“Mayhap you would, but Papa could live another twenty years. Who’s to say that I cannot coax him into dealing with me fairly whilst he is still alive? He has never refused me outright, keeps saying that he’ll give them to me in time.”
“If you still believe in Papa’s good faith, you probably believe in mermaids and dragons, too. I am willing to offer more than future gains. Once I am in control of Aquitaine, I’ll no longer be dependent upon Papa’s whims, his meager acts of charity. There will be lucrative wardships and marriages at my disposal, and who better to share them with than my brother? And Poitou is a land of many castles, a number of which are located close to the borders of Brittany. What would make more sense than to turn some of these castles over to you?”
“I will not deny it is a tempting offer,” Geoffrey said slowly, “for I do not fancy having Richard as my neighbor, constantly watching Brittany with hungry eyes. But it is a risky proposal, too. Are you so sure we could bring Richard down?”
“His delusions of grandeur notwithstanding, Richard is not Caesar or Charlemagne. Nor would we lack for allies. Virtually all of the barons of Aquitaine would come in with us, even the wily de Lusignans. They see this as a matter of their survival. And we could expect aid from my brother-in-law, too. After all that Papa had done for him, I was hesitant about broaching the subject with Philippe. I need not have worried, though. Indeed, I was surprised how willing he was to join us.”
That did not surprise Geoffrey at all. “So you are saying you’d have the backing of all the lords of Aquitaine, and the backing, too, of the French king. Are you not forgetting someone?”
“I do not think so. The Count of Toulouse would never be able to resist an opportunity like this, and mayhap even the—”
“What about our father?”
“What about him? We would be striking at Richard, not him.”
“And you think he’d stand aside, do nothing as Richard went down?”
“Why not? I know full well he loves me better than Richard. Papa might even be relieved to be rid of him. You cannot tell me that a man as full of ungodly suspicions as our father does not worry about Brother Richard’s trustworthiness. Surely he knows how much Richard resents him for keeping Maman captive all these years.” Hal got to his feet, too, reached out and put his hand on Geoffrey’s arm. “So…what say you?”
“I will think about it.”
“You can give me no better answer than that?”
“As I said, I will think about it. But this you must bear in mind, Hal. This cannot be a halfhearted effort. There can be no eleventh-hour regrets. If you are serious about this, you must commit to it…and you must prepare for all possible consequences. In other words, you cannot take it for granted that Papa would not rush to Richard’s rescue. If you do this, you must be willing to fight Papa, too, if it comes to that.”
Hal had no such misgivings, sure that if their father were forced to choose between him and Richard, he’d be the chosen one. He did not want to lose Geoffrey, though, by pushing too hard, too soon. Geoffrey would be an invaluable ally, for he had a cool head, was quick-witted, and could dip into the royal coffers of Brittany to hire the routiers they would need. “Fair enough,” he said. “Think about it. Just do not wait too long. Opportunities like this do not come along that often.”
Geoffrey knew he was right. The trouble was that opportunities and pitfalls could not always be easily or clearly distinguished, one from the other. He would talk to Constance, he decided, although he already knew what she would say, for they were very much alike, born gamblers willing to take great risks if the rewards were equally great. And the rewards Hal was offering were very great, indeed.
T
HE DUCHESS OF SAXONY AND BAVARIA
was standing with her brothers on the battlements of Chinon Castle, where she discovered that they were right: the view was indeed breathtaking. Below them lay the narrow, crooked streets and blue slate roofs of the village, and beyond was the silvery expanse of the River Vienne, shimmering against a deep blue September sky.
“How lovely,” Tilda said admiringly, and then laughed when Hal gallantly turned her comment into a compliment, pretending to think she was referring to herself. She was indeed ravishing, he assured her solemnly, but it was not seemly for her to call attention to her own beauty. Better she wait modestly until others noticed it, as they undoubtedly would.
“You have not changed a whit,” she said, playfully and untruthfully, for nothing was as she’d remembered it. She’d last seen her father’s domains fifteen years ago, when she’d been sent off to wed the man known as Heinrich der Löwe—Henry the Lion. She’d been only eleven, twenty-seven years younger than her new husband, a man renowned for his courage, military prowess, temper, and lack of tact, but it was obvious to her brothers that there was genuine respect and affection between Heinrich and Tilda, and they were glad that she’d found contentment in Germany. They were still getting accustomed to the Tilda of today, for this poised young woman of twenty-six was very different from the fragile, shy sister who still flitted through their childhood memories of yesterday. They were surprised by how much she’d grown; she was almost tall enough to look Richard and Hal straight in the eye, noticeably taller than her husband, and the slender, sylphlike girl had ripened into a beauty, so much so that they felt uncomfortable taking notice of the voluptuous curves motherhood had given her.
Tilda found their new selves to be no less startling. Hal had been twelve when they’d last met, Richard ten, and Geoffrey nine, and she had to make a conscious effort to associate those boisterous boys with these worldly, grown men of twenty-seven, twenty-five, and twenty-four. But she’d expected that she’d find strangers in their skins. What she’d not expected was to find her father was a stranger, too.
She’d remembered him as a veritable whirlwind, remembered a hoarse, raspy voice that could shout down the heavens or purr intimately in her mother’s ear, remembered coppery curly hair and sunbursts of pure energy, a giant who towered above other mortal men, a force of nature as dazzling and daunting as heat lightning in a summer sky. What she found at Chinon was a man of forty-nine who was not aging well, a man not much taller than her husband, with too many grey hairs, a stiff leg that throbbed when the weather changed, and hooded eyes etched in wrinkles that no longer looked like laugh lines. Heinrich had cautioned her to tread with care, fearful that too many questions about her mother might jeopardize Henry’s favor, a risk they could not afford to take. But as she gazed into her father’s face, she’d realized that the story of his ruined marriage and betrayals was writ plain for all to see, and her heart ached for him, for the mother sequestered in England, and for the little girl she’d once been, the child secure in the innocent belief that their family was, and would always be, favored by God.
A burst of laughter drew their eyes toward the middle bailey of the castle, where Henry and Heinrich were walking in the gardens. They’d just been joined by Tilda’s three children—Richenza, Otto, and Heinrich—and five-year-old Otto was shrieking with delight as Henry swung him up into the air. The sight of her father taking such joy in his grandchildren brought a smile to Tilda’s face, but it was tinged with sadness, for they’d been forced to leave their third son behind in Brunswick; Lothair’s health was too frail for him to make the difficult journey from Saxony to Normandy. No matter how often Tilda told herself that she’d had no choice but to put the needs of her husband and other children before Lothair’s, she continued to have dreams in which her absent son cried out for her at night. The separation was even harder because he was only eight, and she did not know if the emperor would keep his word and permit them to return in three years. Lothair could grow up without her. That fear gave her even greater sympathy for her mother, who’d been made to disappear from her children’s lives as if by some malign spell, one cast by her own husband.
“Tell me the truth,” she said, blue eyes moving from face to face. “How is Maman truly faring in confinement?”
Her brothers exchanged glances, and Hal said, lowering his voice instinctively even though they were not within their father’s hearing, “Surely you talked to Papa about her. What did he tell you?”
“He insisted she was living in comfort and contentment, and then hastily changed the subject. He has spent more time discussing the French king’s expulsion of the Jews from his realm and telling me about the new outbreak of war in Jerusalem between King Baldwin and the Saracen prince Saladin than he has talking about Maman. And when I asked why she could not cross over to Normandy to be with us at his Christmas Court, I never did get an answer from him.”
“And you will not,” Richard said sharply, “for the man is impossible to pin down even with a forked stick. If there is any justice, he will come back in his next life as a snake or an eel.”
Hal looked at his brother with dislike he made no attempt to conceal. The three of them had agreed to put the best face upon their mother’s plight and to speak well of their father in Tilda’s hearing, not wanting to make her exile any harder than it already was. He should have known that Richard would not hold to the bargain. “Hopefully in your next life, you’ll come back as a mute!”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “A pity you were not born a woman in this life, Little King of Lesser Land, for you seek only to please and to be admired by all. You’d have made a right fine whore.”
Tilda gasped. She did not understand why he’d called Hal “Little King of Lesser Land,” although she recognized it as a grave insult. Geoffrey did understand and bit back a grin; Richard was quoting from a song by the troubadour Bertran de Born, who’d mocked Hal for not displaying more martial fervor.
Hal flushed, but he lashed back at once, saying with all the contempt at his command, “And a pity you were not lowborn in this life, that the blood of kings keeps you from following your heart’s desire. You are never happier than when you are up to your knees in blood and guts and gore. Clearly the Almighty meant you to be a butcher.”
Hal knew his retort had missed its mark as soon as the words left his mouth, even before Richard laughed at him. “When men fight, they bleed and sometimes they die, for war is not as pretty or fanciful as your tourney games. War is real, so little wonder you like it not.”
“Rot in Hell!” Hal spat, but Geoffrey decided to intercede before things got totally out of hand, and interrupted Hal in mid-curse.
“We’re attracting an audience,” he warned, nodding toward the bailey below, and the others saw that he was right. As their voices had risen, men were beginning to look upward, including Henry and Heinrich. When her husband beckoned to her, Tilda was only too happy to comply, for she’d been shaken by what she’d just witnessed. Geoffrey escorted her down to the gardens, but she could not forget that ugly scene up on the battlements and came to a sudden stop while her husband and Henry were still out of earshot.
“They sounded as if they hate each other, Geoffrey. How did it ever get to this?”
“Blame the Demon Countess of Anjou,” he said flippantly. “If we’re the Devil’s spawn as our enemies claim, we are only being true to our nature. But it is not only Hal and Richard, sweeting. If I were drowning, Brother Richard would throw me a lifeline with an anchor attached to it, and in all honesty, I’d do as much for him.”
Tilda stared at him. She did not know this man, did not know any of them. What had happened to her family? And standing there in the warm, sunlit bailey, she shivered, suddenly sorry that she’d ever come home.
T
HAT AUTUMN HAL
made another demand for territory of his own, insisting that Henry give him Normandy. When Henry refused, Hal withdrew to Paris in a rage and announced he was taking the cross and going to the Holy Land to fight the infidels. Henry entreated him in vain to reconsider. He did not agree to return to his father’s court until Henry promised to increase his allowance to a generous one hundred Angevin pounds a day with an additional ten pounds a day for Marguerite and to pay for the cost of maintaining one hundred knights in Hal’s household for a year.
Henry had decided to hold his Christmas Court that year at Caen and spared no expense to make it a memorable occasion—as an official welcome for his daughter and her husband and proof that the tattered family loyalty of the Angevins was once more intact and flying high. Heinrich had gone on pilgrimage to the Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela while Tilda remained in her father’s care, but he returned in time for the December festivities. So did Hal and Marguerite. Only John and Eleanor were absent, both of them left behind in England.
December 1182
Caen, Normandy
A
N ICY RAIN HAD BEEN ASSAILING
the riverside city of Caen since midday, but the king’s solar that evening was a cheerful scene, shutters barred against the storm, a hungry fire in the hearth. Henry’s Christmas Court had drawn princes of the Church, barons and their ladies, and more than a thousand knights. The gathering in the solar was an informal one, though, for Henry was determined to spend some time with his family in as much privacy as a king could reasonably expect.
Richard was due to arrive any day, but the others were all present: Tilda and her husband, Geoffrey and Constance, Hal and Marguerite. If any thoughts were spared for Eleanor, the ghost at the feast, they were not expressed aloud and Henry was in a mellow mood, delighted to have his daughter back, relieved to have lured Hal away from the Paris court and his too-helpful young brother-in-law. It was one more worry for Henry that the seventeen-year-old French king had begun to show greater steadiness of purpose and will than Hal, who was fully ten years Philippe’s elder.
Tilda was comfortably ensconced on the settle, with her father on one side and her husband on the other. Hal and Marguerite were together in a window-seat and Constance was seated in a high-backed chair, with Geoffrey lounging on cushions at her feet. Henry’s grandchildren had just been ushered out of the solar, reluctantly sent off to their beds, and the echoes of their carefree laughter seemed to linger pleasantly in the air. Marveling at the resilience of the very young, who were able to take even exile in stride, Henry found himself hoping that their stay at his court would be an extended one. It had been a long time since he’d been able to enjoy the simple pleasures of parenthood.
“Have you talked to Richenza about a name change?” he asked his daughter and Tilda gave him a shy, sideways smile.
“Yes, Papa, we have. We explained that Richenza is a foreign-sounding name to Norman or English ears and highborn brides often take names more familiar to their husbands’ subjects, like my sister Leonora. Richenza seemed comfortable enough with the idea, but wanted to choose her own name. Fortunately, she does not have Joanna’s fertile imagination, and she decided she’d like to be called Matilda, after me.”
Henry was pleased that his mother’s name was being kept alive in a new generation; Matilda was the Latin form of Maude. Hal and Marguerite expressed their approval of Richenza’s new name, but Constance mused aloud whether Richenza’s brother Otto would change his foreign-sounding name, too, and Henry gave his daughter-in-law a tight smile, sure that she was amusing herself at his expense. He was very fond of Marguerite and he’d done his best to like Constance, too, but she did not make it easy, putting him in mind of Eleanor on her worst behavior. She was adept at delivering pinprick wounds with a smile, planting her barbs with a specious air of innocence. He was not going to let his son’s caustic wife ruin the Christmas revelries, though. He could only hope that Geoffrey thought Brittany was worth her peevish tempers.
He’d begun to question Tilda and Heinrich about the son they’d had to leave in Brunswick when a servant entered with welcome word: his son Richard had just ridden into the castle bailey. Richard made his appearance soon afterward, for he’d not bothered to change from his travel clothes and his boots were still caked with mud. He greeted his father and Heinrich with rather formal courtesy, kissed his sister on the cheek, and gave courtly kisses to his sisters-in-law. But he acknowledged his brothers with a flat, toneless “Hal” and “Geoffrey,” greetings they returned with equal terseness, the tension so palpable that even Henry, blind believer in family unity, could not help noticing.
He had no time to fret about it, though, for Richard at once revealed what was on his mind. “I do not understand,” he said, “why my mother was excluded from the Christmas festivities.”
Henry stiffened. These arguments about Eleanor had been occurring with more and more frequency, but this was the first time that Richard had thrown down the gauntlet before others. His son did not even wait for his response, saying curtly, “You know how much she wants to see Tilda and her grandchildren. How can you justify keeping her away?”
Henry was sorely tempted to remind his troublesome son that he did not have to justify himself to anyone, one of the prerogatives of kingship. But because he wanted to extinguish this quarrel as quickly as possible, he said only, “It is neither the time nor the place for this discussion, Richard.”
Richard would not be distracted, though, knowing his father was a past master at such evasive tactics. Instead, he sought allies and turned toward his sister. “Tilda has not seen our mother in fifteen years. You think she was not disappointed by this arbitrary decision of yours?”
Tilda’s husband closed his hand over hers, giving a warning squeeze. She understood his concern; her father had been extremely generous to them, providing a lavish allowance while continuing his efforts to shorten the length of their exile. But Richard was right; she wanted to see her mother very much, and her father’s vague promises had done little to fill that void.
“I admit I am eager for Maman to meet your grandchildren, Papa,” she ventured, in a vain attempt to satisfy her husband, her father, and her own conscience.
“And it shall happen, Tilda,” Henry said, in a much softer tone of voice than he’d used with Richard. “I promised you that we will arrange for your return to England this spring, at which time you may visit with your mother to your heart’s content.” Still smarting over Richard’s “arbitrary” accusation, he regarded his son coolly. “You seem to have forgotten how perilous Channel crossings can be. Even in good weather, it is dangerous. It’s less than seven years since your brother Hal’s chamberlain and three hundred souls drowned when their ship went down off the French coast. Did you truly want your mother to risk a crossing in December, of all months?”
Richard started to speak, stopped himself, and Henry felt a satisfying moment of triumph, for even this stubborn son of his could not refute the truth. December crossings were dangerous, and they all knew it. But it was then that Constance chose to dip her oar into troubled waters, saying in the painstakingly polite tones of one earnestly seeking information, “But ought that not to have been a decision for the queen to make? She may have considered the risk worth taking.”
Henry drew upon a lifetime of self-control to say calmly to his daughter-in-law, “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, my dear, but this is not truly your concern, is it?”
Constance always knew when a strategic retreat was called for, and she withdrew from the field. But Henry’s rebuke now drew Geoffrey into the fray. “Surely you’d agree that it is
my
concern, Papa. I am no happier about Maman’s absence than Richard. And my wife is right—you should have offered her the choice.”
“Whether that be true or not, the fact remains that it is done and cannot be undone. I do not see any point, therefore, in continuing this discussion.”
“I expected you to say that.” Richard strode forward, stopping in front of his father. “And you’re right. It is too late to redeem my mother’s Christmas. But the time is past due to discuss her continuing confinement. She is about to begin her tenth year as your prisoner, and for what reason?”
Henry got to his feet, not liking the way Richard loomed over him when he was seated. “Enough, Richard. Let it be.”
“You’ve forgiven all the others who took part in the rebellion. You welcomed that French fool Louis to Canterbury, whilst knowing that he bore as much blame as anyone for the revolt. You pardoned the rebel lords, even that dolt Leicester, a man who drew his sword upon you, for Christ’s sake! You ought to have sent the bastard to the block, but instead you restored his lands. The only one who continues to suffer for her past sins is my mother, and I want to know why. I want you to tell me here and now why you refuse to set her free!”
“I’d be interested in hearing that answer myself,” Geoffrey interjected, and Hal now chimed in, too, saying that he also wanted to know.
Henry looked from one to the other, saw that they were all allied against him in this, and that knowledge was as bitter as gall. “I told you once before that I would not discuss my wife with you, Richard, and nothing has changed. I would suggest that you apologize to your sister for your bad manners and that for the remainder of the Christmas Court, you remember this. If you will not accord me the respect due your father, then by God, you’ll give it to your king. Now this conversation is done, and I’ll say no more on it.”
For a long moment, he stared down his sons, daring them to protest. They did not, but their silence was shrouded in hostility and he knew it. Bidding good night to Tilda, Heinrich, and Marguerite, he left the solar without looking back.
By the time Henry reached the bottom of the stairwell, he’d still not decided whether he’d return to the great hall or withdraw to his own chamber. But when he opened the door, he came to a halt, for the storm had intensified and rain was coming down sideways. He’d left his mantle behind in the solar and, after his dramatic departure, he did not want to go back for it. Sheltered from the worst of the wind, he gazed out across the deserted bailey, thinking that this bleak sight was a good match for his mood.
He particularly resented the accusation that he meant to keep Tilda and Eleanor apart. As if he’d be that cruel! The perilous Channel crossing had definitely been a factor in his decision; why else would he not have summoned Johnny to join them? And if he’d wanted to enjoy one Christmas without having to share his daughter with Eleanor, what of it? He was entitled to that much.
Tilda’s coming had forced him to face a painful truth—that his children sided with Eleanor. He thought he understood why their sons continued to agitate for her release; they had to feel guilty that she’d paid so high a price for their rebellion. And he’d not blamed Joanna for failing to comprehend the enormity of Eleanor’s offense, for she was just a child. But Tilda was a woman grown, and he’d expected better from her. Heinrich saw the truth of it. What greater sin could a wife commit than to turn upon her own husband? Why was Tilda so willing to forgive it?
The answer seemed all too obvious. His children loved their mother in a way that they did not love him. Assuming that they loved him at all. He doubted that Richard did, could find nothing in his second son’s eyes but resentment and reproach. Since wedding that Breton bitch, Geoffrey had grown more distant, more guarded. And Hal was…Hal. More and more, his eldest son was beginning to remind him of the man who’d stolen his mother’s crown—Stephen, so charming and good-hearted and courageous, so utterly inept at the mastery of other men. Thank Christ for Johnny. There were times when it was only the thought of his youngest son that kept him from utter despair.
The rain had yet to slacken off, and it occurred to him that, just as he was trapped by the storm, he was trapped by his own family, by his inability to give his sons an honest answer to Richard’s angry question. But how could he tell them that their mother’s continuing confinement was their fault? The truth was that he’d have freed Eleanor long ago if only he could trust them. He still did not fully comprehend why she’d rebelled, but he no longer doubted the sincerity of her regrets. Nor did he still believe that she’d throw herself at once into plots and conspiracies if he set her free. He did not fear, as he once had, that she’d do all in her power to revenge herself upon him. But he never doubted that if one of their sons rebelled again, she’d draw upon the considerable resources of Aquitaine on behalf of that son, offering her unqualified support. Especially if that son was Richard.
He’d never underestimated his wife’s shrewdness or her cunning or her ability to dissemble, to beguile others into doing her bidding. He’d valued her for those very qualities—until she’d turned them against him. But even if she’d made it safely to Paris nine years ago, her presence would not have tipped the balance in their favor, for men like Louis and Philip of Flanders would never have heeded the advice of a woman.
Henry laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. Any man who thought women were the weaker vessels had never met his mother—or his queen. Thank God Almighty that she’d not been able to take the field against him. But now she had Richard, the son who was most like him, the son who loved him not. He remained confident that he would prevail if Richard ever rebelled again. But Richard would pose a greater challenge than any foe he’d fought, and he was too pragmatic to deny it. Until Richard and his brothers proved that they could be truly trusted, the way a man ought to be able to trust his sons, how could he risk letting Eleanor go? And yet, how could he say that to Richard or Geoffrey or Hal? How could he confess that he still harbored such doubts and misgivings about their loyalty? He could only ask the Almighty and St Thomas to show his sons the error of their ways, to pray that they saw the light ere it was too late.
Raised voices came to his ears now, muffled in the winding stairwell. Either his sons were squabbling again or making ready to depart. He looked out dubiously into the wet, gloomy night, remembering when he’d been utterly indifferent to such storms, when his body had not yet begun to show the results of so many years of hard riding and careless confidence in his own invincibility. Shivering as he stepped out into the rain, he could take no comfort from the irony of it—that he and his exiled wife were sharing the same wretched Christmas.
T
HE LAST MONTHS
of God’s Year 1182 were among the most miserable of Will Marshal’s life. Without the favor of his lord, the young king, he felt like a ship gone adrift, lacking moorings or direction. Because the other knights of Hal’s mesnie did not know why they’d fallen out, speculation ran rampant and Will found himself the target of gossip and innuendo, vulnerable to the malice of his enemies. And enemies he had, for his privileged position in Hal’s household and his spectacular tournament successes had long provoked the envy and jealousy of lesser knights. Too proud to acknowledge the talk, Will did his best to ignore the whispers and stares, but his heaviest burden was that he could not confide in his friends, could not reveal the cause of the young king’s displeasure—not without betraying Hal’s confidence.