Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

May 1185

Winchester, England

The Countess of Chester was content to watch the festivities from a window-seat, for she was tired and feeling her years on this early May evening. She’d brought her grandson to Winchester to meet her cousin the king, only to learn that Henry had changed his plans because of Richard’s assault upon Geoffrey’s lands in Brittany. He’d hurriedly taken ship at Dover, celebrating his Easter Court at Rouen with the Patriarch of Jerusalem as he pondered how to deal with Richard’s latest defiance. While Maud welcomed the opportunity to visit with Eleanor and Tilda, she was not looking forward to making a Channel crossing in pursuit of Henry.

“I am getting too old for all this to and fro, Randolph,” she said, wryly amused when her grandson took her words at face value and apologized solemnly for taking her away from home and hearth. Noticing that he was glancing wistfully across the hall, where a jongleur was entertaining with some adroit sleight of hand, she relieved him of the duties imposed by blood and courtesy, and watched with a smile as he headed over to get a closer look at the conjuring tricks.

“My lady?” Turning at the sound of a soft voice, Maud found herself gazing up into the face of a young woman, one who looked somewhat familiar. Accepting the wine cup proffered by the girl, Maud recognized her in time to pretend that she’d known the identity of the French princess all along, thanking Alys and inviting her to sit in the window-seat.

“Is that your son Hugh’s boy?”

Maud nodded. “I am taking Randolph to confer with the king about his future. He has been in wardship since Hugh’s death, of course, but he is fifteen now and we need to begin making plans for when he reaches his majority. The earldom of Chester is a great inheritance and a great responsibility. Fortunately, I think the lad will be up to the challenge.” Unlike his father, she thought sadly, may God assoil him.

Alys politely agreed that Randolph seemed quite mature for his age, and they passed the next few minutes in inconsequential conversation as the younger woman nerved herself to reveal the reason she’d sought out the countess. Maud was telling her that the April earthquake had done great damage to Lincoln Cathedral when Alys decided she could wait no longer. “Madame, you are known to speak your mind freely. I am hoping that you’ll not be offended if I, too, speak forthrightly.”

Maud did not like the sound of that. She felt that Alys had legitimate grievances, but she was, above all, a realist, and she knew there was nothing she could do about it. “Speak my mind, do I?” she said. “I’ve never heard my lack of tact described so delicately.”

“I am not asking you to betray any confidences,” Alys said hastily. “It is just that I know so little about what is occurring beyond these walls, only what I happen to overhear. I would be grateful if you could answer a few questions, Lady Maud. For example, I know the Patriarch of Jerusalem came to England to seek the king’s aid for the defense of the Holy Land. Is it true that the king was offered the crown and actually turned it down? And is it true that Lady Matilda’s daughter will not be accompanying her parents when they return to Saxony?”

Those questions seemed innocuous to Maud, and easy enough to answer. “I daresay you know that the King of Jerusalem is cousin to King Henry, and you know, too, that he has been afflicted by leprosy. He is a young man of great courage and ability, but he is also dying and when he does, the crown will pass to his sister’s son, who is a small child. Patriarch Heraclius hoped that King Henry would agree to take the crown himself, believing that no one else could keep Outremer from falling to the infidels. King Henry put the proposal to his great council in London, but they did not want him to accept it.”

“Why ever not?”

“The king asked them if they thought he could still fulfill his coronation oath to safeguard the realm if he were to accept the crown of Jerusalem, and they concluded that he could not,” Maud said blandly, stifling a smile, for given such a broad hint by Henry, they could hardly have answered otherwise. “So the king told the patriarch nay, offering to provide money and soldiers for the defense of the Holy Land. The patriarch was distraught, and asked the king, then, to send his son. John was eager to go, from what I’ve heard, pleading for the chance, but the king would not agree to it. The patriarch was not mollified by the king’s offer of gold and men, chastised him bluntly for failing in his duty as a Christian king. King Henry would not be swayed, though, saying he could not leave his kingdom. And when they met the French king at Vaudreuil, the patriarch had another failure, for your brother Philippe said that he could not take the cross at this time, either.”

Alys seemed distressed. “Can the Holy Land survive without a new Christian quest, though?”

“God Willing,” Maud murmured, wondering what else she could discuss with Alys. Surely personal news would be safe enough? “I am happy to report that your brother’s queen is on the mend after her miscarriage.” She saw at once that this was a mistake, that Alys had known neither that Isabelle was pregnant nor that she’d lost the baby. Did anyone even write to this girl? “I believe you asked about the Duchess of Saxony’s daughter. It is true that Richenza-Matilda, I mean-will remain behind when her parents depart, but that is because she has a crown in her future. The Scots king has asked King Henry for her hand in marriage. They are distant cousins, so must receive a dispensation from His Holiness first, but the king has already sent a delegation to Rome to procure one. So it was for the best that she changed her name, for Richenza would not do at all for the Queen of Scotland!”

So far, so good, she thought. As long as they steered clear of any mention of Richard, the conversation should be smooth sailing. “Did you hear about Lord John? He was very disappointed when the king turned down the crown of Jerusalem on his behalf, and mayhap to make up for that, the king knighted him and put him in command of that long-planned expedition to Ireland. So it seems a crown is in the offing for him, too.”

Alys did not show much interest in John’s prospects, and Maud wondered if she even knew that Henry and Philippe had agreed after Hal’s death that she should be wed to “whichever of the king’s sons that he shall choose.” Most likely not. Why should they bother to inform her that she might become John’s bride rather than Richard’s? Maud had always prided herself upon her pragmatic streak, knowing that if she’d been more sentimental, more of a starry-eyed romantic, she might have been unable to endure marriage to the Earl of Chester, a man surely burning in Hell Everlasting these thirty years past. She reminded herself now that Alys was none of her concern, but it was no longer that easy, for her sense of justice was offended by the young Frenchwoman’s plight.

Alys was glancing around nervously, worried that they could be interrupted at any moment, robbing her of her one chance to learn the truth. Worried, too, that her resolve might weaken, she leaned closer to Maud and blurted out in one great gasp, “Lady Maud, is it true that Richard is to wed the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor?”

Maud had somehow known it would get to this. “Where did you hear that?” she temporized, wondering how to make such a bitter brew taste tolerable, and then she thought, No, by God. The girl deserves the truth if nothing else.

“One of my ladies overheard people gossiping about it and she came to me straightaway, of course. Is it true?”

“I am sorry you had to learn of it that way; you ought to have been told. A plight-troth was agreed upon, but the marriage will not take place. As much as it pleased the king and the emperor, it did not please God. The girl sickened soon after, and died ere the year was out.”

Alys closed her eyes, her lips moving. It was the faintest of whispers, meant for no ears but those of the Almighty. Maud caught it, though, “Deo gratias,” most likely the only Latin Alys knew, and she felt a sharp pang of pity, but no surprise. Richard was a hero out of a minstrel’s tale, highborn and handsome and courageous and dashing, a king in the making. Of course Alys wanted to marry him. What girl would not?

Alys soon excused herself, looking as if she’d been given a great gift. Maud knew better. Marriage was never easy, but she suspected that marriage to Richard would be more difficult than most. Men like Richard did not make good husbands; a wife would never be more than incidental, relegated to the outer edges of a life given over to war, duty, honor, and the pursuit of power. Sitting back in the window-seat, Maud considered approaching Henry on Alys’s behalf. There was no deliberate cruelty in his nature; surely he could be made to see how unfairly he was treating Alys. But she was deluding herself and she knew it. There was a time when she could have taken her royal cousin to task for his transgressions and he would have heard her out, mayhap even heeded her. But that time had passed. She gazed around the hall, her eyes coming to rest upon the still elegant figure of her friend, the English queen. They’d all lost so much, Harry most of all.

Eleanor should have been better pleased by Henry’s summons, instructing her, Tilda, Heinrich, and their children to take ship at Southampton and join him in Normandy as soon as possible; she’d like nothing better than to turn her back on England, the land she usually referred to as “that wet, wretched, and godforsaken isle.” But instincts honed both by years of marriage and captivity alerted her to danger of some sort.

Nor was she reassured by the welcome they received upon their arrival at Bayeux. Henry had been as angry as she’d ever seen him when he’d learned of Richard’s raiding into Brittany. But if he was still wroth, he no longer showed it, seemed to be in good spirits, teasing his granddaughter about needing to learn to speak Gaelic, shrugging off Tilda and Heinrich’s effusive expressions of gratitude for ending their exile, even joking about the stern lecture he’d gotten from Patriarch Heraclius. His apparent equanimity merely served as further fuel for Eleanor’s suspicions.

Unable to endure the suspense any longer, she cornered him in the great hall after a lavish meal in honor of the new archbishop of Rouen; Henry had not been won over by the campaigning of Rotrou’s ambitious nephew and saw to it that his own choice was elected to the prestigious post, Walter de Coutances. When Henry amiably allowed her to steer him toward the relative privacy of a window-seat, Eleanor was utterly sure that he was up to something.

“You are looking much too smug for my peace of mind,” she said bluntly. “If you were a cat, there’d be cream dripping from your whiskers. What are you plotting now, Harry? Why am I here?”

“Would you believe me if I said for the pleasure of your company?” he asked, fighting back a smile when she scowled. “Why are you here? A fair question. Your presence is required for upcoming events. As you never tire of reminding me, you are the Duchess of Aquitaine, after all.”

Despite the warm spring night, Eleanor felt a sudden chill. “What are you going to do?”

He leaned back in the window-seat, regarding her with a smile that never reached his eyes. “I am going to answer all your prayers, love. I am going to restore your inheritance to you.”

Rico Fitz Rainald did not realize how much he’d had to drink until it was too late. Upon learning that Richard had no need of them that evening, he and Andre de Chauvigny had ventured into one of the more disreputable quarters of Poitiers in search of wine and whores. They found the first at several shabby taverns outside the old Roman walls and the second at a bawdy-house popular with the duke’s soldiers. Their thirst slaked and their lust sated, they headed back toward the palace after curfew had rung, relying upon their prestige as the duke’s knights should they have the bad luck to run into the Watch. Jesting and bantering and singing a ribald ditty about a lustful monk, they saved time by cutting through the ruins of the ancient Roman amphitheater, eerily bathed in May moonlight. Andre had drunk enough wine to become fanciful, and he launched into a disjointed tribute to all the men who’d died in this unholy arena, drawing heavily upon what Richard had told him of Roman blood-sports.

“A pity we do not have any more wine,” he declared, “for we could drink to the memories of those brave men who fought and died on this very ground!”

“They were pagans, you fool!” Rico hooted, reaching out to steady Andre as he clambered onto a broken pillar.

“Brave men, nonetheless,” Andre insisted hazily, “at least the gladiators were. Richard says they executed common criminals in the arena, too-” He stopped so abruptly that Rico took a quick step forward, thinking he’d lost his balance again. But he was staring over Rico’s shoulder into the shadows behind them. “We have company,” he said in a low voice that sounded as if he were beginning to sober up fast.

Rico spun around to see the men converging on them. They moved without haste, fanning out to cover any escape routes. “ Cagar, ” Rico muttered, for Richard had recently begun to teach him to swear in the lengua romana of his duchy.

“Whatever you just said, I echo it,” Andre said grimly, jumping from the pillar to the ground and unsheathing his sword. Rico’s weapon had already cleared its leather scabbard. He did not like the odds, four against two, nor did he like the looks of these intruders, for they moved without haste, theirs a cockiness that bespoke an easy familiarity with violence and sudden death. Two of them had swords drawn; the other two wielding clubs studded with iron. They were close enough now for Rico to recognize one of them, a strapping, broad-chested brute with a close-cropped head. Rico had seen the man at two of the riverside taverns, and he cursed himself now for having drunk so much, for walking into this trap like a lamb to the slaughter. It never occurred to either knight to yield, though, for there would be great shame in letting themselves be robbed by these lowborn knaves.

“Give us your money and your rings and fine leather boots and we may spare your lives, young lordlings!”

“Come and get them,” Andre challenged, as he and Rico braced themselves for the onslaught.

It didn’t happen. The men were turning, looking off to the right. Risking a quick glance in case this was a trick, Rico saw what had attracted their attention-a glowing light that was moving steadily toward them. Holding a lantern aloft, a man was approaching, as casually as if encountering outlaws in a deserted, dark locale was a commonplace occurrence. “Is this a private game?” he asked. “Or can anyone play?”

The bandits regarded him with a mixture of surprise and scorn. “Oh, you can play, friend.” The man who was apparently their leader took a menacing step in the newcomer’s direction. “You can start by tossing your money pouch on the ground and then kneeling. If you beg for your life sweetly enough, we might spare it…or not. You’ll have to wait and see.”

His companions laughed, but the stranger continued to advance. He’d made no move to unsheathe his sword, though, and the bandit swaggered toward him, his naked blade leveled at the man’s chest. “That is far enough, fool, unless you’re truly eager to die.”

Rico and Andre exchanged glances, agreeing that this might be as good a chance as they’d get. Before they could move, though, the lead outlaw lost patience and lunged at the newcomer. Rico had never seen anyone move as fast as the other man did. In one unbroken motion, he thrust the lantern into the bandit’s face and stepped in as the outlaw recoiled from the flames. For the length of a breath, the two seemed frozen in an odd embrace, and then the brigand staggered back, sinking to his knees with a guttural cry. It was only then that they saw the bloodied dagger in the stranger’s hand.

The stricken man’s companions gaped at him as if they could not believe the evidence of their own eyes. They were no strangers to killings, but had never seen one done so swiftly, smoothly, and economically as this, and they hesitated, That brief instant of uncertainty was to prove decisive, for their new foe did not share it. He flung his dagger at the nearest of the men and then drew his sword while it was still in the air. The thrown knife missed its target, but not by much, and the man spun around, fled into the darkness. That was enough for the other outlaws; they, too, took to their heels.

Rico and Andre had yet to move, transfixed by the ease of the stranger’s victory. They were not easily impressed by prowess, for they’d seen Richard on the battlefield, fought at his side as they’d grown to manhood. But as they looked at each other now, the same thought was in both their minds. This man was a master of the art of death. Then he moved within recognition range and they understood.

Mercadier and his band of routiers had been hired by Richard the past autumn, and he’d quickly earned the young duke’s favor, for he was as fearless as Richard himself. Not all men were comfortable with him, though, for there was something unsettling about his very presence. He had the dark hair of a son of the south, but his eyes were so light they were almost colorless and utterly opaque, impossible to read. A jagged scar angled from the corner of one eye to his chin, leaving a bare patch of skin where his beard could not grow, and men accustomed to battle disfigurements nonetheless found themselves unwilling to look too long at Mercadier’s sinister scar or those odd, pale eyes.

Andre and Rico felt awkward now that they knew the identity of their benefactor. Nevertheless, they could not deny they were now deeply in his debt, and lucky indeed that he’d happened to be passing by. When Rico said as much, he thought he caught the trace of a smile, but it was hard to tell for sure; the corner of Mercadier’s mouth had been twisted awry as that fearsome facial wound had healed.

“I was not just ‘passing by,’” he said. “I’d been looking for you both since Compline. You are wanted back at the palace, for the duke has need of you.”

“Why? What happened?” Andre said warily, for neither he nor Rico could envision Mercadier as the bearer of good tidings. “What is wrong?”

“The duke got a message from his father. He has been ordered to surrender Aquitaine at once to its rightful ruler, the Duchess Eleanor, and if he balks, the old king threatens to send her into Poitou with an army, ravaging the land with fire and sword until he yields up the duchy to her.”

They stared at him, dumbstruck. Andre was the first one to recover, lashing out bitterly against Richard’s father, declaring that Henry Fitz Empress was truly the spawn of Satan. Rico was loath to say so aloud, for the same blood flowed in their veins, but he found himself in hearty agreement with Andre’s emotional outburst. The old king was too clever by half, for how could Richard take up arms against his mother?

“How…how did the duke react?” he asked, and Mercadier’s shoulders twitched in a half shrug.

“His face flamed, then he went white as chalk, and withdrew to his own chamber. It was his seneschal who sent me to find you, saying ‘Go fetch his cousins,’ hoping you two might be able to help. How, I do not know,” Mercadier said candidly.

Rico and Andre did not know either. But they had to try, and when Mercadier turned to go, they were about to follow when a groan drew their attention back to the wounded bandit. Blood was soaking his tunic, and Rico flinched when he realized that it was coming from the man’s groin. Sweet Jesus, no wonder the poor sod shrieked like a gutted weasel. “What about him?”

Mercadier glanced back over his shoulder. “Leave him. If he’s lucky, his friends might come back for him. If not, there are plenty of stray dogs roaming the town, on the lookout for a meal.”

That was not an image the young knights cared to dwell upon for long, and they hastened to catch up with Mercadier, leaving the outlaw sprawled in the ancient arena where so many others had fought and died.

There were only a few times when Eleanor’s anger with Henry had burned so hotly that it had been indistinguishable from hatred. There was the afternoon she’d stood in the great hall at Limoges Castle and watched as the Count of Toulouse did homage to Hal. There were days of despairing rage in the early months of her captivity and the Michaelmas eve when he’d demanded that Richard yield Aquitaine to John. But this latest clash of wills was different. Nothing he’d ever done was as demeaning and unfair as this-using her as a weapon against her own son. Never had she felt as helpless as she had on that night at Bayeux, listening in stunned silence as he told her what he meant to do, utterly oblivious to the damage that might be done to her relationship with Richard. No, she could forgive him for making her his prisoner, but never his pawn.

Once she’d calmed down, though, she could see that there actually might be some benefits to his scheme. This was proof that he’d abandoned any hope of replacing Richard with John, for he knew she’d never agree to disinherit Richard. Richard would still be the heir to the duchy. Moreover, the transfer of authority would not be as hollow as Henry undoubtedly hoped. She had no illusions, knew he’d never trust her with real power. But the acknowledgment of her suzerainty was significant in and of itself. By recognizing her legal rights, he was bringing her from the shadows back into the light, restoring her identity in the eyes of the world. He’d not find it so easy to make her disappear again. And after eleven years of invisibility, she was eager for any taste of freedom, however circumscribed it might be.

The Duchess of Aquitaine had resources that a disgraced wife did not. She would be better able to protect herself, for she was a vassal of the French king. Most important of all, she’d be able to protect Richard’s inheritance. As long as she drew breath, his succession was assured. And since she was sure her husband had considered that, too, she could only conclude it did not matter to him, further proof that he now knew he’d never coax or bully Richard into submission. It was enough for him to have the semblance of victory, to appear to have prevailed over his rebellious son. And if this man seemed utterly unlike the one she’d married, there was no surprise in that realization and only a little regret.

Her greatest fear was that Richard would not understand, that he’d be too outraged to see this Devil’s deal was not such a one-sided bargain after all. What if he defied his father? If it came to war? If he blamed her, too, if he saw her as Harry’s accomplice? In the days that followed, she told herself repeatedly that she was being foolish, that Richard knew she’d never put her own interests above his. But the truth was that she could not be sure. She’d been separated from her sons for so long, just as they came to manhood. She loved Richard dearly. But how well did she really know him?

Although it would have given Eleanor little consolation, Henry shared her unease as they awaited Richard’s response. He thought he’d come up with a face-saving solution to an increasingly dangerous problem. He could not allow Richard to defy him so openly; no king could. By offering Richard a way to back down while still salvaging his pride, Henry hoped to resolve the impasse and restore peace to his family and realm. But he’d been bluffing, for he never had any intention of sending an army into Aquitaine. As a father, he found that prospect abhorrent, and as a king, sheer lunacy. So as time passed without word from Richard, he found himself confronting an unpleasant truth. Bluffing was an invaluable part of a ruler’s arsenal, an integral aspect of statecraft, with one great flaw. If the bluff failed, what then?

Richard gave no advance warning, arrived in Rouen with a large retinue of knights and clerics. He shared his brother Hal’s sense of drama, and as he rode through the streets of the Norman city, people turned out in large numbers to watch, enjoying the visual spectacle that royalty was expected to provide; it was a source of disappointment to many that their duke had so little taste for pageantry and pomp. As they cheered his son-so handsome and splendidly attired, mounted on a magnificent white stallion-they agreed that Duke Richard was a worthy successor to his brother of blessed memory, the young king laid to rest in their great cathedral.

In addition to Richard’s own imposing entourage, the king’s court was filled to capacity with highborn visitors and vassals, so hundreds of avid eyes were upon him as he strode into the castle’s great hall and approached his parents upon the dais. “My lord king,” he said with flawless formality, kneeling gracefully before Henry, his respectful demeanor that of subject to sovereign. Having greeted his father, he turned then to acknowledge his mother, bending over her hand with a courtly flourish. “Madame, it is my privilege to return the governance of Aquitaine to your capable hands.”

The curious spectators realized with disappointment that courtesy could be used as effectively as any shield of wood and leather, for none could tell what thoughts lay behind those inscrutable blue-grey eyes, not even the two people who’d given him life.

The table that evening was laden with venison from Henry’s latest hunt, but Eleanor had no appetite and merely toyed with her food. Afterward she found no opportunity to speak privately with her son and retired to her own chamber in a foul mood. She was too tense to sleep and was still up and dressed several hours later when a knock sounded at the door. She nodded for Amaria to open it, assuming it would be Henry coming to discuss their son’s submission. But it was Richard.

“Did your father’s spies see you come here?”

He shrugged. “It hardly matters now, does it?” he said and reached out, enfolding her in a heartfelt hug. Eleanor’s eyes misted and she blinked rapidly, not wanting him to see. Amaria had retreated to a far corner of the chamber and picked up some sewing, doing what she could to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. But she needn’t have worried, for they’d already forgotten her presence.

“I was concerned,” Eleanor admitted, “that you might be angry with me, too, thinking that I’d benefited at your expense.”

Richard’s surprise was obvious. “Why, Maman? You were given no more choice in this than I was.”

“No, I was not. But I knew how difficult this would be for you and-”

“And you were probably scared to death that I was going to act like a damned fool and doom us all,” he said with a fleeting smile. “I cannot say I was not tempted, but…well, here I am.”

“And thank God for it,” she said fervently. “Come sit down, Richard. We have much to talk about.” Once they were seated, she reached over and laid her hand on his. “I know this is not what you want to do, but at least now you need not fear losing Aquitaine. By coming up with this scheme, your father is conceding defeat, admitting that he could not compel you to abdicate.”

Richard tilted his head, looking at her in bemusement. Did she truly think he needed to have this pointed out? He almost reminded her that he was not the fool his brother had been. He did not, though, for even if he did not understand her grieving for Hal, he did respect it. “To give the Devil his due,” he said, “Papa did come up with the only way to pry me loose from Aquitaine. He knew I would never deny your claim to the duchy.”

He paused. “But this time he has been too clever for his own good, Maman. The old fox has finally outfoxed himself. He will have to grant you more liberty now, can no longer keep you sequestered in some remote stronghold out of sight and mind. I’ll not deny that it is not easy for me, either to turn over the governance of the duchy or to let the world think he has won. But it will be a comfort to know that you are restored to your rightful place. And he is in for a rude surprise if he thinks he is going to get another tamed dog for his kennel. I will never follow in Hal’s footsteps, never.”

“I know,” she said. “An argument can be made that Hal choked to death because he was kept on such a tight chain. But not only are you a very different man than your brother, your circumstances are different, too.” She leaned forward, eager to explain why he need not fear Hal’s fate, but he gave her no chance.

“I am looking forward to seeing his face when I tell him what I intend to do. He thinks I shall be dancing attendance upon him as Hal did. But if I am not to govern Aquitaine, then I am free to follow my heart. I am going to take the cross and do what Papa would not, answer Patriarch Heraclius’s plea and lead my men to fight for the defense of the Holy Land.”

Richard grinned, very pleased with himself for having found a way to honor his mother, thwart his father, and serve God, while having a grand adventure at the same time. Eleanor did not return his smile, though. She was regarding him gravely. “I fear that would be a great mistake, Richard.”

“Why? What could be more important than securing the Kingdom of Jerusalem?”

“Securing the Kingdom of England. I know you want Aquitaine. But you want the crown, too, do you not?”

“Of course I do. It is my birthright now that Hal is dead. Why would taking the cross put it at risk?”

“Because your father will not want you to take the cross, no more than he wanted John to do so. He will forbid you to do it and will be outraged and distraught if you defy him in this. You will be giving him an entirely new grievance. He might even be dismayed enough to reconsider the succession, especially if you are not here to defend yourself.”

Richard was frowning. “I know he has been favoring Geoffrey shamelessly of late, his way of reminding me that I am not an only child and nothing is writ in stone. I just took it as one of his usual threats, nothing more than that. You truly think…?”

“I did not at first. Now…now I am not so sure. Geoffrey’s governance of Normandy was cut short by your raids into Brittany, but Harry was pleased with the way he dealt with the Norman barons and clerics and he is equally pleased with the news coming out of Brittany.”

“Why? What is Geoffrey up to now?”

“He and Constance just presided over an assize in Rennes, summoning the Breton lords to discuss the laws of inheritance in the duchy. They have made a compact in which all agree to pass their lands on to their eldest sons. Harry was quite impressed by reports of this assize, saying Geoffrey has shown considerable political skill in winning over perpetual rebels like Raoul de Fougeres. They no longer view him as Constance’s alien husband, the Angevin intruder forced upon them by their enemy, the English king. He’s succeeded in earning their respect and their trust, no small feat considering the contentious nature of the Bretons. And I regret to say that your father has compared Geoffrey’s assize to your own attempts to introduce the law of primogeniture, which resulted in a rebellion by the lords of Angouleme-”

“That is not fair! Primogeniture was already the custom in Brittany, so Geoffrey had an easier road to travel than I did.”

“Be that as it may, your father likes what he has seen of your brother’s rule in Brittany and he is troubled by the constant turmoil and antagonism between you and your vassals.”

“I still say he gave Geoffrey power in Normandy to punish me, knowing how little I’d like it. You know how he is, Maman. Nothing is ever straightforward with him; the man has more coils than any serpent.”

“And is he giving Geoffrey the county of Nantes just to vex you, too?”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Geoffrey is getting Nantes?” When she nodded, he lapsed into silence for some moments. Eleanor was content to wait, wanting him to draw his own conclusions. “Would he truly do that?” he asked at last. “Would he dare to disregard the laws of primogeniture and pass over me in favor of my younger brother?”

“Would he dare? Oh, yes. Would he actually do it? That I do not know,” she conceded, “but you ignore the possibility at your peril.” Her hand closed on his again. “The crown is yours by right now that Hal is dead. But only you can decide if the price is too high, Richard. You will still have Aquitaine, come what may. If you can be content with that, then take the cross and leave for the Holy Land. But if you want to be king, then it would be wiser to remain here and fight for it.”

He rose abruptly and began to pace. “I do want the crown. But I do not know if I could endure the humiliating apprenticeship Papa put Hal through. If he expects me to be at his beck and call like a pet spaniel…” He shook his head, turning back to face her. “I cannot do that, Maman.”

“I do not think you will have to, dearest. Hal, may God assoil him, had no lands of his own, but you will still have Aquitaine. All will know this ‘restoration’ changes nothing in truth. You are still the heir to the duchy, and men will continue to come to you with petitions and appeals. In fact,” she said, with a wry smile, “the poor souls wanting to have rights recognized will likely need to get charters from all three of us-you, me, and Harry-to make sure there are no ambiguities or uncertainties. And when rebellion breaks out again in Aquitaine, Harry will have to rely upon you to restore order in the duchy. He no longer has the boundless energy that he once had, for his youth is long gone and his health is not as robust as it used to be. You’ll be the one he turns to for support-unless you are away in the Holy Land.”

“And then it would be Geoffrey.” He said no more after that, soon excused himself without telling her what he meant to do. There was no need, for she already knew.

It was a good summer for Henry, for his domains were at peace and there was finally harmony at home, too. Richard treated him with deference, giving him no further reason for complaint. Now that he’d reconciled with his son, his anger with Eleanor soon cooled and he found himself enjoying her pleasure in her new status. She’d had her own household for a few years now, but she wasted no time in bringing her trusted clerk Jordan back into her service, and she bestowed lavish gifts upon favorite abbeys like Fontevrault, upon Tilda and Richenza, the loyal Amaria, her daughters in Castile and Sicily, and her new grandchild; Constance had given birth to another girl on the nativity of St John the Baptist, christened Matilda in honor of Geoffrey’s sister and his formidable grandmother, the empress.

Henry shared Eleanor’s joy in the birth of their granddaughter; the news helped him through a difficult time-the second anniversary of Hal’s death. So, too, did the safe return of William Marshal from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Henry found he took surprising comfort in Will’s presence. He knew Will was a man of honor, a valuable addition to the royal household, but what mattered more to him was Will’s link to his son. For the first time in a long while, he could look upon his family with contentment. John was finally established in his own lands, and the new Pope had given permission to have him crowned as King of Ireland. Tilda and Heinrich were making ready to return to Saxony, grateful that he’d been able to end their exile. Richenza would soon be Scotland’s queen. All in all, Henry thought the future looked brighter than it had in years.

But with the coming of autumn, these prospects dimmed. The Pope refused to grant the dispensation for Richenza’s marriage to the Scots king, much to the girl’s disappointment. Tilda and Heinrich had already departed, and Henry was glad that Eleanor was there to comfort Richenza, for he’d never been good at drying female tears. Then Henry fell seriously ill, and for more than a month, he found himself confined to Belvoir Castle, too weak to attend the truce conference he’d just brokered between the French king and the Count of Flanders.

Worst of all, the reports from Ireland were uniformly dismal. John’s first taste of independence and authority had proven to be an unmitigated disaster. His companions, many of them younger sons, too, offended the Irish chieftains by mocking their dress, their customs, even their long beards. Instead of curbing such bad behavior, John had encouraged it. Having his own funds at long last, he’d spent money recklessly, squandering it on wine, entertainment, gambling, and frivolous whims. When he could no longer pay his routiers, they resorted to plunder and eventually deserted to the Irish. In just nine months John had managed to greatly diminish the long-standing hostility between the native Irish and the Anglo-Norman settlers, uniting them in their outrage with his inept rule. Very disappointed in his favorite son’s first foray into manhood, Henry had finally been forced to recall him.

Henry passed a relatively quiet Christmas at Domfront, with only Richard, Eleanor, and Richenza, for John had just gotten back to England and Geoffrey and Constance remained in Brittany.

That spring Henry met the French king at Gisors, where they confirmed the settlement of 1183, again agreeing that Alys was to have the Vexin as her dowry and this time specifying that the son she was to wed would be Richard, which Philippe took to be an acknowledgment of Richard’s status as Henry’s heir. Richard took it that way, too, and was even more encouraged when Henry agreed to stake him in a campaign against the Count of Toulouse, who’d taken advantage of the Angevin family troubles to seize Cahors and Quercy. Now that he was no longer feuding with his father, Richard was determined to get them back and he was delighted to find that Henry was willing to finance the expedition.

Henry and Eleanor celebrated Easter at Rouen, and Henry invited Geoffrey and Constance to join them, for he was planning to return to England and wanted to see his granddaughters before he left. He and Eleanor were to be disappointed, though. Geoffrey came to Rouen, but he came alone, explaining that Constance felt their daughters were too young to make such a long journey. And Henry soon realized that Geoffrey was not there by choice. He behaved as a dutiful son, but a very distant one, and Henry was baffled by his aloof demeanor. He’d last seen Geoffrey that past summer, when he’d come to tell his parents of the birth of his daughter, and he’d seemed very pleased when Henry then turned Nantes over to him. So this change was as puzzling to Henry as it was unexpected.

He was disquieted enough to discuss it with Eleanor, who vexed him with her pithy response: “If you want to know what is troubling Geoffrey, you ought to be asking him.” But somewhat to his own surprise, he eventually did. Putting aside his natural inclination for the oblique approach, he summoned Geoffrey to a private meeting in his bedchamber and asked his son bluntly what was wrong.

Henry had always lamented Hal’s transparency, feeling that a king should not reveal his emotions as obviously as Hal invariably did. He was no better pleased, though, with Richard and Geoffrey’s ability to guard their thoughts. Now he could only watch Geoffrey in frustration as his son said nothing was wrong, his face utterly unreadable.

“I do not believe you,” he said at last, and Geoffrey shrugged.

“I do not know what you want me to say, Papa.”

“I want you to give me a truthful answer.” Crossing the chamber, he stopped in front of the younger man. “I would not be asking if I did not want to know, Geoffrey.” And when his son continued to regard him blankly, he found it easier to express his concern in anger. “Why is it that none of you can be honest with me? Is that so much to ask?”

That seemed to strike a spark, to judge by the way Geoffrey’s eyes began to glitter. “If you truly want an answer to that question, I would suggest you consult Scriptures.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“ Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. I am sorry I cannot cite the exact verse, but I daresay you’ve heard it before.”

“You are hardly in a position to cast stones, Geoffrey. Do you think I’ve forgotten how frequently and convincingly you and Hal lied to me during the siege at Limoges? But when have I ever lied to you?”

“Lies are not always expressed in words, Papa. And in this past year, you have done nothing but lie to me!”

“I do not know what you are talking about!”

“I am talking about all you’ve done to convince me-to convince Richard and much of Christendom-that you might pass over him and make me your heir. I see now that it was just a ruse, a means of bringing Richard back into the fold. And of course you never gave a thought about how I’d feel. Why should I mind being used as bait to lure Richard home, after all?”

Henry was shaking his head vehemently. “That is not so. I never sought to mislead you, Geoffrey. Nor did I ever promise to choose you over your brother. I am indeed sorry if you took it that way-”

“But not sorry that Richard did, I daresay. You knew the only way to rein him in was to make him think the crown was in jeopardy. And as your schemes usually do, it worked. My congratulations.”

Henry felt as if he were seeing a stranger, for Geoffrey had always been the controlled one, the son who never erupted into reckless fits of fury like his brothers. It was this realization that tempered his own anger. He ran his hand through his hair, impatiently pushed it back from his forehead as he tried to decide how best to handle this. Why was fatherhood so damnably hard? He was sure he’d never given his father the grief that his sons were constantly giving him.

“Geoffrey…listen, lad. I will not deny that I did think about it, that I considered whether you’d make a better king than Richard. Nor will I deny that I’ve occasionally wished you were the older brother. I’ve always understood you better than I did Richard. As I once told you, you are the son who most reminds me of my own father. If circumstances were different…but they are not. It would set a dangerous precedent to ignore the laws of inheritance, and Richard would never accept it. Many men would think he had the right of it, too, and you’d have no peace, not as long as he lived.”

“I see. So you were actually looking out for my own good. How kind of you, Papa.”

“I am sorry, Geoffrey, I truly am. And I do understand your disappointment. But this I swear to you, that I did not mean to deceive you or to raise false hopes. Had I only known…”

Geoffrey half-turned away, and Henry gave him the time he needed to master his emotions. When he swung around again, he did seem more composed, but his breathing was still swift and shallow, as if he’d been running a long and exhausting race. “You said I’d ‘have no peace’ if you’d passed over Richard. But what peace will I have once he is king? You think he’ll not seek revenge as soon as you are safely gone to God?”

“That is why I intend to do all I can whilst I still live to bring about a genuine and lasting reconciliation between you and your brother.”

The corner of Geoffrey’s mouth twitched. “And since Richard is celebrated for his forgiving nature, how can you fail?” He made an indecisive movement and Henry feared he was about to go. But instead he reached out and grasped his father’s arm. “We both know that not even God’s own angels could make Richard and me anything but enemies. He is to be king. So be it, then. You said you were sorry that I’d ‘misread’ your intentions. You can prove it by giving me the means to defend my duchy.”

“What do you need? Money?”

“I want Anjou.” Geoffrey’s grip tightened. “It makes sense, Papa, politically and geographically. I am more Angevin than Richard could ever hope to be, for he is Maman’s son, not yours. He cares only for Aquitaine and for the crown. Anjou would never mean as much to him as it would to me. And if I held it, he’d be far less likely to declare war upon Brittany. You know that is so. Give me that much, Papa, give me Anjou so that I can honor your heritage and protect my family and my lands.”

Henry was moved by Geoffrey’s eloquence, and by his urgency. He wanted to say yes, to give his son what he wanted so desperately. He’d gladly have given Geoffrey Aquitaine if it were his to give. Anjou was dearest to his heart of all his domains, the land of his birth. He did not doubt that it would be in good hands if Geoffrey held it; he’d proven in Brittany that he could rule and rule well. But how could he rend his empire like that? Anjou and Normandy and England were his legacy, meant to be passed intact to his eldest son. Could he give up the dream that had sustained him through even the worst of times, the dream of establishing a dynasty that would endure long after he and all who’d known him were dust?

“I can see how much this means to you, Geoffrey. I cannot promise you that Anjou will be yours. But I can promise you this-that I will give it very serious consideration.”

Geoffrey was silent for several long moments. “Yes,” he said and smiled tightly. “I am sure you will.”

Constance admitted a servant and instructed him to place the tray on a coffer. Following him to the door, she slid the bolt into place and then hurried over to her husband. Geoffrey was leaning back in his chair, his eyes half closed, his body as limp as if his bones were made of liquid. He looked utterly exhausted and she was not surprised, not after he’d told her he’d left Rouen just four days ago. That meant he and his men had covered more than forty miles a day, which sounded to her more like an escape than a departure.

“Denez has brought food and wine,” she said. “Whilst you’re eating, they’ll heat water for a bath.”

“Is that your subtle way of telling me that I reek?” he asked, opening his eyes long enough to give her a quick smile. But when she offered a wine cup, he shook his head. “I have not eaten all day, would be roaring drunk after three swallows.” She reached for the plate of meat and bread, and he shook his head again. “Later…I’m not hungry.”

She didn’t insist, for she was scornful of women who hovered over their husbands as if they could not be trusted to take care of themselves. Geoffrey was a man grown, knew if he was hungry or not. Fetching a chair, she dragged it over and sat down beside him. “Do you want to talk about it? Or wait till the morrow?”

“You’d let me do that?”

“Of course,” she said, and would have risen had he not caught her wrist. She sat down again and watched him as he seemed to doze. But then his lashes flickered and he turned his head to look directly at her.

“It is done, Constance.” She waited and after another long silence, he said, “He wanted to know what was wrong. Can you believe that? When I told him, he seemed truly taken aback and swore that he’d never meant to mislead me, to make me think that I might be king.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Does it matter?” He laughed, a sound that was not pleasant to hear. “He lies to everyone, even to himself. Especially to himself.” He smothered a yawn, saying, “I’ll have that wine, after all. I asked him for Anjou.”

“What did he say?”

“What does he ever say? He fell back upon his usual stratagem-delay and evasion, promising to give it ‘serious consideration.’ He does not seem to realize that by now we understand the code and I know damned well that he turned me down.”

After it had become obvious to them that their hopes of a crown were illusory, they’d had several sobering conversations about their future once Richard was king. Constance wanted to discuss their options now, but she held back, for she was not taken in by his bitter bravado, and she realized that his hurt went far deeper than he’d ever admit.

“I cannot believe that I let him play me for such a fool, Constance. I should have known better, should have known…” He drank slowly, and then startled her by flinging his cup against the wall.

Watching the wine stain the whitewash, looking eerily like blood to her, Constance said, “It may not be as hopeless as you think. How long ere your father and Richard start quarreling again? Who is to say that he will not turn to you, this time for true? In his way, he does love you, after all-”

“Indeed,” he said, cracking the word like a lash. “Of course Hal comes first and then Johnny, but after that, yes, he finds space in his heart for me.”

“Hal is dead and Johnny has just made a bloody botch of his Irish command,” she pointed out. He surprised her then by coming to his younger brother’s defense, saying that his father was as much to blame as Johnny, that he’d thrown the lad into deep water without first teaching him to swim.

“Mayhap it is better not to be loved by my father,” he said after a time, “for it can be argued that Richard and I fared better than poor Hal and Johnny. He set us loose at eighteen and seventeen, sent us into Aquitaine and Brittany to learn how to fight, how to govern. He kept Hal and Johnny close, not giving them the chance to stand on their own. As God is my witness, Constance, I will never do that to my sons, never.”

“I know you will not,” she said, moving behind him and beginning to massage his shoulders; as she expected, his muscles were rigid, taut with tension. “Come to bed, Geoffrey, get some sleep. Our troubles will still be there on the morrow.”

He did not seem to hear her. “I am glad he forced that talk, for now I see much more clearly. I’ll play no more of his accursed games, leave that to Richard and Johnny, and good luck to them both. What I am going to do is to safeguard our future and our duchy. I’ll need a few days to rest up…and then I think it is time you and I pay a visit to the French court.”

This had always seemed like the obvious move to Constance. The French king had a keen interest in Brittany, an even keener interest in clipping Angevin wings, and Philippe was already showing signs of a ruthless will to rival Henry’s. Philippe would make a useful ally, if not an entirely trustworthy one, but she felt confident that her husband was more than his match. She’d never urged Geoffrey to reach out to Philippe, even though she’d long thought it made political sense, for she understood that there’d be no going back. For Geoffrey, it would be a repudiation of his own blood and she’d not thought she had the right to ask that of him. She moved around the chair now so that she could see his face.

“Are you sure, Geoffrey? They are still your family and-”

“No,” he said, “not anymore. You are my family, you and our children.” His eyes sought hers. “So…what do you say?”

She leaned over, brushing her lips against his forehead and then cradling his head against her breasts. “Well, I have always wanted to see Paris.”