Geoffrey stared at him. “Christ, Papa, if you’d given me Nantes, I would never have rebelled,” he said wearily, and after that, there seemed nothing more to say.
T
ILDA SMILED AT THE SIGHT
meeting her eyes: her ten-year-old son, Heinrich, manfully struggling to pull a bow-stave back, with some unobtrusive help from his grandfather. “Suppose we find you a smaller bow on the morrow,” Henry suggested tactfully, “and then we can have a real lesson.”
“Will you shoot it one more time?” Heinrich entreated, and Henry obligingly showed the boy the proper stance and how to nock the arrow—“always on the left side of the stave.” Drawing the bowstring back, he loosed the arrow, and Heinrich gave a jubilant shout when it flew across the garden and thudded into the trunk of a chestnut tree. “Can you do that again?”
“No, dearest, he cannot,” Tilda intervened, “for it is past your bedtime.”
“But it is still light out, Mama!”
“Heinrich, you know full well that it stays light in August until long past Compline,” Tilda reminded him, but he continued to argue until Henry weighed in on Tilda’s side. Conceding defeat, then, he made a reluctant retreat as the adults hid their smiles until he was out of view. “It is kind of you, Papa, to offer to tutor Heinrich in the use of a bow. He has always wanted to learn, but my husband told him it was not worth mastering since the bow is a weapon for the lowborn, the routier.”
“He is right about that,” Henry agreed. “No man of good birth would go into battle with a bow. But the lad needs to know how to shoot it if he ever expects to bring down a deer.”
Tilda’s husband did not share Henry’s passion for the hunt. She had no intention of telling him that, however, for Heinrich’s lack of enthusiasm would be beyond his ken. Deciding to take advantage of this rare time alone with her father, she linked her arm in his and steered him toward the closest bench. “May I ask you a question, Papa?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” he said quickly, but she caught the flicker of a smile as he added, “I cannot promise to answer it, though, not until I hear what it is.”
“You need not worry,” she assured him with a smile of her own. “I will not ask anything awkward or embarrassing.” In other words, she thought, nothing about her mother. “I am puzzled by something you did last month. I understand why you insisted that Geoffrey surrender control to you of his Breton castles. But why did you demand the same of Richard? He…he was not happy, saw it as an affront to his pride.”
“Believe me, lass, I know. Richard is never one to suffer in silence.” Henry was quiet for a moment, deciding how much to tell her. “I was not trying to demean Richard, Tilda. But I’ve become increasingly concerned about the hostility between Richard and his barons. God knows, they are no easy lot to govern and you can rarely go wrong suspecting the worst of Eleanor’s Poitevins. Richard is too quick, though, to apply the whip and spurs. Passing strange, for he is a superb horseman, but he rides men too hard, and I have not been able to get him to see that.”
Tilda had heard her husband voice the same opinion. She did not see, though, how it helped matters to put Henry’s men in command of Richard’s castles. “Mayhap it would ease Richard’s resentment if you made a formal announcement that he is to be your heir?”
Henry was amused by her fishing expedition and decided to let her hook one. “As it happens, lass, I plan to do just that next month.”
Tilda was glad to hear it, for she was troubled by her family’s discord. She’d been deeply shocked by the rebellion, and she could take little comfort from the peace that followed Hal’s death, for she feared it was not likely to last. Heinrich had warned her not to mediate between her father and brothers, saying it would serve for naught and might jeopardize their own position at Henry’s court. Tilda was usually willing to defer to his wishes, but she would have ignored his admonition if she’d thought she might succeed. She knew, though, that she’d be wasting her breath, that neither her father nor her brothers were willing or able to see any side but their own.
“Papa…I have a favor to ask of you. I would like you to give me permission to go to England.” Before he could respond, she reached over and touched his arm in silent supplication. “Please, hear me out. I want my children to meet their grandmother. Surely that is not so much to ask?”
“No, of course it is not. But there is no need.”
Tilda felt a rare stab of anger. Why were the men in her family so stubborn? “You did promise me, Papa, that I could see Maman. How much longer must I wait?”
“You misunderstood me, Tilda. I meant that there is no need to go to England. I have sent word to Ralf de Glanville to make arrangements to bring Eleanor to Rouen.”
“Truly? Papa, thank you!” Tilda flung her arms around his neck, and he laughed, wondering why daughters were so much easier to content than sons.
“Truly, lass. She ought to be here by Michaelmas.”
A
MARIA LOOKED UP
from her embroidery as the queen came into their chamber. She knew at once that Ralph Fitz Stephen must have given Eleanor good news, for there was becoming color in her cheeks and her eyes were filled with light.
“You will never guess what Sir Ralph told me. How would you fancy a sea voyage, Amaria?”
“Madame?”
“My husband has summoned me to join our family in Rouen. Who says the Age of Miracles is past?”
“My lady, that is wonderful!”
“I will be able to see my daughter and grandchildren at long last, to spend time with Richard, to pray at Hal’s tomb, and to escape this wretched, wet isle, at least for a while! It has always amazed me that I’ve been able to avoid the joint evil, for it is like living underwater in England,” Eleanor said, and laughed.
“Your son’s plea must have touched your husband’s heart, Madame. Did you not tell me that his last wish was for the king to forgive you?”
“So Tilda said in her letter.” Eleanor sat down in the window-seat as Amaria hastened over to pour wine for them both. Clinking their cups playfully together, they drank to “a quick departure and calm sailing.” But after a time, Eleanor set her cup down and when Amaria glanced over, she saw that the queen was no longer smiling.
“Madame, is something amiss?”
“I am not sure, Amaria. I find myself wondering,” Eleanor said, “what he is up to now?”
September 1183
Rouen, Normandy
A
S THEY APPROACHED THE DOOR
of the great cathedral, Henry’s step slowed and Eleanor gave him an inquiring look. “I am sorry,” he said, very softly, “but I cannot do this.”
“I understand,” she said, just as softly, and then, for the benefit of their audience, “I just had an idea, my lord. Whilst I go inside, you can go over to the palace to see Archbishop Rotrou, and we will meet you there afterward.”
Robert de Neubourg had stopped when he realized they were no longer following him. “I think that is an excellent suggestion, my liege. I am sure a visit from you would cheer my uncle greatly, for he grows weaker by the day, poor soul.”
Henry found something ghoulish about the dean’s preoccupation with his uncle’s health; he suspected Robert was far more concerned with the looming church vacancy than with Rotrou’s mortality. All that mattered to him now, though, was escaping what he was not yet ready to do—pay a visit to his son’s tomb. Seizing upon Eleanor’s subterfuge, he gave her a grateful smile, declaring that he would go straightaway to see Archbishop Rotrou, and was soon striding off, with most of his entourage hurrying to keep pace.
The others stayed with Eleanor and Tilda, following as the dean escorted them into the cathedral. They found excuses to remain behind in the nave, though, knowing that the queen would want privacy while she prayed at her son’s tomb. Holding a lantern aloft, the dean led the way down the stairs, keeping up a running commentary about the large crowds coming to the young king’s sepulcher. “Shall I ask one of the canons to clear the crypt of pilgrims so you may pray in peace, Madame?”
When Eleanor agreed, he beckoned to the young canon standing vigil by the door. After exchanging a few words, he turned back to the queen and her daughter. “The pilgrims have already been removed, Madame, for your sons are within and they wanted time alone with the young king.”
Eleanor was so startled that she almost slipped on the worn stone steps. Richard and Geoffrey together? She very much wanted to believe they could resolve their differences at Hal’s tomb, but that did not seem likely to her, not knowing her sons as she did. Robert trailed after her as she continued down the stairs and would have entered with her had Tilda not intervened, diplomatically suggesting that the dean show her around the cathedral whilst the queen prayed. He looked disappointed, not wanting to miss the queen’s reunion with her sons, but the Duchess of Saxony was smiling at him expectantly, and he yielded as graciously as he could, casting one last wistful glance over his shoulder at the queen as the canon opened the door for her.
The undercroft was lit by wall torches, but Eleanor still wished she’d thought to ask the dean for his lantern. Candles flamed around Hal’s tomb, and she could make out Geoffrey’s figure, kneeling in prayer. She did not see Richard, though. As she stepped forward, movement caught her eye, and she found herself facing her youngest son. She’d not seen John for almost two years, and those had been eventful years for him. He’d grown quite a bit, although he was obviously not going to be as tall as his brothers. His body had taken on the unmistakable signs of adolescence, and if he was not yet ready to flaunt a beard, he did look as if he had to shave now and then. Her son at sixteen.
In the past, he’d been as elusive as a wood sprite. She was surprised, therefore, when he came toward her instead of retreating back into the shadows. “Madame,” he said formally, showing he’d mastered his lessons in courtesy and manners. But then he flashed a sudden, impish grin. “I am John, your son.”
He had eyes like a fox, Eleanor thought, golden and alert and wary. “I am not likely to forget you, John,” she said dryly. “I was present at your birth, after all. If I looked surprised, it is because I thought you were still in England.”
“I reached Rouen three days ago. My father did not mention that he’d summoned me?” He still smiled, but she saw that it rankled to think he’d been forgotten.
“I only arrived this afternoon, so Harry has not had time to tell me much of anything. I did not even unpack yet, wanted to come here first.”
They’d been speaking quietly, so as not to disturb Geoffrey’s prayers. But he’d still heard the murmur of voices and turned toward the sound. At the sight of his mother, conflicting emotions chased across his face—both pleasure and unease.
John glanced from Eleanor to Geoffrey, back to Eleanor again. “I am sure I can find some mischief to get into,” he said, and headed for the stairs. Pleasantly surprised by his sensitivity, Eleanor thanked him and then approached Geoffrey.
“Maman…it gladdens me to see you. I suppose you cannot say the same, though.”
“I’ll not deny that I was wroth with you and Hal. I thought the pair of you had more sense than to get entangled with Aimar and my malcontent barons.”
Geoffrey was running his hand over the cold marble of his brother’s sepulcher. “I am truly sorry, Maman.”
“Sorry that you rebelled, Geoffrey? Or that you lost?”
“Both,” he admitted, and was taken aback when she smiled.
“I was remembering,” she said, “that when your father asked me that question, I gave that very same answer.”
Geoffrey expelled his breath slowly. “I was afraid you’d blame me for Hal’s death.”
“It is enough that we answer for our own sins without being held to account for the sins of others. I understand your frustration over Harry’s refusal to grant you Richmond and Nantes, I truly do. But your grievance was with your father, not with Richard. What you and Hal did was no better than banditry.”
Geoffrey looked down at Hal’s tomb. “I would gladly undo it if only I could, Maman.”
“I know,” she said and she did, for who knew more about vain regrets than she? Crossing the space between them, she held out her hand. He was quick to grasp it and she drew him to her. Holding him close, she found her eyes stinging. If only she could have embraced Hal like this, too!
Geoffrey kissed her on the cheek, then stepped back, looking past her toward the stairs. “Shall we speak louder for your benefit, Johnny?”
John looked abashed at being caught eavesdropping so openly. “I guess you would not believe I’d stopped to remove a pebble from my shoe?”
This time, with their eyes unwaveringly upon him, he really did depart. Once she was sure he had gone, Eleanor said pensively, “Passing strange that I must admit this about my own son, but I do not know John at all.”
“None of us do, Maman, and that includes Papa. He cherishes this image of Johnny as his only loyal son, obedient and affectionate and trustworthy. Whether that is the real Johnny or not remains to be seen.”
Eleanor was struck by Geoffrey’s perception—and by his cynicism. Had she and Harry taught him that? Most likely they had. Kissing her hand with a playful flourish, Geoffrey said, “I’d best keep an eye on Johnny. I will await you up in the nave, Maman.”
Grateful that he was giving her this time alone with Hal, she crossed to his tomb and, kneeling upon the hard tile floor, she began to pray for the soul of her son.
W
HEN HE WAS UPSET OR ANGRY,
Richard paced like Henry, and as he strode up and down her chamber, Eleanor thought she could have been looking at her husband in his youth. Richard was taller, but otherwise they had the same powerful build, the same vibrant coloring, and for certes, the same fiery temper. So far Richard had turned their reunion into a recital of his paternal grievances, and she was disappointed but not entirely surprised. She’d hoped that fighting the rebels together might have brought them closer, although without any real expectations of it being so, for they were too much alike to dwell in harmony for long. She thought it was a blessing that Richard would have his own sphere of power in Aquitaine, that unlike Hal, he’d not be dependent upon his father’s largesse. Belatedly becoming aware that Richard had stopped speaking, she looked up to find her son regarding her reproachfully.
“Are you even listening to me, Maman?”
“Of course I am,” she assured him, not altogether truthfully. “You were telling me about the troubadour, Bertran de Born.”
“As I was saying, Bertran boasted that his castle at Autafort was impregnable, but Alfonso and I took it in just seven days. I then gave it to his brother and sent him to my father for judgment, where he beguiled Papa by professing great sorrow over Hal’s death and writing a planh lamenting his loss. So what does Papa do? He not only pardons the man, but he restores Autafort Castle to him!”
He sounded so indignant that Eleanor hid a smile. “You must bear in mind, Richard, that your father’s wound is still raw and bleeding. Is it truly so surprising that he’d show mercy to a man who shares his grief?”
Richard would never be able to fathom the widespread mourning over Hal’s death, seeing it as one last trick that his brother had managed to play on him from the grave. Resisting the temptation to remind his mother that the “grief-stricken” troubadour had once dubbed Hal the “Little King of Lesser Land,” he said, “I do not deny that Papa is still grieving. But how do you explain his action in demanding that I return control of my Poitevin castles to him?”
“That is indeed another matter,” she conceded, “and I intend to speak with him about it. I may not be able to get him to change his mind, but at least I can learn what his reasoning was.”
Richard was sure he already knew the answer—that his father did not trust him. He’d debated sharing his suspicions with his mother, not wanting to cast a shadow over her release. But he saw now that she needed to know the truth, and he crossed to her side, kneeling so he could look intently into her face.
“Has Papa told you that he has forgiven you because Hal asked it of him?” When she shook her head, he warned, “He will. And when he does, Maman, do not believe it. The real reason he has sent for you is to thwart the French king. In addition to demanding that Papa return the French Vexin to him, Philippe is claiming that Hal assigned certain other lands to Marguerite as her dowry. Papa denied it, insisting that these lands were yours and as you’d assigned them to Hal only for his lifetime, they now revert back to you, not Marguerite. So you see, Maman, he has an ulterior motive in—” He stopped in astonishment, for his mother had begun to laugh.
“Dearest, I have been married to that man for more than thirty years. Do you truly think I do not know all the twists and turns of that formidable brain of his? Of course he has an ulterior motive. He always has an ulterior motive, usually two or three. Why did he summon me from England? I daresay you’re right about Marguerite’s dower lands. But he likely did it, too, because Hal asked it of him, and to please Tilda, and possibly even to please you.” Eleanor laughed again, thinking how shocked he’d be if she were to confide that she’d always found her husband’s sharp, subtle intelligence to be as much of an aphrodisiac as his muscular strength or boundless energy.
Richard had gotten to his feet and was studying her in obvious bafflement. “How can you be so tolerant of his intrigues and scheming? He has taken away ten years of your life, Maman, yet you do not talk about him as if he is your enemy, and I do not understand why.”
“Because he is also my husband, Richard, and that complicates matters more than you know. We are both encumbered by our history and by all that we’ve shared over the years, good and bad.” It occurred to Eleanor that this was the first time she and Richard were having a conversation that was adult to adult, not mother to son. “This means that we can never truly be free of each other, however much we may wish it.”
“You make marriage sound like a mysterious malady that has no cure, Maman. If that is so, I am glad I’ve been spared it.”
“Well, eventually you’ll have to risk it,” she said with a grin, “for you’ll need an heir for your duchy and your kingdom.” He grinned, too, and she realized that he was still coming to terms with the momentous change wrought by Hal’s death. “Speaking of marriage,” she continued, “I gather you have no great desire to marry the French king’s sister Alys?”
He shrugged. “What would I gain by it? The girl has no marriage portion to speak of. If Papa were one for getting in his cups, I’d wonder if he’d been sober the day he made that deal with Louis, for it was a poor bargain indeed.”
“His primary concern then was in getting the French to recognize Hal as his heir and you and Geoffrey as the future rulers of Aquitaine and Brittany. But if it is not to be Alys, you ought to be considering other matches, dearest. Have you discussed this with Harry?”
“We’ve been rather busy in recent months, Maman. He did once mention the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor. A pity Alfonso has no eligible female relatives. Of course he is already an ally, so it would make more sense to look further afield, mayhap to Navarre.”
Eleanor looked at him fondly, very pleased to see the drift of his thoughts. If he was considering Aragon or Navarre, both Houses hostile to Count Raimon, that meant he was thinking ahead to the day when he could reassert their claim to Toulouse. “Yes, Navarre is certainly a possibility,” she agreed, as she settled down to enjoy a simple pleasure other mothers could take for granted, but one which had been long denied her—mulling over potential brides for her son.
H
ENRY HAD GATHERED HIS FAMILY
together on Michaelmas Eve, and there was an air of anticipation, for all expected him to reveal when he would formally recognize Richard as his heir. There should have been no suspense in such a straightforward announcement. But knowing Henry’s penchant for eleventh-hour surprises, both Eleanor and Richard were on edge, and as the queen glanced around the chamber, she thought that Geoffrey and Constance seemed rather tense, too. Only Geoff, Heinrich, and Tilda appeared utterly at ease. Remembering John then, she located him in one of the window-seats, sipping wine as he watched the others, and she felt a small dart of regret that he seemed so solitary, always on the outside looking in. She’d concluded years ago that she and Henry had made some great mistakes with their older sons, failing to foster any sense of solidarity or family unity, and she could not help thinking now that they’d gone astray with John, too. It was too late for Hal, but was there time to repair the damage done with the others?