Richard was surprised by the reasonableness of that question. “It is not as clear-cut as Hal pretends it to be,” he said, less truculently. “Clairvaux was once part of Poitou. It is not as if I started building a castle in the heart of Angers.”
“I have a map of Anjou burned into my brain, know where Clairvaux is.” Henry’s tone was mild enough to take any sting from his words. “But why Clairvaux? Why do you think you need a castle there?”
It was not an accusation; Henry sounded as if he truly wanted to know. “The work at Clairvaux was not done with Hal in mind, at least not directly. Clairvaux is just six miles from Châtellerault, and as you know, Châtellerault controls the crossing of the Vienne on the Poitiers road.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully. “But the present Viscount of Châtellerault is your cousin; his father Hugh was Eleanor’s uncle.”
“And you think our shared blood will guarantee Guillaume’s loyalty? The way blood binds me and Hal?”
Henry acknowledged the accuracy of Richard’s thrust with a bleak smile. “So you have reason to doubt Guillaume’s fidelity. Fair enough. But would it not have made life easier for us all if you’d come to me first, explained why you wanted to fortify Clairvaux? As it is, you gave Hal the perfect excuse for heeding the siren songs of your malcontent barons.”
Richard had not expected his father to see that Clairvaux was as much a pretext as it was a grievance. “It would have been more prudent,” he conceded, and then flashed a sudden smile. “But prudence is not one of my more conspicuous virtues, is it?”
“No, I cannot say that it is,” Henry agreed dryly. But there were worse vices than a lack of prudence, far worse.
“You do not sound as if you hold me much to blame,” Richard said cautiously, for he had little experience with this evenhanded sort of justice; as far back as he could remember, his father had favored Hal.
“I do not. I am not saying you are an innocent, mind you. But your sins in no way justify what your brother has done.”
To Richard, that admission was sweet balm for a wound he’d never have acknowledged. They were standing by the fireplace, and he gazed for a time into the shivering, shooting flames. “But you still want me to give over Clairvaux.”
“Yes, Richard, I do.”
Richard almost said it was not fair. He did not want to sound like a spoiled, pampered lordling, though, did not want to sound like Hal. If his father’s maltreatment of their mother was his most grievous sin, crowning Hal was surely his most idiotic one. Bertran de Born had accompanied Richard to court, and the troubadour had been quick to lambaste Hal’s public confession, calling him the “King of Fools.” His mockery changed nothing, though. Hal was God’s Anointed, and Richard knew he had to deal with that, however little he liked it. Tonight he suspected that his father did not much like it, either, and there was some comfort in that realization, for much of his resentment had been fueled by Henry’s failure to see Hal as Richard saw him.
“I will never turn it over to Hal,” he warned, and Henry nodded.
“I would not ask that of you, promise to keep it in my hands. I will even consult with you ere I choose a castellan.”
“Well, I trust you more than Hal,” Richard said, a joke that was too bitter for humor. “But if I surrender Clairvaux—even to you—Hal wins.”
“Does he?” Henry asked blandly, and his son looked at him with an emotion that he’d rarely felt for his father, one of reluctant admiration. Papa was right. What pleasure would Hal take from a “win” like that? Without Clairvaux, he’d have no pretense for further plotting. The more Richard thought about it, the more he could see the irony of such a solution. He’d still have to sacrifice some pride, and that would not be easy. But the look on Hal’s face when he understood he’d been outfoxed might well be worth it.
“I’ll give it over to you—and only to you. But you’re just putting a bandage upon a festering belly wound, Papa, and I think you know that.”
Henry did, but he was not yet willing to admit it, not even to himself. “For now,” he said wearily, “I’ll be content enough if I can stop the bleeding.”
H
ENRY KNEW THAT THE SURRENDER
of Clairvaux was a temporary solution to a problem that threatened not only the peace of his realm but even the survival of his empire. He’d always envisioned a federation of loosely linked self-governing states, with Hal reigning over England, Normandy, and Anjou, Richard over Aquitaine, and Geoffrey over Brittany, each one following the customs of his own domains, but bound by a common interest, a mutual commitment to a dynasty capable of dominating all the great Houses of Europe. This was to be his legacy. But in those early days of January, he was forced to face a troubling truth—that upon his death, his sons might well turn upon one another, tearing apart all that he’d labored and fought for and attracting a multitude of enemies drawn by the scent of blood.
This was the greatest threat he’d ever faced, for it came from within. But, as was his way, once he acknowledged the problem, he set about finding a means to resolve it. One of his greatest strengths had always been his ability to remain dispassionate; only in his clash with Thomas Becket had that ability failed him, with tragic consequences. Now, though, he found himself caught up in the same sort of emotional turmoil, unable to judge his sons as a king, not a father. His awareness of this weakness eroded some of his innate self-confidence, and for one of the few times in his life, he sought validation and support from others.
There had never been many allowed into his trusted inner circle, and death and distance had whittled the number down even further. His parents were dead. So were his brother Will and his greatly mourned cousin Roger. Thomas Becket had been elevated from king’s confidant to holy martyr. Ranulf was in Wales, and Eleanor banished from his bed and to the outer edges of his heart. He’d always assumed that he’d have his sons as allies once they were grown, but that fire had burned down to ashes and smoldering cinders, giving off neither heat nor light. And so he reached out now to the only ones whose loyalty was neither suspect nor tainted by past betrayals, and confided in his friend Willem and his son Geoff.
They listened in sympathetic silence as he unburdened his heart, confessed to his fears that his family’s unity was broken beyond repair, and at last admitted that the son he’d loved the best was the one who’d inflicted the deepest wounds. Hal’s bright luster was dimming, and he could no longer deny his doubts about the sort of king his eldest would be. How was he to rout the demons let loose at Caen? How was he to patch together a peace between his sons that would not die with him?
Pacing restlessly in his bedchamber at Le Mans, the room in which he’d taken his first breath nigh on fifty years ago, he told them that he’d convinced Richard to surrender Clairvaux. But if he could not reconcile Richard and his rebel barons, he feared that Hal would be tempted again to taste that forbidden fruit, and there would be no shortage of serpents to beguile him. As for Richard, he was a fine soldier and showed promise of becoming a brilliant battle commander, but he’d yet to learn that there were times when he could win more by concessions than by threats and intimidation. So it was his intent, Henry explained, to summon Richard’s disgruntled lords to a peace council at Mirebeau, where he hoped to address their grievances and persuade Richard that compromise and flexibility were also arrows in an archer’s quiver.
Neither Willem nor Geoff saw much chance of success in these plans, for they were convinced the barons of Aquitaine were as changeable as the shifting sands, and trusting Henry’s sons was like toting water in a sieve. They would never have admitted that to Henry, though, and so they nodded and made appropriate responses indicating agreement and optimism. And when he told them that he also meant to have his sons renew their oaths of allegiance to him and to enter into a compact of perpetual peace with one another, they struggled to hide an emotion that Henry had rarely if ever invoked in others—a sorrowful sense of pity. But they did not know how to heal Henry’s ailing family any more than he did, and so they could only hope—as he did—that a solemn oath could avert the coming calamity.
After they’d gone, Henry slumped into a chair, stretching his legs toward the fire. If he’d been on the other side of the Channel, he’d have called for a horse and ridden for Winchester. It was not that he expected Eleanor to have the answers that eluded him. But only the mother of their sons could understand the depths of his despair. He’d been sleeping poorly since Hal’s dramatic confession, and he must have dozed for a time, for he jerked upright in his seat to find Geoffrey leaning over him.
“Let me get you some wine, Papa,” he said. “I was about to knock when I heard you cry out. A bad dream, I suppose.” Handing Henry a wine cup, he stepped back. “Can you spare some moments for me?”
“Of course.” Henry drank, then set the cup down in the floor rushes. “Would you be willing to do homage again to your brother if I asked it of you?”
“Why not?” Geoffrey said, sounding puzzled. “As Duke of Normandy, Hal is the liege lord for Brittany, so why would I object?”
“Why, indeed,” Henry murmured. At least one of his sons was amenable to reason. “I am going to need your help, Geoffrey, in settling this feud between your brothers. Richard has agreed to yield Clairvaux, but we both know that will not be the end of it.”
Geoffrey’s eyes had widened. “Did he, by God?” he said softly. “That is a surprise.”
“Mayhap if you talked to them…”
“I doubt that they’d heed me, but I’m willing to try, of course, if you wish it.”
“Good lad.” Henry roused himself to ask Geoffrey if he wanted wine, too, and then leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. He could not remember the last time he’d been so bone-tired. It seemed so long since he’d awakened each morning eager for what the day would bring. When had the joy begun to seep from his life? When had his losses begun to loom so large?
“Papa, I came here to talk with you about the Honour of Richmond. Constance and I will have been wed two years come August, so we have been patient. But how much longer must we wait for what is rightfully ours? If you’d rather give me Nantes, that is your choice. But Richmond or Nantes, one or the other. I can see no reason why you’d continue to withhold them. It is a matter of fairness if nothing else.”
Henry opened his eyes reluctantly. Geoffrey had been handsomely provided for, given a great heiress and a duchy. How many third sons could say that? But no matter how much he gave them, his sons always wanted more. And if he handed Richmond over to Geoffrey now, that would only add to Hal’s discontent, only strengthen his belief that his brothers were reaping benefits that had been denied to him.
“I will endow you with the Honour of Richmond, but not just yet. This would not be the best time to do that, not whilst Hal and Richard are at each other’s throats. Once I’ve resolved their differences, I will give consideration to your request. Till then, you must be patient. It is not as if you need the incomes from Richmond, after all. The revenues of Brittany are more than sufficient to provide you and Constance with all the comforts you could ever need. I daresay Hal would thank God fasting for your resources.”
Henry saw the shadow that crossed his son’s face, and sighed. “I promise you that I will give you both Richmond and Nantes, when the time is right.” Getting stiffly to his feet, he looked longingly at his bed. As weary as he was, mayhap tonight he’d be able to sleep through till dawn. “Can you summon my squires, lad? I sent them off so I could speak with Willem and Geoff.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Geoffrey had not moved, though, and Henry gave him a quizzical look over his shoulder. “Was there something else you wanted to discuss with me? Besides Richmond?”
“No,” Geoffrey said. “We’re done.”
January 1183
Angers, Anjou
H
AL WAS HAVING A RUN OF LUCK.
He seemed unable to lose, winning every throw of the dice. He was usually elated when he won at raffle, but on this cold, wet afternoon, he was finding it difficult to focus upon the game. His thoughts kept straying to other matters. He was still brooding over his brother’s improbable decision to surrender Clairvaux Castle; he would have wagered the surety of his soul that the old man would never be able to coerce or coax Richard into cooperating. And now what? Without Clairvaux, there was no reason for rebelling, at least none that his father would accept.
“If I surrender unconditionally,” his friend Raoul de Farci pleaded playfully, “can we switch over to hazard?”
Hal didn’t care which game they played, and Raoul quickly removed the third dice before he could change his mind. He had no opportunity to cast the remaining dice, though, for Hal’s brother had materialized at the table, and was insisting that Hal come with him. The other men were not happy at forfeiting the chance to recoup their losses, but Geoffrey was not to be denied, and they could only watch glumly as Hal was spirited away.
Hal followed his brother out into the bailey with poor grace. He did not see why he must be the one to inspect Geoffrey’s lame stallion; their father had forgotten more about healing horses than he’d ever known. But he could not muster up the energy to object. It was sleeting again, and he felt damp and chilled by the time they entered the stables. Several grooms throwing dice scrambled to their feet, looking discomfited. When Geoffrey flipped a few coins their way and suggested they warm up with mulled wine, they did not argue and eagerly abandoned their duties. Hal was standing by one of the stalls, regarding Geoffrey’s stallion and looking perplexed.
“If this horse is lame, he is hiding it remarkably well. What is this about, Geoff?”
“Well, either I needed to talk with you out of earshot of eavesdroppers or I just fancied a stroll over to the stables.” Geoffrey glanced around to make sure they were alone. “I saw Papa this morn. He wants us to enter into a compact of perpetual peace and swear to abide by his disposition of his domains. Then he asked me again if I was willing to do homage to you for Brittany.”
None of this was news to Hal, and none of it seemed worth freezing his butt over. “So?”
Even in the subdued stable lighting, Geoffrey’s eyes shone like silver. “He is also going to ask Richard to do homage to you for Aquitaine.”
Hal’s jaw dropped. “I am not Richard’s liege lord! He owes allegiance for Aquitaine to the French king.”
Geoffrey had often marveled at Hal’s fondness for belaboring the obvious. “I know, and you may be damned sure that so does Brother Richard.”
“Richard will never agree, never!” Hal burst out laughing. “And when he refuses ever so rudely, Papa will be so wroth with him that my minor sins will be forgotten. Geoff, this is a gift from God. How else explain it—unless the old man has gone stark raving mad?”
“He is not mad,” Geoffrey said, “just desperate,” and he frowned, for however much he told himself that his father did not deserve it, he still felt an unwelcome flicker of pity.
R
ICHARD STARED AT HIS FATHER
in shock. “You cannot be serious?” As suspicious as he so often was of Henry’s schemes, he’d never expected this. “I will never agree to so outrageous a demand. Hal and I stand as equals. Just as he lays legitimate claim to your crown and lands, so do I lay claim to my mother’s inheritance. I owe him nothing for Aquitaine, and I owe you nothing either!”
Henry had known how difficult it would be to gain Richard’s consent, and he was prepared to be as patient as needed. “Will you listen first whilst I explain my reasoning, why I want you to—”
“No, I will not! Aquitaine is my mother’s and it is mine, and I will never give that lazy, idle drone any rights over it. I have been unable to gain my mother’s freedom, but I can safeguard the independence of her homeland, and by God, I will!”
“You can at least hear me out—” But Richard was already heading for the door, and when Henry started after him, his son slammed it resoundingly in his face.
R
ICHARD WAS CONFERRING
with the most trusted of his household knights, for he and André de Chauvigny were cousins, André’s mother being Eleanor’s aunt. So tense was the atmosphere in the chamber that they jumped like startled cats when a knock sounded at the door.
“I am seeing no one, Rico,” Richard instructed his squire, and the youth hurried to do his bidding. As soon as he’d opened the door, though, he spun around to face Richard, his eyes as round as moons.
“My lord,” he stammered, “it…it is the king!”
Richard was impressed that his father had been the one to seek him out, but he was not about to show it. Folding his arms across his chest, he regarded Henry stonily. André did not share his sangfroid and quickly found excuses to leave, with Rico right behind him.
“Richard, we need to talk.”
“No, we do not. There is nothing you can say that I care to hear.”
“Do you not even want to know why I would ask that of you?”
“I already know why—because you’d go to any lengths to secure my idiot brother’s feeble hold on power!”
Henry shook his head vehemently. “No, you are wrong. I am trying to protect you, not Hal.”
Richard was so obviously taken aback that Henry seized his chance, and said quickly, “An act of homage is a double-bladed sword. Yes, it would impose obligations upon you, but it would do the same for Hal. As your liege-lord, he would be honor-bound to respect your rule in Aquitaine, would no longer feel so free to conspire with your vassals. He would owe you protection, and you could hold him to that.”
Richard wondered if his father really believed Hal could be fettered by an oath. “I am quite capable of defeating Hal on my own. Indeed, I would welcome the opportunity.”
“Do not hold your brother too cheaply, Richard. Once I am dead, he will have the resources of England, Normandy, and Anjou to draw upon, money to hire more routiers than you could hope to count. Nor would he lack for allies in Aquitaine; you’ve seen to that.”
“Let him do his best,” Richard said, with such bitter bravado that Henry took a step toward him, yearning to shake some sense into this stubborn son of his.
“I am trying to help you, lad! Why will you not let me?”
He sounded so sincere that Richard almost believed him. “Assuming your intentions are good,” he said, with less hostility, “it changes nothing. I will never agree to do homage to Hal. Aquitaine is mine.”
“For how long? Christ Jesus, can you not see the danger you’d be facing? And not just Aquitaine would be at risk. If you and your brother lunge for each other’s throats as soon as I draw my last breath, what do you think will happen to my empire? My life’s work would be undone in a matter of months if you and Hal cannot make peace. Our enemies would be drawn by the scent of blood, and who do you think they’d choose to side with? They’d flock to Hal the way wolves go after a crippled deer, and after they helped take you down, they’d turn on him. Can you not see the truth in what I am saying? I can think of no other way to rein Hal in, to safeguard my legacy, and to keep our family from being ripped asunder.”
“I do not blame you for fearing a future in which Hal is king. His reign will make Stephen’s look like a golden age. But the survival of your empire is not my responsibility. I am the Duke of Aquitaine, not the King of England. As for our family, it is too late. That ship has already run aground.”
“No, you’re wrong, Richard. It is not too late. I will not accept that.”
“Delude yourself if you will. It is no longer my concern.”
Henry drew a labored breath. “What must I do to get you to agree?”
“You have nothing I want.”
“Are you so sure of that?”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, that you’d be willing to free my mother?”
Henry had been braced for this. “If that is the price I must pay for your cooperation, yes. I will release Eleanor after you do homage to Hal.”
“No, I’ll do homage after you release her.”
They stared at each other, having reached the end of the road once again. But this impasse was to be different than their others. Instead of storming out, Henry sat down wearily in the closest seat. “Do you remember asking me at Caen why I would not release Eleanor?”
“Why—are you going to answer me now?” And to Richard’s amazement, his father nodded.
“I am not seeking to punish her. In all honesty, I doubt that I could ever fully forgive her betrayal. But ten years have passed, and we’ve made our peace. Even you cannot deny that her life is much more comfortable than it once was. She has her own chamberlain again, her own servants. Despite your suspicions, I have no intention of keeping Tilda from her. I let Joanna see her, did I not? And the wound was still bleeding then.”
Richard was searching Henry’s face intently. His voice was drained of rage; even those defensive echoes seemed to come more from force of habit than genuine indignation. “Why, then? Why have you not set her free?”
“Because…because I no longer fear she’d conspire against me, but I do believe she’d do so for your sake, or for your brothers if one of you rebelled again.”
That was such a simple answer, one that made sense to Richard, and he wondered why it had not occurred to him. Picking up a stool, he carried it over, and seated himself next to Henry. “Maman has always had an appreciation for irony, but this is a jest worthy of Lucifer himself. She told me once that much of your troubles could be traced to the fact that you saw her as your queen and she saw herself as the Duchess of Aquitaine. You could not have picked a worse time, Papa, to come around to her point of view.”
At that hint of grim humor, Henry’s head came up sharply. He’d not truly expected Richard to understand, had fallen back upon utter honesty because he had no more weapons at hand. He saw now, though, that this son was capable of the sort of dispassionate analysis that had been the cornerstone of his own success, and that was a revelation.
Richard was discovering that he felt more kindly toward his father now that he knew his mother’s confinement had not been rooted in vengefulness. It was even a perverse sort of compliment, he supposed, that Papa had recognized what a formidable adversary she’d be, even if she were a woman. But she was a woman with a man’s brain and a man’s daring and she ruled a duchy richer than the domains of the French king. “We are going to have to do something that does not come easily to either of us, then,” he said wryly. “We are going to have to trust each other.”
Henry exhaled a deep breath; he’d almost forgotten to breathe. For the first time he saw in Richard what his wife had seen, and it was a bittersweet moment, this realization that his second son would have made a far better king than Hal. “You will do homage to your brother, then?” he said cautiously. “Here at Angers, on the morrow?”
The younger man’s mouth tightened, but he gave a terse nod. “If you will give the order on the morrow to set my mother free.”
“I will,” Henry said, and Richard studied him pensively, at last able to see the man in the masterful king and the flawed father. It was a pity, he thought, that they’d not been able to talk like this until now—when it was too late. Hal would not honor an oath of homage. Even if he meant well, he’d fall victim to the blandishments of others, let himself be talked into treason again. My beloved brother, the male whore. And now, God help him, but Papa is starting to see it, too. But if agreeing would gain Maman’s freedom and buy him time to make ready for Hal’s future aggression, he would not begrudge the price—or so he tried to convince himself.
C
ONSTANCE WAS SEATED
on a bench in her bedchamber while Juvette unfastened her braids. When Geoffrey entered, he seemed in good spirits, teasing Juvette, snatching up an ivory comb so he could brush out his wife’s long, dark hair, claiming he’d never understood why troubadours lavished such praise on day, when any man of discernment found true beauty in the night. Juvette giggled, for she was a brunette, too, and Constance marveled how her husband managed to turn sensible girls into simpering sheep with a smile and a few polished gallantries. When Geoffrey deftly steered Juvette toward the door, though, Constance’s interest sharpened. If he wanted more privacy than their curtained bed provided, either he had something confidential to tell her or he had one of his erotic games in mind. Lacking imagination herself, she’d come to value this attribute in her husband.
As soon as they were alone, she turned to look up into his face. One glance was all she needed, for by now she’d learned to see past the mask he showed the rest of the world. “What is wrong, Geoffrey?”
He’d already bolted the door once Juvette departed. “I am beginning to believe my father puts Merlin to shame. If my suspicions are right, he could turn dross into gold. I think he has somehow convinced Richard to do homage to Hal.”
Constance was astonished. “That is not possible…is it?”
“You tell me. Richard was planning to leave Angers at first light, but he changed his mind of a sudden—after my father made a surprise visit to his private chamber. And they were later seen in the hall, conversing together with remarkable amiability given the outrageous demand he’d made of Richard.”
Constance did not ask how he knew so much of Richard’s plans, for Geoffrey believed that knowledge was power and he paid well enough to attract reliable agents. “I fear you may be right. Richard must have come to terms with your father, for nothing else explains his behavior. It makes no sense, though. Why would Richard ever agree?”