, “so very tired of all this, Tilda. It never seems to end…”

Tilda leaped to her feet, much too swiftly for a woman who’d given birth so recently. Crossing to Eleanor’s side, she sat down beside her on the coffer and reached for her hand. “Maman, I know how painful this must be for you…” Her voice faltered, for in truth, she did not. She could not even imagine a world in which her own sons were set upon destroying one another. Could there be any worse grief for a parent than that? “You must not despair, Maman. Papa will not let this happen. He will stop the bloodshed, find a way to end their lunatic rivalry and make peace between them. He’ll make this right, you’ll see.”

What if he does not want to make it right? The words hovered on Eleanor’s lips, but she bit them back. She was not about to burden Tilda with her fears. If she could keep from voicing them, though, she could not keep them from taking root, could not banish them from the back of her brain. What if Harry’s “angry words” had come from the heart? What if he meant what he said?

Geoff was in London when he heard of his family’s latest crisis. He was soon in the saddle, riding for Windsor in such haste that he covered the thirty-five miles at a pace one of Henry’s royal couriers might have envied and reached the riverside castle that evening. Admitted into the middle bailey, he ran into Willem, who grimly confirmed that the rumors were true. “Thank God you’re here, Geoff. You’ll know how to comfort him.”

Once he was escorted up to his father’s chamber, though, Geoff was not so sure of that. Henry was seated by the hearth, staring into the flames as his squires tiptoed around in nervous silence. Recognizing his son’s footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. “You heard, then.”

Geoff found a stool and brought it over to sit beside his father. “For a long time, I’ve suspected that my brothers are possessed.”

“I would that it were true,” Henry said, his voice so low that Geoff barely heard him. “At least then I’d have an answer for this family madness.” They sat in silence for a time, the only sound the crackling in the hearth. Henry stretched his feet toward the fire, wondering why he was so much more sensitive to the cold as he aged. For most of his life, he’d never paid any heed to the weather, but in the past few years he’d begun to see his own body as the enemy, for on any given day he had more random pains and aches than he used to suffer in the course of a year. He did not want to think of fifty-one as old, though his muscles, bones, and sinew seemed to be telling him otherwise. Looking at Geoff from the corner of his eye, he said reluctantly, “I may have played a part in this latest outbreak.”

“What do you mean, Papa?”

Henry sighed heavily. “During one of our quarrels at my Easter Court, I lost my temper and told Johnny that Aquitaine was his if he could take it from Richard. Do you think that…that they could have taken me seriously? Surely they must have known that I did not mean it?”

This was the first that Geoff had heard of his father’s rash outburst, and he blinked in surprise. But he did not hesitate, saying stoutly, “Of course they knew you did not mean it, Papa! Anyone with half a brain would have known you were just speaking out of frustration. You must not blame yourself for their folly.”

“I expected better of Johnny, though. Of course he is still young…” Henry said, with another sigh.

Geoff did not think John’s age was an excuse, for he was just three months from his eighteenth birthday. But if his father wanted to harbor these comforting delusions about his youngest, then Geoff would not be the one to gainsay him. “What will you do?”

“I am going to order them to cease hostilities and summon them to England to answer for themselves.”

“What will you do if they defy you?” Geoff asked, for he considered that a distinct possibility, but he was taken aback by the raw candor of his father’s reply.

“I do not want to think about that,” Henry admitted, for he found none of his choices palatable. If he stood aside and did nothing, his sons could tear his empire apart. He had limited control over Richard and Geoffrey, neither of whom were financially dependent upon him as Hal had been. But as angry as he was with them, he did not want to make war against his own flesh and blood. He’d already lost his eldest, his best-loved son. How much more would the Almighty ask of him?

A light November snow was falling as Eleanor, her daughter, and her son-in-law reached the palace at Westminster. The journey had not been a long one, for they’d been staying at Berkhampstead, which was much closer to London than Winchester. Eleanor was still very tired, and thoroughly chilled, too, for the day had been one of blustery winds. She did not summon servants to prepare her bath yet, as eager as she was to soak in warm, scented water. Henry had greeted them briefly upon their arrival, but she was expecting him to pay her a private visit.

He did not keep her waiting. Watching impatiently as servants stoked the fire in the hearth and piled fur-lined coverlets upon the bed, he seized his first opportunity to dismiss them, including Amaria. As soon as they were alone, he crossed the chamber to face Eleanor; she could not help noticing that he was favoring his bad leg again.

“I have summoned our sons to London. Johnny has already landed at Dover and Richard and Geoffrey ought to arrive by week’s end. I intend to reconcile them, to put an end to this infernal rivalry once and for all, and I expect you to assist me in this endeavor.”

“Of course.”

“You are not always so biddable,” he said suspiciously, and she gave him a tight smile.

“When our interests converge, I am always ‘biddable,’ Harry, and I want to end this strife as much as you do.”

“See that you keep that in mind,” he said brusquely and turned toward the door.

Eleanor waited until he’d reached it before she spoke again. “I will do all I can to make peace between them, however hollow it may be. But I will do nothing, Harry, to help you take Aquitaine away from Richard, and you forget that at your cost.”

He’d paused and was regarding her impassively, but his eyes were as frigid and foreboding as the slate-colored November sky. “I can only put out one fire at a time,” he said and left without waiting for her response.

In addition to his daughter and son-in-law, Henry was entertaining the Count of Flanders and numerous English bishops, having convened a council to discuss the selection of a new archbishop of Canterbury. But his first priority that November was bringing his rebellious sons back into the fold. With that in mind, he waited until all three of them had arrived at Westminster and then summoned them to a private reckoning at the Tower of London.

Geoffrey was the last to arrive, and he took his time climbing the stairs to the upper floor of the White Tower, knowing the coming confrontation would be an unpleasant one. As he was ushered into the great hall, he at once became the avid object of all eyes. To his relief, he was directed toward the private royal chamber that adjoined the hall; at least this was not going to be a public ordeal.

They were waiting for him: his parents and his brothers, Richard, John, and Geoff. Richard shot him a look that would have been deadly had it been launched from a bow, Geoff was glaring, and John seemed relieved to see him. Eleanor’s expression was unrevealing, warning Geoffrey that he was facing the queen, not the mother. Henry’s court mask was in place, too, but he seethed with restless, edgy energy, unable to stay still for long, not understanding why he, who’d always found the mastery of other men so easy, should be so hobbled when it came to controlling his own sons.

“Come in, Geoffrey,” he said coldly. “It has been suggested to me that the lot of you are possessed. Others think that you must be secretly in the service of the French king, for no one benefits more than Philippe from our family bloodletting. As for myself, I do not know what to believe, for I can no more explain your inexplicable behavior than I can walk upon water. So I’d truly like to hear you speak for yourselves. Tell me why you are seeking to do what none of my enemies could, why you are so set upon following in the footsteps of Cain.”

Geoffrey was silent, able to recognize a rhetorical question when he heard one. His brothers were not as prudent. “But you told me to take Aquitaine!” John protested. “I thought that was what you wanted, Papa!”

Richard was almost as quick as John. “I have nothing to apologize for. I was the one wronged, was merely defending myself!”

Henry dealt with Richard first. “The trouble is, Richard, that you always show what Hal called ‘an excess of zeal’ in dealing with your enemies. You were hardly defending your borders when you raided deep into Brittany.”

The blatant unfairness of that took Richard’s breath away. That was how warfare was conducted, as his father well knew, being an astute practitioner of the art himself-when at all possible, carry the war to the enemy. But Henry had already turned his attention toward John.

“That is not the best defense to make, Johnny, for it raises troubling doubts about your judgment and common sense. It was obvious that my words were spoken in anger, not to be taken seriously.”

Geoffrey wondered if he’d said that, too, about the knights who’d been motivated by one of his fits of temper to murder an archbishop in his own cathedral. But he had no time to appreciate the irony of it, for he was now the one in the line of fire.

“At least Johnny has his youth and inexperience to explain away his misdeeds. That cannot be said for you, Geoffrey. In fact, I see your sins as twofold. Not only did you make war upon your brother, but you dragged Johnny into it, too. I expected better of you.”

Geoffrey prided himself upon his inner discipline, but this tested his self-control to the utmost. He could not help glancing toward John, disappointed although not truly surprised when his younger brother kept quiet. John flushed as their eyes met, but his pang of guilt was more easily overcome than his instincts for self-preservation. He’d never understood how his brothers could defy their father so boldly, envying them their swagger and their apparent indifference to Henry’s anger. He’d been blessed-or cursed-with a vivid imagination, and when he thought of his life, he envisioned a turbulent sea, with the only land the small, unstable island of his father’s favor, an isle that could disappear under the waves in any storm.

“Well, Geoffrey?” Henry demanded. “Have you nothing to say?”

Eleanor had long ago mastered that skill so useful to kings, the ability to read others as a monk read his Psalter, a faculty also useful to prisoners, and she caught the warning signs-the jut of Geoffrey’s chin, the clenched muscles along his jawline. Deciding it was time to intervene, she said coolly, “I have something to say. I, too, expected better of you, Geoffrey, and I am very disappointed in you. But John is not a child and is old enough to answer for his own mistakes.”

That earned her a grateful look from Geoffrey, a sullen one from John, and a mistrustful one from Henry, who claimed control of the conversation again. “This is how it will be. I have convened a council for this week; the archbishopric of Canterbury has been vacant since April and it is time to select a successor. At that council I am going to have the three of you make a public avowal of peace, swear not to take up arms against one another again, and give none any reason to doubt the truth of your reconciliation.”

Neither Geoffrey nor John raised any objections, but Richard was shaking his head in disbelief. “And that is it? They attacked my lands without provocation or justification and they are not to be punished for it? Where is the justice in that?”

“The sooner we put this embarrassment behind us, the better,” Henry said impatiently. “The last thing I want to do is to drag this farce out any longer than need be. All of you are to do as you’re bidden for once with no further arguments. And heed me well on this. It is not to happen again-ever. Now it is done and let that be the end of it.”

No one spoke up, but they all knew this was not “the end of it,” even Henry.

Constance had been willing to accompany Geoffrey to London, but he’d insisted that she remain in Brittany with their child, saying that there was no reason they both should have to endure his father’s recriminations and he might well be kept in England for the foreseeable future. But to her surprise, she’d gotten a message from him in mid-December, summoning her to meet him in Rouen. The winter was mild enough for her to bring their seven-month-old daughter, and she arrived in high spirits, pleased that they’d be able to celebrate Aenor’s first Christmas together and bringing Geoffrey a gift sure to delight him-word that she was pregnant again. He reacted as she’d expected and they celebrated the news in bed. Afterward, they had food sent up to their chamber and enjoyed a private supper for two.

“ This is delicious, Geoffrey.” Constance’s expectations had been low, for it was an ember fast day, but the castle’s cooks had prepared a savory blanc manger made with almond milk, rice, and pike instead of chicken. “Give me another helping…and I am not being a glutton. After all, I am eating for two now.”

“To judge by the way you’ve made that pike disappear, you could be carrying twins.” Reaching under the covers, he slid his hand across her abdomen. “Though as flat as your belly is, it is hard to imagine you swollen up like a melon.”

“Thank you for the compliment…I think. It is early in the pregnancy yet; my midwife says he’ll most likely be born in the summer.”

“He’ll be born? So the midwife also told you that you’re carrying a boy? Did she happen to mention what color eyes he’ll have?”

“Tease me all you like, but I know it will be a son. I just know. Indeed, since we already have Aenor, I hope I birth only boys from now on.”

“Why? It can be argued that a ruler with too many sons is no better off than the one without any. I’d say my family history proves there can be too much of a good thing.”

“I like to think we’ll raise our sons better than your parents did, Geoffrey. Surely it cannot be that difficult to foster affection between siblings.”

“Even amongst the spawn of the Demon Countess of Anjou?”

“You are entirely too proud of your fire-and-brimstone heritage,” she said with mock severity, but when he grinned, she could not help grinning back. “I’d rather have sons because daughters are more vulnerable to the vagaries of fate. Once she is married off, a girl is utterly dependent upon the whims of her husband. I remember all too well how it was for me-suddenly uprooted from my family and the only world I knew, sent off to be raised in the household of the man responsible for ruining my father. I’d not want that for a daughter of mine, and since girls are born to be pawns, better to have only sons.”

“But I was given no more say in our marriage than you were, Constance,” he protested. “Sons, too, are expected to wed for their family’s benefit.”

“It is not the same, Geoffrey. In the eyes of the Church and the law, a wife is subject to her husband’s will, and if he maltreats her, what remedy has she? I would not want a daughter of mine to find herself a pampered hostage like Alys or humiliated like Philippe’s queen.”

Geoffrey had never given much thought to the plight of highborn brides, but he discovered now that it was very troubling to imagine Aenor in an alien land, under a stranger’s control. “My sisters seem content enough, though. So if we take care in choosing the husbands for our daughters, surely we can avoid some of those pitfalls,” he said, while silently vowing that Aenor would not be wed until she was at least twenty.

“I hope so,” Constance agreed, without much conviction. She had revealed more of herself than she’d intended, for she was not accustomed to sharing her most intimate thoughts. Lying in bed with her husband, though, she found it surprisingly easy to speak with such candor, and she realized how much she’d come to trust him in the three years since their marriage. Marveling at the unlikely turns her life had taken, she reached over to snatch a slice of bread from his plate, for she was still ravenous. “I was so eager to tell you of my pregnancy that we did not discuss why you’re in Rouen. How did you manage to slip your father’s tether?”

Geoffrey set their tray down in the floor rushes, keeping a dish of dried figs for Constance to munch on. “Make yourself comfortable, darling, for this is quite a story. My father raged at us as expected, and somehow I found myself shouldering the blame for Johnny, too. I am sorry to report that my little brother practices Hal’s kind of seamanship. Whilst he did not exactly push me out of his ark, neither did he throw me a lifeline.”

“What penalties did your father impose upon you?”

“This is where it gets interesting-none. We all had to swear to uphold the peace in a public ceremony, but that was it. Richard almost had a seizure, he was so wroth.”

“I can well imagine,” she said dryly. “What of Aquitaine? Does your father still intend to claim it for John?”

“I think he has reluctantly concluded that Richard will hold on to Aquitaine until his dying breath, for he has begun to talk again of Ireland for Johnny. The lad seems to be of two minds about his prospects, eager for his first taste of freedom, but greatly disappointed that it shall not be Aquitaine. Understandable, for governing the Irish is like herding cats.”

“So Richard has won…” Constance had known this for some time; Henry’s intervention had made it inevitable. She still felt a keen regret, though, for the dream was not an easy one to relinquish. It would have been a great thing, to be wife and mother to kings. Nothing could have protected her family more than a crown.

“That remains to be seen.”

“What do you mean, Geoffrey? You said that your father could not consider changing the succession as long as Richard holds Aquitaine.”

“I know, but I am no longer so sure of that. Listen to the rest of my account and then judge for yourself. My father next turned his attention to the vacant See at Canterbury. He wanted the monks to elect Baldwin, the Bishop of Worcester, but they balked. So he sent Johnny and me to Canterbury to make the monks see reason.” He smiled at the look of astonishment on his wife’s face. “An odd choice, no? Failed rebels one day, royal agents the next. I thought Richard was going to choke on his outrage, God’s Truth!”

“And did you succeed in this mission?”

“I did, and my father was very pleased, Richard less so. I said ‘I’ and not ‘we,’ for Johnny was more interested in entertaining two Canterbury sisters, not exactly whores but not nuns either, and as alike as two peas in a pod.”

“Are you saying that you are back in your father’s favor, Geoffrey?”

“Well…I am here in Rouen at my father’s behest. He sent me to Normandy to govern it in his name.”

“Geoffrey!” Constance was gazing at him with wide, dazzled eyes. “Then he must truly be thinking of choosing you, not Richard, as his heir!”

“One step at a time,” he cautioned. “I think he is giving serious consideration to naming me as Duke of Normandy. And Richard certainly thinks so, judging by the threats he made to me. Who knows? He may well be the first man who gave up a kingdom in favor of a duchy.”

Constance was deceived neither by his nonchalance nor by his jesting. He might not admit it, but he’d dropped his defenses, for the first time seeing their dream as more than a beguiling chimera, a bewitching illusion shimmering always on the horizon. Now it was taking on shape and substance, might actually be within their grasp.

“If your father has the sense to choose you over Richard,” she declared, “then I am prepared to forgive him for all the wrongs he’s done me and mine.” Geoffrey burst out laughing, and while she did not understand why he found that so humorous, she was glad to share his laughter, glad to embrace his hopes for the glittering future that suddenly seemed within their reach.

Henry and Eleanor celebrated their thirtieth Christmas Court at Windsor. He then moved on to Winchester, leaving Eleanor at Windsor with Tilda, Heinrich, and their children. It was there that the Archdeacon of Lisieux found him, bringing welcome news from Rome. The Pope had brought about a reconciliation between Heinrich and the Emperor Frederick. Delighted, Henry summoned Eleanor and his daughter and son-in-law to Winchester so they could celebrate his success and the end of their exile.

Henry also began to make plans to send John to Ireland and finally gave Richard permission to return to Aquitaine. Without even waiting for the spring thaw, Richard declared war against his brother and launched punitive raids into Brittany. Once more the Angevin empire was riven to its core by internecine hostilities.