Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

February 1186

Paris, France

Constance was not impressed by the entertainment provided by the French king, although in fairness, she supposed she was spoiled. Geoffrey was an enthusiastic and generous patron of the troubadours of his mother’s duchy, and as a result, he’d never had trouble attracting renowned performers to the Breton court. When she said as much to her husband, Geoffrey murmured, “Well, you get what you pay for,” reminding her that Philippe had so far shown little interest in music or literature, forcing men of talent to look to others for support, to Henry and his sons, the Count of Flanders, or Marie, the Countess of Champagne, who’d been acting as regent since her husband’s death five years ago.

Constance was willing to concede that Philippe’s dinner in their honor was a culinary triumph; clearly the French monarch was more generous with his cooks than with his musicians. So far she’d not seen enough of Philippe to form any impressions of him, but that seemed about to change when they were summoned to join the French king and his queen upon the dais after the trestle tables had been cleared away and dancing begun. Isabelle was a pretty, slender blonde, who looked younger and acted older than her sixteen years. She was obviously attuned to her husband’s wishes, for when Philippe asked Constance jovially if he could “borrow” her husband for a short while, Isabelle immediately chimed in with compliments about Constance’s gown, saying that she would like to discuss the countess’s seamstress with her.

Constance was not taken in by the flattery. How dare Philippe dismiss her as if she were an errant child? Had he forgotten that Brittany was hers? But as her eyes met Geoffrey’s, he winked and she reconciled herself to playing the role Philippe cast for her, the dutiful, unobtrusive spouse. “Of course you may, my liege,” she said, and then smiled sweetly. “As much as it grieves me to be deprived of your company, I know my husband will relate to me all that I miss. You see, we share everything.”

As Isabelle did her part and drew Constance aside, Philippe said to Geoffrey with a bemused smile, “Your wife is rather spirited.”

“Yes, she is,” Geoffrey agreed with a grin. “I’m a lucky man.” Philippe thought that was open to debate, but it would hardly be politic to insult the wife of a man whose good will he wanted. When he proposed now that they schedule a private meeting on the morrow, Geoffrey suggested instead that they take a stroll in the gardens. Such spontaneity was not Philippe’s modus operandi, but he could see no reason not to go along with it and sent a servant for their mantles, then signaled to his bodyguards as the two men left the hall.

Geoffrey was quick to notice the men trailing at a discreet distance, for their presence seemed to confirm the tales he’d heard about Philippe’s nervous disposition. He could not imagine that being said of any member of his family-male or female-and hoped the young French king’s circumspection did not bode ill for his hopes of an alliance. In Geoffrey’s view, statecraft and kingship were not for the faint of heart.

They walked in companionable silence through the gardens, dormant now in winter’s grip. Daylight was a limited commodity in February and dusk was not far off. The Seine had not yet been closed to traffic for the night, and they could see boats bobbing past, their lanterns swaying in the wind, brief glimmers of light against the dimming sky and icy, dark river. When they reached the end of the island, Philippe sat down upon a wooden bench, but Geoffrey chose to perch on the garden wall, a position that seemed precarious enough to make Philippe uncomfortable.

“Do you mind sitting down here?” he said. “I’d have a difficult time explaining to the English king that his son drowned when he tumbled into the Seine.” Although Geoffrey hid it well, Philippe suspected that the other man was humoring him when he obligingly switched seats. Philippe did not care, though; he never worried what others thought of him. “This is my first opportunity,” he said, “to express my sorrow over the death of your brother, the young king. Hal’s unexpected death was a great loss to us all.”

“Yes,” Geoffrey said, “indeed it was. It must have been a particularly sharp blow to you, my liege.”

Philippe thought that was an odd thing to say, for Hal had been merely a brother-in-law and they’d never been close. He made no comment, though, and when Geoffrey saw he was not going to respond, he said, “After all, Hal would have been the perfect king-for France.” He saw Philippe’s eyes flicker, and he bit back a smile as he continued blandly, “My brother had many admirable virtues. He never lacked for courage and he was remarkably good-natured and so generous that he’d literally give a man the shirt off his back. He was also one of the most malleable men I’ve ever known, easily led and easily bored. Given his lack of interest in the drudgery of governing, I am sure he’d have been grateful for any guidance offered by the French Crown. When you heard of his death at Martel and realized you’d now have to deal with Richard, you must have felt as if your affectionate, docile dog had been transformed by evil alchemy into a feral, ravening wolf.”

“That is hardly a brotherly description of Richard.” Philippe was rarely surprised by other men, and he regarded Geoffrey with suddenly sharpened interest. “So we are speaking candidly, are we?”

“Under the right circumstances, it can save a great deal of time.”

Philippe glanced across the garden to reassure himself that his bodyguards were not within earshot. “Fair enough. Let me begin by saying that I’ve been expecting you. I’ve watched the brazen way your father used you to put the fear of God into Richard, and I knew it was only a matter of time until you turned your eyes in my direction.”

“Yes,” Geoffrey said dryly, “my brothers and I seem to look to Paris the way infidels look to Mecca. I am not Hal. I am not a king and I am neither malleable nor overly trusting. But that does not mean we could not forge an alliance that would be to our mutual benefit.”

“Just what are you seeking?”

“Security.” Geoffrey leaned closer, lowering his voice to evoke an intimacy more conducive to sharing secrets. “My father’s health is beginning to fail.”

Philippe nodded; he’d paid a sickbed visit to Henry that past November at Belvoir Castle. “Well, he is old,” he said, from the comfortable vantage point of his twenty years, “so it is only to be expected.”

“If you know a storm is coming, you do not wait until the wind is raging against your house ere you take protective measures. I want to be ready when that storm breaks over Brittany.”

Philippe nodded again. “And what would make Brittany safe from the storm? Anjou? Mayhap even Normandy?”

Geoffrey was pleased that Philippe was so quick. “Anjou,” he confirmed, “and an alliance that I can rely upon once Richard becomes king.”

“It would certainly be in France’s interests to have more reasonable leadership in Anjou or Normandy. I’ve long thought that the Bretons are natural allies of the French, not the English. Your father’s meddling in Brittany was a shameless encroachment upon the suzerainty of the French Crown. I will not deny I find it offensive that you’ve done homage for your duchy to the Duke of Normandy and the King of England, but never to your rightful liege lord.”

“Fortunately,” Geoffrey said, “that can be remedied easily enough.”

Now that they’d come to it, Philippe drew a deep breath to dampen down his rising excitement. “So you would be willing to do homage to me.”

“I would.”

“Well, then, I do not see why we cannot come to an understanding advantageous to us both. For example, I think it would be only fitting to name you, my lord duke, as the Seneschal of France.”

As that office traditionally belonged to the Count of Anjou, Philippe could not have made Geoffrey a more welcome offer. He studied the French king intently and then startled Philippe by laughing. “I feel,” he admitted, “as if I’d ventured into a foreign land, expecting to have difficulty making myself understood. Imagine my surprise to discover that we speak the same language.”

Philippe thought that Geoffrey’s reputation for eloquence was well deserved, for he’d just articulated perfectly what the French king was also feeling-that he’d finally found the ally of his dreams, one who shared his insight, shrewdness, and sangfroid. Philippe had long known that he was more intelligent than most of those around him, and while the knowledge was undeniably satisfying, it was occasionally lonely, too. For the first time in his young life, he was discovering the pleasure of finding a kindred spirit, and he joined in Geoffrey’s laughter, laughter that sounded surprisingly carefree and gleeful to his bored bodyguards, not like Philippe’s usual, guarded chuckle at all.

Morgan Fitz Ranulf could hardly believe he was at Lagny, site of some of the most famous tournaments of recent decades. When Geoffrey returned to the French court that August, Morgan had not expected such a marvelous surprise as Lagny. Tournaments were not frequently held in August, for even the most enthusiastic devotees of the tourney preferred not to have hundreds of men trampling through their fields and vineyards during the harvest season. But upon their arrival in Paris, Geoffrey and his men discovered that Philippe was absent from his capital, not likely to return from Senlis for another week. They also learned that a tournament was to be held that coming Monday at Lagny, just twenty miles from Paris, and suddenly Geoffrey no longer minded the wait, for while he’d never been as enamored of the sport as Hal, he enjoyed testing himself against men of equal skill. For Morgan, the Lagny tournament had even greater significance; he’d been knighted by Geoffrey in the past year and this would be his first chance to compete in one.

Morgan had just helped his squire to roll a wooden barrel up a slight incline, and was watching as Josse then rolled it back down, taking care not to let it get away from him. “You need to be quicker, lad, for it almost ran over your foot!” he joked, and then noticed that he had company. A small boy about six or seven was at his side, watching, too.

“What is he doing?”

“He is cleaning my hauberk. The best way to remove rust and dirt from mail is to shake it in a barrel of sand.”

The boy’s eyes fastened upon Morgan with flattering attention. “Are you going to fight in the tournament, Sir Knight?”

“I am.” Because he believed the best knights were not braggarts, Morgan added frankly, “It will be my first. But that works to my advantage since I can take part in the jousting, which is reserved for newly made knights, and then fight in the melee, too.”

Encouraged by Morgan’s affability, the boy edged closer. “This will be my first tournament, too,” he confided. “My mama thought I was too young in the past. But my brother is taking part in this one, and he spoke up for me. We’ll be over there,” he said, pointing across the field toward the wooden stands. “Will we be able to see everything?”

“Well, you’ll be able to see the Vespers jousting tonight for those too eager to wait, and on the morrow you’ll get to watch me joust, lucky lad,” Morgan said, with a grin that the boy returned. “And you’ll have a good view of the charge that will begin the melee. Both teams will try to stay together as long as possible, for that is the best strategy. But they’ll eventually split up into smaller groups, and the fighting can range over several miles. This field will stretch between Lagny and the town of Torcy, and ere the day is done, you’ll have knights laying ambushes in the woods and taking refuge in barns and chasing one another right into villages.”

Seeing the look of disappointment on the child’s face, Morgan said reassuringly, “You’ll still get to see all the jousting and the lance charge and the start of the melee, and afterward, when the prize is awarded to the knight who was the most valiant, you’ll be able to watch that, too. I’ve been told it is a fine Greenland falcon.”

“My brother will win it. But I hope you do well, too.”

“Thank you,” Morgan said gravely, and when the boy continued to interrogate him, he answered readily enough, for he genuinely liked children and looked forward to the day when he’d have sons of his own. “The main rule is that there are no rules. Well, mayhap a few. You see that staked enclosure off to your right? That is the recet for our team; the one for our opponents is located near Torcy, since that is their base. If a knight is hard-pressed, he can take refuge in his recet, and there’ll be men-at-arms to guard it and make sure the other side stays out. When a knight breaks his lance during the charge, he can ride over and get another one from his squires. But once the melee begins, lances are of no use in such close quarters and men rely upon swords and maces.”

“How can you tell friend from foe?” the boy blurted out and then flushed. “That is a foolish question…”

“No, it is a very good one. Each lord will have his own banner and his knights will have his coat of arms emblazoned on their shields. And we all have our own battle cries, too. The French shout ‘Montjoie’ and the English cry ‘Dex aie,’ which means ‘God our help.’ The young king always used that one. My lord’s men will be yelling ‘Saint Malo,’ a favorite Breton saint.”

“You saw the young king fight?” the boy asked in awe. “My brother says he was a sight to behold.”

Morgan thought that Geoffrey was as adept at arms as Hal, but it seemed mean-spirited to deny a dead man his due, and so he said, “Indeed he was, lad. One of his most celebrated fights was right here at Lagny. He’d become separated from his men, which is highly dangerous for a great lord. His foes swarmed him, eager for a king’s ransom, and he was so hard pressed that his helmet was torn from his head. Fortunately his best knight, Will Marshal, was close by and he and another of the king’s men rode to his rescue.”

The child’s eyes were as round as coins. “Do men die in tournaments?”

“Of course. Their weapons are not blunted and-” Morgan caught himself, remembering that the boy had a brother fighting on the morrow. “But any deaths would be by pure chance,” he said hastily, “for that is not the goal. The idea is to capture your foe and his horse, hold him for a goodly ransom.”

“Lord Thibault!” A plump, pink-cheeked woman was hastening toward them. “I have been looking everywhere for you!” Arms akimbo, she frowned down at the child, who scowled back, unrepentant.

Morgan gallantly came to Thibault’s defense. “It is my fault, too, Dame,” he said, with his most charming smile. “We were talking about the tournament and lost track of time.” He kissed her hand then with a flourish. “I am Sir Morgan Fitz Ranulf, one of the mesnie of the Duke of Brittany.”

Thibault’s nurse was thawing quickly, soothed by the mention of Geoffrey’s name. It had an immediate affect upon Thibault, too. “He is my uncle!” he exclaimed, looking up at Morgan with a pleased grin.

Morgan had known Thibault was from the upper classes; his clothing and speech and even his self-confidence all proclaimed him one of fortune’s favorites. He’d not expected the boy to be quite so highly placed, though. If he was Geoffrey’s nephew, he must be one of the sons of Geoffrey’s half sister, Marie. That made perfect sense, for Lagny was on the border of Champagne. “Then your brother is Henri, Count of Champagne!”

Thibault nodded proudly but then bridled when his nurse sought to lead him away. Morgan again played the good knight and offered to escort them to Thibault’s mother. That not only satisfied them both, but it would give Morgan a welcome chance to meet one of Christendom’s great beauties, for all of Eleanor of Aquitaine’s daughters were as physically blessed as she had been.

Thibault’s mother was at that moment standing in the top tier of the spectator stands, checking out the view and bedeviling Geoffrey. “I recently discovered one of your dark secrets,” she teased, “thanks to Gaucelm Faidit. He was performing at my court last month and he let it slip that you and he had composed an erotic tenso, with you singing in French and Gaucelm responding in the lengua romana. Naturally I had to hear it!”

“Oh, Lord…I was drunk at the time, Marie, I swear!”

“Actually it was rather good,” she said, giving him a sidelong smile. “Richard is an occasional poet, too. Have you heard any of his songs?”

“Richard and I are more likely to share insults and threats than poetry.”

“That is a pity,” she said and meant it. She’d first met her mother’s sons thirteen years ago, at the time of their first rebellion, and she’d become quite fond of all three of them; John, she’d yet to meet. She’d grieved for Hal and she was sorry that Richard and Geoffrey acted more like blood foes than blood brothers. Nor did she approve of Geoffrey’s new rapport with her other half brother. Although she’d been compelled by the political realities of her world to make peace with Philippe, she neither liked nor trusted him, and she was sure that no good could come of his sudden friendship with Geoffrey.

Since no others were within hearing range, she took advantage of her status as Geoffrey’s elder sister to speak her mind. “I find it curious that you and your men are fighting with the French instead of the Normans and Angevins.”

“Merely a courtesy to my host,” he said, and she gave him a skeptical glance that made her look uncannily like the mother she’d not seen since childhood.

“I am going to tell you a story, Geoffrey, about my father. Papa would often wander off by himself, and one time my brother-in-law Thibault found him dozing under a tree. When Thibault chided him for it, he said calmly, ‘I may sleep alone quite safely for no one bears me any ill will.’”

“I know that story,” Geoffrey said, grinning as he remembered how it had vexed his father, who found Louis’s sanctimony hard to swallow. “I also heard about the time he said that the English king had men and horses and gold but in France they had only ‘bread and wine and gaiety.’ My parents called him ‘Louis, Lamb of God’ for some time after that one!”

“And did you hear what Philippe answered when he’d seemed lost in thought during a council? This is soon after he’d been crowned, so he was all of fourteen. He said that he’d been wondering if he’d be able to make France great again, as it had been in the days of Charlemagne.”

“No, I had not heard that, but it does sound like Philippe. What is your point, Marie?”

“I am trying to warn you that Philippe might well be a changeling, for he could not be more unlike our father. I do not know what the two of you are up to, but I hope you take heed, Geoffrey. Despite his youth, Philippe is a clever, dangerous man.”

“I agree with you. But you seem to have forgotten that I am a clever, dangerous man, too.”

Marie rolled her eyes, but when Geoffrey laughed, she could not help laughing with him. “Very well. I’ve done my best, will say no more on it,” she promised, and proved it by changing the subject. “Why did Constance not come with you? I would have liked to meet her.”

“Come to our Christmas Court this year,” Geoffrey said expansively, “and we’ll show you that Breton hospitality is second to none. Constance had been suffering morning queasiness and she thought it best to remain in Rennes in case she might be pregnant. I keep telling her that all happens in God’s Time, but she is impatient to give me a son.”

“It’s passing strange that you are the only one of the English king’s sons to produce heirs so far.”

He shrugged. “Well, Richard might get around to wedding poor Alys one of these days now that she will bring him the Vexin, and Johnny is keen to marry the Gloucester heiress. I wish him luck, for the last thing my father wants is to allow him to have incomes and lands of his own.”

He sounded so bitter that she gave him a quick, searching look. “Far be it from me to offer a defense of Henry Fitz Empress, but you might keep this in mind. At least he has permitted contact with your mother, and that is more than my father did. Once their marriage was over, he did his best to exorcise her from my life and memories-”

She stopped then, having caught sight of the small boy running across the field, trailed by his nurse and a young knight. Leaning over the railing, she waved to Thibault and smiled. She loved all four of her children dearly, but she had a special fondness for Thibault, her youngest, and as she watched him race toward her, she felt a maternal pang, thinking that they grew up so fast, thankful that Thibault was only seven, years away from the time when he’d risk his life and honor in tournaments and war like her elder son, Henri, and her brothers Geoffrey and Richard.

Geoffrey was watching with amusement as his men teased, tormented, and chaffed his cousin Morgan, an initiation of sorts into the ranks of knighthood. Morgan bore it in good humor, fending off the jests and gibes with a becoming modesty that was belied by his wide grin and dancing dark eyes. Geoffrey knew his cousin would remember for the rest of his life that moment when his lance had unhorsed his foe; a knight never forgot his first joust.

Heralds were parading up and down, crying out “Helmets on!” Geoffrey adjusted his own helmet and then mounted his favorite destrier, a Spanish stallion he’d called Tempestad in recognition of the horse’s silvery-grey coat and stormy temperament. Reaching for the lance that his squire was holding out, he playfully tapped the boy on the shoulder with it, a lighthearted reminder that Mikael might one day be dubbed a knight, too. The estor — the grand charge-was eagerly awaited by spectators and participants alike, and Geoffrey’s breath quickened. This was the moment he most loved about tourneying, that first glorious sortie with banners streaming, trumpets blaring, and the earth atremble with pounding hooves as hundreds of knights came together in a spectacular clash of sound and fury.

They were close enough now to couch their lances under their arms, to home in upon targets. Geoffrey selected a knight on a rangy bay stallion. Unhorsing an opponent was as much an act of skill as it was luck, required steady nerves and perfect timing. As they closed with each other, Geoffrey veered at the last minute, just enough for his foe’s lance to glance off his shield. He would then lean back in, hoping the Almighty would keep his own aim true. It was a maneuver he’d performed times beyond counting, both in tournaments and war, and indeed, the other knight’s lance did not hit his shield full-on. But against all logic, the blow still slammed him back against the saddle cantle, with such force that he lost his balance and, unable to catch himself, crashed heavily to the ground.

The fall drove the breath from his lungs, but he reacted instinctively, rolling away from his horse’s thrashing legs. His sense of danger was strong enough to override his body’s pain, and by the time his foe turned his mount and circled back, Geoffrey had managed to get to his feet.

“Surrender!” the other knight cried out, flinging away his shattered lance and raising his sword menacingly over his head.

Geoffrey’s shield had been ripped from his shoulder and his lance sent spinning out of reach. Hastily unsheathing his own sword, he spat out one of his father’s favorite Angevin oaths and made his refusal even more emphatic by slashing at the other man’s leg. His defiance was unthinking, dictated by pride. A knight unhorsed was in grave peril, and he was a particularly tempting target; his opponents would soon be trampling one another in their eagerness to capture the Duke of Brittany. He knew, though, that he need not hold out for long. A knight’s first duty was to protect his liege lord and his Bretons would race to his rescue as soon as they noticed his plight. It was just a question who would arrive first, friends or foes.

Sparks flew as he parried the other man’s sword thrust and then jumped back, forcing the knight to rein in his mount. “Do not be a fool,” the man panted. “Yield and if you give me your parole, I’ll free you to rejoin the melee!” He swore bitterly then, not at Geoffrey, but at the riders coming up fast. “Stay back! He’s mine, to me!”

“You always were a greedy sod, Ancel,” one of the new arrivals laughed. “A duke’s ransom is too much for one man!”

Geoffrey had seized his opportunity and snatched up his shield. Spurning Ancel’s repeated demands to surrender, he swung his sword in a sweeping arc to keep the horses at bay, taking a blow on his shield that staggered him. Facing down three knights, he despaired when he saw others galloping toward them. But then he heard the sweetest sound this side of Heaven’s golden harps. “Saint Malo! Saint Malo!” The battle cry of the Bretons.

His attackers were turning to meet this new threat. Geoffrey recognized Gerard de Fournival in the lead, with Matthew de Goulaine and his cousin Morgan only a few strides behind him. More and more of his men were turning away from the melee, too, starting to ride in his direction, and Geoffrey saw salvation was at hand. He had no time to savor his reprieve, though. Gerard’s destrier, screaming like a banshee, smashed into the closest of its foes, and the other animal reared to meet the attack, unseating its rider. All was chaos, shouting men and slashing swords and maddened horses. Acutely aware of his danger, Geoffrey darted for the closest open space. But before he could break free, the riderless stallion bolted and he was brushed by its haunches as it turned, knocking him off his feet. Blinded by the clouds of dust being churned up, he never saw the flailing hooves above his head.

“ I think he’s coming around!”

The voice seemed to echo from a great distance, and when Geoffrey opened his eyes, he saw nothing but sky. The sun was so bright that he squeezed his eyes shut again as he sought to orient himself, to understand why he was lying on the ground, feeling as if every bone in his body was broken.

“Geoffrey…my lord!” This voice was familiar and so urgent that he tried to filter the glare through his lashes, enabling him to focus upon the circle of worried faces clustered around him. He was not surprised to see Gerard and Morgan, but he was puzzled by the presence of his sister. Although he did not remember what had happened, he sensed that she ought not to be here.

Seeing his confusion, Gerard knelt and leaned over so Geoffrey could hear. “You are in the recet. You were unhorsed and trampled…do you not remember? We drove them off and carried you to safety. The men-at-arms are guarding us, making sure none of those knaves make another try at capturing you.”

It alarmed Geoffrey that he remembered none of this. He did not even remember the estor, the start of the tournament. “How…?”

“Ancel de Vernon cheated!” Morgan came back into Geoffrey’s line of vision. “That whoreson did not couch his lance, kept it in the fautre. He denied it, but he’s done it in the past.”

Geoffrey understood what Morgan was saying; it just did not seem very important at the moment. Marie obviously did not understand, though. “‘In the fautre’? What does that mean, Morgan?”

“The fautre is a spear rest, my lady, attached to the front of a man’s saddle, enabling him to balance the lance upright whilst riding. He ought to have braced the lance under his arm when he charged. By leaving it in the fautre, he gave his thrust much more power. That is why he was able to knock the duke from his horse even though the lance did not strike my cousin’s shield a direct blow.”

One of the knights produced a wineskin, and Marie took it from him, tilting it to her brother’s lips. Geoffrey swallowed gratefully. “You ought…not to be here…” he mumbled, surprised that his words sounded so slurred.

“I should have remained in the stands and watched the estor? When I did not know if you lived or not?”

Marie frowned down at him, and Geoffrey thought hazily that she looked like his mother, sounded like her, too. He was touched that they’d all been so concerned for him and he wanted to reassure them that his greatest injury was to his pride. “Are…are we winning?” he asked, and they burst out laughing, taking his question as proof that the legendary luck of the English king held true for his son, too.

Marie had lost all interest in the tournament after Geoffrey’s narrow escape. She’d accompanied him back to his tent, not departing until she was sure that he had indeed suffered no more than bruises, scrapes, and contusions. She’d have preferred to go to her lodgings at the abbey of St Pierre, but she’d left her young son in the stands with her ladies and his nurse, and she did not trust them to keep Thibault out of mischief. Upon her return, she found that the melee had long since broken up into smaller presses, continuing the fighting out of sight and sound of the spectators. But Thibault was still so excited that she had to promise she’d bring him back later to watch the awarding of the prize.

True to her word, Marie and Thibault were back in their seats several hours later. She knew they’d have a wait, but she did not have the heart to deny her son, whose enthusiasm for the tourney had not been diminished by his uncle’s mishap. To Thibault, the day had exceeded his expectations, and he was soon proving to be a handful for his harried nurse, bouncing up on his seat to watch knights returning to the field, squirming and wriggling and demonstrating that no adults could hope to match the boundless energy of puppies, colts, and small boys. Marie kept a sharp eye upon him, for she was not a novice to motherhood, and her vigilance soon paid off, for she was able to stop Thibault from dashing down onto the field when he sighted her eldest son.

The young Count of Champagne rode over, delighting his little brother by swinging him up into the saddle and taking him for a slow gallop around the lists. After turning Thibault over to one of his knights, Henri reined in beside the stands and Marie hastened down the steps to meet him. His flaxen hair was tousled, his face smeared with sweat and dirt and there was a reddish stain on his hauberk that was worrying until she could be sure the blood was not his.

“Maman, I heard what happened to my uncle Geoffrey and so I stopped by his tent. He insisted that he was unhurt and said he means to attend the dinner tonight.”

“What? Why must you men be so loath to use the brains God gave you?”

Henri grinned, for this was a conversation they’d had before; his mother was convinced that males were born without any common sense whatsoever. “I’d want to go, too, if I were in his place,” he admitted. “It is a matter of pride. But…” Lowering his voice, he said, “The thing is that I do not think he is as well as he claims. He is very pale and hollow-eyed, like a man trying to pretend he’s not suffering from a morning-after malaise. I think it would be best if he keeps away from the revelries tonight; they can last till dawn, after all. I thought mayhap if you talked to him…” Finding a smile, he joked that she was a force to be reckoned with and Geoffrey would not dare to defy her. But Marie was not misled by his attempt at humor; Geoffrey must look like Walking Death if her daredevil son Henri had taken notice.

Tents of the nobility were often so large that they had to be erected with winches, and Geoffrey’s was a spacious one, but it was so crowded that Marie did not at once see her brother. Geoffrey knew most of the tournament participants and friends had quickly gathered once word spread of his fall. A number of French knights and lords were there, too, their presence confirming Marie’s suspicions that Geoffrey and Philippe were plotting together. She finally found Geoffrey seated on the edge of his bed, talking with the renowned French knight Guillaume de Barres. One glance was enough to convince her that he was in pain; her husband had suffered from chronic headaches and she knew the signs: the tightness around Geoffrey’s mouth, the vein throbbing in his temple, the ashen cast to his skin.

Marie was, at forty-one, still a beautiful woman and an accomplished flirt. She drew upon that charm now to disperse the men clustered around her brother. Sitting beside Geoffrey, she asked if he had seen a doctor. He swore he had, saying the physician had been impressed that his injuries were so trifling. Marie hoped he was right, but did not let that distract her from her purpose, and launched into her argument why he should not attend the night’s dinner.

Much to her surprise, Geoffrey did not dispute her. “I am not feeling so good,” he admitted. “My headache has gotten worse and I’m having some pain here.” He gestured vaguely toward his abdomen. The mere thought of food roiled his stomach, but he saw no need to share that, saying with a flickering smile, “So you need not fret, Sister. I shall keep to my bed tonight, I promise.”

“I am glad to hear that.” But the more Marie scrutinized Geoffrey, the more uneasy she became. “I want you to come back with me to the abbey,” she said. “Their infirmarian is experienced in the healing arts, and I can vouch for his skills, which I cannot do for your tourney leech. Do it for me, Geoffrey, I implore you.”

“You’re forgetting the Church’s hostility to the tournament, Marie. I doubt that the abbot would be pleased if one of his monks tended to a sinful tourneyer.”

“And you are forgetting that my husband’s father was a great patron of St Pierre’s. Not only is he interred in their church, his son Hugh was the abbot there for seven years. Trust me when I say the monks will bid you welcome.”

Marie was both relieved and disquieted when Geoffrey raised no further objections, for if he was willing to see the infirmarian without being coaxed into it, he must be in considerable pain. “Henri promised to stay with Thibault through the ceremonies, so we can go straightaway,” she said, determined not to give him a chance to change his mind. But then he turned to face her, and she felt a throb of fear, for the pupil of his left eye was so dilated that it looked black. “I’ll be back,” she said and jumped to her feet, going in search of Gerard de Fournival, for she knew the French knight better than the others in Geoffrey’s mesnie.

Gerard did not protest when she told him Geoffrey was going to see the abbey infirmarian. He did balk, though, when she told him to find a horse litter or cart. “I cannot do that, Madame! The duke would be shamed to ride in a conveyance meant for women and the elderly. I’ll order horses saddled-”

“We have more urgent concerns than the duke’s pride,” she snapped. “I fear he has suffered a serious head injury.”

Gerard stared at her and then beckoned to the closest of Geoffrey’s knights, Matthew de Goulaine and Morgan. After a brief murmured exchange, they both hastened toward Geoffrey. At their approach, Geoffrey started to rise, but he felt so dizzy that he had to grab Matthew’s arm for support.

“I am all right,” he insisted, “just a little light-headed.” Releasing the knight’s arm, he stepped back to show he’d regained his balance. But then his knees buckled. They caught him before he fell, maneuvered him toward the bed. Marie and Gerard were beside him now, and when his sister grasped his hand, Geoffrey tried to squeeze it reassuringly. “My head hurts…” he said indistinctly, and by the time they got him onto the bed, his eyes had rolled back in his head and he’d gone limp in their arms.

Gerard de Fournival sat up with a start, surprised that he’d actually dozed off even though he’d slept little since Geoffrey’s collapse. Getting stiffly to his feet, he glanced quickly toward the bed where his liege lord and friend lay motionless, as he’d done for the past two nights and a day. The infirmarian and another monk moved quietly about the chamber, but Gerard found their composure to be oddly comforting; these aged men of faith had seen too much to fear death. Some of the knights were napping, sprawled in the window-seat, slumped in chairs, or on the floor. A few of them-like Morgan and Matthew and Geoffrey’s friend Ivo de la Baille-were still staving off sleep, for keeping vigil was all they could do for their duke now. Marie was not present, and Gerard assumed she’d gone to check upon her son, for only the duties of motherhood had taken her away from her brother’s side.

Gerard stretched and winced as his knotted muscles protested, then crossed to the open window. Dawn was streaking the sky in delicate shades of pink and pearl, the last of the night stars flickering out like quenched candles. It took Gerard a moment to remember the day of the week…Wednesday, the feast day of St Bernard of Clairvaux. Gerard would normally have implored the saint’s intercession on his day, but Bernard was a newly made saint, and the mortal Bernard had been a fierce foe of Geoffrey’s parents. “From the Devil they came and to the Devil they’ll go” had been Bernard’s terse judgment upon the Angevins. Would he bestir himself on Geoffrey’s behalf?

Geoffrey had been taken to a private chamber rather than to the large infirmary hall and, from the window, Gerard had a view of the abbey garth, watching without interest as riders were admitted. But then he leaned forward in amazement. “Jesu!”

That attracted the attention of the other men, and Morgan and Ivo came to stand beside him, though they saw nothing unusual about these new arrivals. “That man on the chestnut palfrey,” Gerard cried. “It is my brother Roger!” They looked at him blankly, unable to understand how he could be so excited about a family reunion when their lord might be breathing his last. Seeing their lack of comprehension, Gerard said impatiently, “Roger is the French king’s best physician!”

The men were dismounting by the time Gerard came striding toward them, with Morgan and Ivo on his heels. Hastening forward, he enveloped his brother in a grateful embrace. “Never have I been so glad to lay eyes upon you, Roger! Your arrival here is so providential that the Almighty Himself must have directed you to Lagny!”

“Not the Almighty, the king.” Roger handed his reins to one of his companions. “The countess’s messenger reached Senlis late yesterday afternoon. King Philippe was sorely distressed to hear of the Breton duke’s injury and dispatched me at once with orders to spare neither expense nor effort to save him. We rode all night,” he said, sounding vaguely surprised that he’d proved up to such a great exertion, for a royal physician’s life was not usually so arduous. “Now…tell me what you know.”

“The infirmarian thinks Duke Geoffrey has a grave head injury. He cannot be sure if his skull has been fractured, for there was no open wound. He lost consciousness briefly when it happened, but once he came around, he was quite lucid, although he did complain of a headache that got worse as time went on. But we’ve not been able to rouse him since he collapsed in his tent. Can you help him, Roger?”

“God Willing,” Roger said, reverting to the professional tone he used with patients. He did not like what he’d just been told, but he saw no need to share his misgivings with Gerard. If the duke’s prognosis was as poor as he feared, there’d be time enough for that. “God Willing,” he repeated resolutely. “Take me to him.”

They waited in the abbey guest hall while Roger conducted his examination, were soon joined by Marie and Henri. The hosteller sent servants over with food and wine, but none of them had any appetite. They sat without talking, for there was only one voice they wanted to hear now-that of the French king’s physician. When Roger was escorted by one of the monks into the hall, they went to meet him in such haste that several benches were overturned.

A royal physician was expected to have the social skills of a courtier, and Roger greeted Marie and her son with the deference due their rank and the sympathy due their kinship to Geoffrey. Once the formalities had been observed, he looked from the countess to his brother and then said quietly, “Was the duke shriven?”

“Yes, he was. He heard a votive Mass of the Holy Spirit on Monday morning, and then my chaplain heard his confession ere the tournament began…” Marie’s words faltered for she could still hear Geoffrey’s laughing voice, joking that he never passed up an opportunity to seek absolution of his sins any more than he passed up an opportunity to sin anew. “Are you saying that there is no hope?”

“I am saying that he is in God’s Hands, Madame,” Roger said carefully, “for his wounds are beyond my abilities to heal.”

Marie closed her eyes for a moment and then turned away without speaking. After a brief hesitation, Henri hurried after her. The other men were struggling with disbelief, for even though they’d known of the severity of Geoffrey’s injuries, they’d been holding on to hope. Gerard and Morgan were the most incredulous, for Gerard had enormous confidence in his brother’s medical skills and Morgan was by nature an optimist, always expecting the best outcome, never the worst.

“But…but there must be something you can do,” he stammered. “I know head wounds are dangerous, but even so…One of the Breton lords, Andre de Vitre came back from pilgrimage last year and he told Duke Geoffrey about some miraculous surgeries performed in the Holy Land, about a Christian knight saved when the doctors bored into his skull. Can you not do something like that?”

“No, I cannot. I am not a surgeon-”

“But we could find one, Roger!” In his urgency, Gerard grabbed his brother’s arm in an iron grip. “I know surgeons are not held in high regard by physicians, but surely that would not matter now? If there is nothing you can do and a surgeon could-”

“This has nothing to do with my well-founded misgivings about most surgeons. I know about the procedure in question. It is called trepanation, and is done to drain blood and pus and noxious humors from the skull. But it is rarely if ever successful when the patient is unconscious or feverish and the duke is both. I could not in good conscience recommend-”

“Surely it is worth trying!”

“If you would have me speak bluntly, Gerard, it is too late. Dilation of one or both pupils is a sign of bleeding in the brain, and the duke’s other symptoms are not encouraging. His skin is cold and clammy to the touch, his pulse is weak, and his breathing has become shallow and uneven. Moreover, I fear that he has suffered damage to his liver or spleen-”

“That is not so,” Morgan interrupted, “for I helped the infirmarian to undress my cousin. His body was badly bruised and scraped, but there were no contusions on his belly-”

“Internal injuries do not always show external signs. What I found far more significant than the presence or absence of bruises was the swelling of the duke’s abdomen. This usually means that the liver has been lacerated and is bleeding into the abdominal cavity. Either injury would be grievous enough to kill a man.”

They stared at him, momentarily stricken into silence. “What are you saying, Roger? That we just sit back and let him die!”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Roger said testily. “We’ve been trying to get him to swallow yarrow and white willow, though that is obviously not easy. And there most certainly is something you can do for the duke. You can pray for him. Now, I need to see the hosteller about getting a meal.”

They watched him go, and then, by common consent, headed for the abbey church, where they lit candles and prayed for Geoffrey’s recovery. When they returned to the infirmary, they found Marie and the abbot standing by the bed. Marie clutched a jeweled reliquary, and they felt a flicker of hope, remembering that St Pierre had one of Christendom’s most sacred treasures-a nail from the Holy Cross. Leaning over, Marie kissed her brother’s forehead, then opened the reliquary and placed the nail in his hand, gently closing his fingers around the blessed relic. Then she and the abbot knelt by the bed and began to pray. Geoffrey’s knights knelt, too, and added their voices to hers.

Marie was sitting on a bench not far from the infirmary hall. Several of her attendants hovered nearby, close enough to be summoned, far enough away to give her the semblance of privacy. The day had been a scorching one and dusk had not yet dispersed much of the heat. There was not even a breath of wind, and Marie’s tears dried on her cheeks almost as soon as they trickled from the corners of her eyes. She’d lost track of time, would never know how long she sat there, so weary that her thoughts drifted without direction or purpose. She was heedless of passersby, the curious eyes of monastery guests, the silent solicitude of her own knights and ladies. It took a sudden stir of excitement and noise to dispel her sorrowful reverie, to bring her back to the August eve and the illusory peace of the abbey. Looking up, she gazed dully at the man coming toward her. It was only when he was several feet away that she rose to her feet and made a dutiful curtsy to her brother the French king.

She was puzzled by Philippe’s presence at Lagny, but not enough to dwell upon it. He always looked rather untidy, but he seemed more disheveled than usual, his unruly brown hair flopping across his forehead, his clothes layered in dust, his eyes glazed with fatigue. He surprised her by reaching out, taking her hands in his. “Sister…is it true? The porter at the gate said that Geoffrey…?”

“Yes, it is true. Geoffrey died as Vespers was ringing. Just like Hal…” She was not sure why that was relevant, but her tired mind was blurring her losses and she could not separate Geoffrey’s death from Hal’s, the brothers she’d loved, taken too soon.

Philippe released her hands and stepped back. She thought he would go, but instead he sat down heavily on the bench, gestured for her to do the same. Marie obeyed and they sat in silence for a time, while Philippe’s men milled about in some confusion, unsure whether to wait or take their horses on to the abbey stables, sure only that Philippe would not welcome their intrusion. Marie glanced at him, thinking it was very unlike Philippe to ride all the way from Senlis in such haste; he’d shown no such compunction when their father lay dying. But his unexpected presence here might be a blessing, might forestall any unpleasantness with the Church.

“We must give him a fitting funeral,” she said firmly, as if daring him to object. When he did not, she continued, less defiantly. “There might be trouble with the Church, though.”

Philippe seemed lost in his own musings, but at that, he turned to look at her and she was stunned to see his eyes were wet with tears. “Why?”

“The Church forbids men who die in tournaments to be buried in consecrated ground,” she reminded him. “The last Lateran Council reiterated the ban just five years ago.”

“I’d forgotten that,” he said, surprising her again, for Philippe had a memory to rival the English king’s. “It is of no matter. None will protest, and if they do, they’ll regret it.”

“Thank you, my lord brother.” Marie rose with another perfunctory curtsy. “Shall I take you to the abbot now?”

Philippe did not appear to have heard her. He was staring into space, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot, his head lowered so she could no longer see his face. “What a waste,” he said thickly. “What a bloody waste…”

Geoffrey died on August 21, just a month from his twenty-eighth birthday. He was buried with great honors before the high altar in the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, with all the French court in attendance. Philippe grieved openly, and he and Marie each founded two chantries to pray for Geoffrey’s soul.