“Hazard?” Amaria pretended to be shocked, to Heinrich’s delight. “But that is a game played in taverns and alehouses!”
“I know,” the boy grinned, “and we’ve been winning!”
“Indeed they have,” Eleanor agreed, with mock severity, pointing toward a pile of coins in the center of the table. “If I had a suspicious mind, I might wonder if some sleight of hand could be involved.”
Heinrich laughed and John smiled. “I seem to be on a winning streak these days,” he said cheerfully. “Are the Dukes of Aquitaine always lucky, my lady mother?”
Eleanor felt a pang of resentful regret that her husband had entangled John in his scheme. Her youngest was still very much a stranger to her; after these few days in his company, she could say only that he was clever and guarded and had inherited his share of the family’s sardonic humor. But she did know he’d been bedazzled by the prospect of gaining Aquitaine and he was in for a great disappointment.
They played another game of hazard, and John and Heinrich won again. They were still whooping and slapping hands when the door slammed open with enough force to startle them all. Henry came to an abrupt halt, for he’d been expecting to find Eleanor alone. Tilda and Heinrich welcomed him happily, but John flushed and jumped to his feet as if he’d been caught in a misdeed. Eleanor returned his gaze calmly and her sangfroid confirmed Henry’s suspicions.
After greeting them with strained affability, he explained that “I am sorry to interrupt your game, but I need to speak privately now with your mother and grandmother.” Eleanor made a playful grimace at “Grandmother,” to Heinrich’s amusement, and her nonchalance added more fuel to the flames of Henry’s rage. So she saw this as a joke, did she?
Heinrich was reluctant to end their fun, but Tilda had picked up on the tension in the chamber and she ushered her son out, with a troubled backward glance at her parents. John was already gone; he’d faded away as inconspicuously as that woodland fox. Amaria hesitated, not departing until Eleanor gave her a smile and a nod.
Eleanor helped herself, then, to more cider. “I take it you’ve heard from Richard?”
“Yes, I heard. He sent word that he will never relinquish Aquitaine, not as long as he draws breath. But you already knew that, did you not?”
“Of course.”
“I should have known this was your doing!”
“And how did I manage that? I am sure your spies told you that I was not alone with Richard from the time you sprang your ‘surprise’ until his departure the next morning. Did we communicate in code by thumping on the walls of our chambers? Smuggled secret messages to each other? Mayhap used Heinrich as our go-between?”
He was disconcerted by her defiance; it had been years since her claws had flashed like that. “If you did not plan this with Richard, how did you know he’d refuse?”
“How could you not know? By the Rood, Harry, how can you be so blind about your own sons?”
“I told you my reasons for wanting this. You seemed to think they made sense last week!”
“Yes, they made perfect political sense. But Richard’s love for Aquitaine is not political. It is visceral, in his blood and his bones. You might as well ask him to tear out his heart and give it over to you!”
“That is arrant nonsense! He’d still be liege lord of Aquitaine, would be losing nothing and gaining much. God’s Bones, woman, you are the blind one! Can you honestly say that you are pleased with his rule of the duchy? That you do not think he has antagonized his barons needlessly and spread the seeds of rebellion with his own hand?”
“I do not deny that he has made mistakes. But he is the Duke of Aquitaine, not an errant child. You cannot step in and slap his hand when you think he has blundered. For God’s sake, Harry, let him go! Your love for our sons is strangling them. Why can you not see that?”
“Why can you not see that I have to act for the good of our empire? I cannot just stand aside whilst our sons put my life’s work at risk. Aquitaine would be a constant thorn in Richard’s side, and turning it over to Johnny would benefit them both. A duchy is a small price to pay for a kingdom, and it troubles me greatly that Richard seems unable to understand that. If his judgment is so faulty—”
“Oh, enough!” Eleanor was on her feet, glaring at him across the table as if it were a battlefield. “You are such a hypocrite!”
His eyes darkened to a storm-sea grey. “And how is that?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“You refuse to understand why Richard is unwilling to give up Aquitaine, but you are no less unwilling to surrender control of Normandy or Anjou. If you’d turned either one over to Hal, he’d never have rebelled. But you could not do that, could you?”
“Because I could not trust him to govern himself, much less a duchy!”
“I see. So you have it in mind to rule from the grave? Please, enlighten me—how exactly do you plan to do that?”
But Henry had heard nothing after her gibe about Hal. “So what are you saying?” he demanded hotly. “Are you blaming me for Hal’s death? You think I drove him to rebellion?”
She heard the anguish underlying his rage, and her own fury ebbed away, leaving her sickened and shaken by the wreckage they’d made of their marriage and their world. “No,” she said wearily, “of course I do not blame you for Hal’s death, Harry. I did my part, too, as did Geoffrey and Richard and Hal himself. Hal most of all, for he was a man grown, a man who made his own choices and, to his credit, recognized that at the end…”
Henry’s throat had constricted, for thoughts of Hal’s last hours were still more than he could bear. “He died alone,” he said huskily, “and it need not have been like that…”
“He was not alone, Harry. Will Marshal and his friends were with him—”
“But I was not!” He swung away, keeping his back to her as he fought to regain control of his emotions. “Hal wrote me a letter on his deathbed,” he said, after a heavy silence. “Would you like to read it?”
Eleanor blinked in surprise. “Yes, I would, very much.”
He nodded and then surprised her further by turning toward the door. “Harry, wait!”
When he faced her again, she was shocked by how ravaged he looked. “What do you intend to do about Richard?”
After coming together as grieving parents, she’d hoped they could come together, too, to repair the tattered father-son bond before it was beyond salvaging. But he looked at her expressionlessly, his eyes as veiled and opaque as John’s. “I have not changed my mind,” he said. “I still think Richard needs to relinquish control of Aquitaine, and I will do all in my power to bring that about.”
The sound of the closing door seemed to echo in the empty chamber, reminding Eleanor of a wretched memory—standing in that chamber at Loches Castle and listening as the key turned in the lock. She sank down upon a coffer, was staring blankly into space when Amaria entered. With a soft cry of alarm, she crossed the floor and knelt at Eleanor’s feet. “My lady? Are you ill?”
“That is not the man I married, Amaria. The man I knew was stubborn, yes, but he was flexible, too, capable of altering his course when need be. And he never let his suspicions get the better of him. Now…now he can neither trust nor compromise, God help us all.”
Amaria was not sure what to say, so she stayed quiet. And as she watched the older woman, she saw Eleanor’s despair drain away, to be replaced by an indomitable resolve. “For a long time, Amaria, I’ve blamed myself for those changes in Harry’s nature. I’d not realized what a deep wound I was inflicting when I chose to rebel, never imagined that it would take so long to heal. Today I saw that it is never going to heal. I am done with feeling guilty, though. No more. If he wants to cherish his grievances instead of his sons, so be it.” She raised her chin, her eyes taking on a hard, green glitter. “But as God is my witness, I will not let him take Aquitaine from Richard.”
I
N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED,
Henry’s court was not a happy place. Constance yearned to be back in Brittany, but she would not leave without Geoffrey and his father seemed set upon keeping his younger sons close for the foreseeable future. When the oppressive atmosphere at Rouen became too much for her, she made a brief pilgrimage to Chartres, proud possessor of the Sancta Camisa, the chemise said to be worn by the Blessed Mary as she gave birth to the Holy Christ Child. There she was welcomed by the bishop, prayed in the great cathedral, made offerings to the Mother of God, and was soon ready to return to Rouen, her spirit nourished and her faith renewed, for the Queen of Heaven had heard her prayers.
Upon her arrival at the ducal castle, she sent a servant to let Geoffrey know of her return and retreated to their bedchamber with her ladies. Juvette and Blanche had assisted her in washing away the grime of the road, and she was wrapped in a new silk robe as they brushed out her hair when Geoffrey burst into the chamber. Swooping her up into his arms, he kissed her exuberantly, then sent Juvette and Blanche away, giggling, when he declared slyly that he could see to all of his wife’s needs. Watching as he barred the door, shutting out the rest of the world, Constance felt a throb of pure and perfect happiness, thinking that she would not want to be anywhere but here, to be anyone but the duchess of this laughing man with tawny hair and shining eyes.
“I have something to tell you,” she said at the same time that he said those very same words, and they looked at each other in surprised amusement.
“My news first,” he insisted, “for I’ve been waiting days to tell you. If I’d not expected you back so soon, I’d have ridden to Chartres myself to fetch you home.”
She smiled at his boyish glee, for she was one of the few who ever saw that side of him. “You first then,” she agreed. “I take it your news is good since you look so pleased with yourself.”
“Yes, it is good news,” he confirmed, before tumbling her backward onto their bed. Reaching for a handful of her hair, he inhaled its fresh, fragrant scent. “I ought to make you guess what it is, but you’d take too long, and I cannot keep it to myself for a moment longer.” Kissing her throat, he propped himself up on an elbow, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her skin. “My lord father, that steadfast soul of consistency, has given us the Honour of Richmond.”
“Geoffrey!” Flinging her arms around his neck, she showered his face with haphazard kisses. “That is truly amazing, downright miraculous!” But then she sat up, her brows slanting into a suspicious frown. “Why?”
Laughing, he pulled her back down beside him again. “That’s my girl. Why, indeed? Naturally he would not tell me why he’d decided to do it now, and he utterly ignored the oddity and the irony of it, that he’d be rewarding a rebel with the very lands he rebelled over! Somehow I doubt that this was a belated birthday present. Here’s another irony for you, darling. We most likely owe a debt of gratitude to Brother Richard.”
“Yes, that makes sense. He is furious with Richard now, so it is to be expected that he’s looking for allies, mayhap even seeing you in a new and appealing light. It is about time,” she said indignantly, and then, “What of Nantes?”
He gave another peal of laughter and kissed her until they both were breathless. “He is continuing to dangle Nantes as bait, whilst still promising that it will be ours at a later date. And you know what, Constance? I think I almost believe him. As long as Richard continues to be his endearing, obstinate self, I’m going to look better and better to Papa.”
Constance had a sudden, dazzling thought. Could Henry become so angry with Richard that he’d consider making Geoffrey his heir? She said nothing, though, not wanting to jinx them by saying it aloud. That was a dream to be held close, not to be shared with anyone yet, not even Geoffrey. He had slipped her robe off her shoulders and she squirmed out of his embrace, knowing that once she was naked, it would be quite a while before she could tell him her secret.
“Wait,” she protested when he tugged at her belt. “You have not heard my news yet.”
“Tell me, then, woman, and quickly, for my attention is beginning to wander.”
“So are your hands,” she chided. Sitting up again, she regarded him with a smile that was confident, serene, and triumphant, all in one. “I am with child, Geoffrey.”
She was not disappointed by his response. He drew a sharp, audible breath, his eyes filling with light, and this time when he kissed her, it was with a tenderness he’d not shown before. Her mother had often told her that there was a special bond between a man and a woman who brought a child together into the world, and as she gave herself up to his lovemaking, her last coherent thought was,
Maman was right.
As they lay entwined together afterward, they both were sure their future was blessed, and it would never have occurred to them that Henry and Eleanor had once believed that, too.
I
N DECEMBER,
Henry met the young French king at Gisors. Philippe relinquished his claim to Marguerite’s dowry in exchange for Henry’s promise to pay her two thousand seven hundred Angevin pounds annually for the rest of her life. Gisors and the Norman Vexin were to become Alys’s marriage portion, and it was further agreed that she’d wed whichever of Henry’s sons whom he chose, a not-so-subtle warning to Richard that he was not an only child. In return, Henry finally did homage to the French king for “all his holdings across the water.”
April 1184
Le Mans, Anjou
G
EOFFREY WAS NOT
a willing guest at his father’s Easter Court. He’d rather have been back at Rennes with Constance, for he was more excited about the coming birth of their child than he’d expected. Naturally the birth of an heir would elevate his status in Brittany. But he was not dwelling upon the political ramifications; more and more he found himself thinking of matters that were purely personal. He was concerned about Constance’s health, although her pregnancy had been uneventful so far. He spent a lot of time thinking about baby names. And he vowed that he’d be a better father than his own.
A light rain was falling as he crossed the inner bailey of the royal palace. Two of Richard’s knights were loitering by the stables, and they gave him an unfriendly stare as he passed by. It was some consolation to Geoffrey that, as discontented as he was to be here, Richard must be even more miserable. He’d love to know how their father had lured Richard to Le Mans, suspecting that his brother had asked for an insulting pledge of safe conduct. However it had been done, it was an exercise in futility. The tension between the two of them was combustible enough to burst into flame at any moment, and their animosity had spilled over to infect the rest of the Easter Court. Geoffrey had broken up two fights between his men and Richard’s, and he’d even seen evidence of bad blood between Richard’s knights and their brother John’s household.
Since he was not directly involved in this clash of wills, Geoffrey might have sat back and enjoyed the drama—had it not been for his mother and sister. It was obvious to him that Eleanor and Tilda were deeply troubled by this latest family contretemps, and their unhappiness bothered him, for he could see no quick resolution. He could see no resolution at all.
As Geoffrey entered the great hall, he noticed a boisterous dice game over by the center hearth. Several of his knights were playing, and when Gérard de Fournival waved and beckoned, he started in that direction. But he halted when he saw his youngest brother sitting alone in a window-seat and, on impulse, he veered toward John instead.
“You look even more bored than me,” he said. “You want to join the dice game?” When John hesitated, he wondered if the boy had enough money to play. He had a title now—Count of Mortain—but Geoffrey was sure he had no income of his own yet. Geoffrey himself had not gained financial independence until he was finally allowed to wed Constance. John was betrothed to a rich heiress, his cousin Avisa of Gloucester, and the Earl of Gloucester’s unexpected death just four months ago made the girl an even greater marital prize. Geoffrey was sure, though, that Henry would not let John claim that prize until cobwebs were collecting on the marriage contract. Their father could be lavish with his gifts, generous with his largesse. But it was a golden yoke, for it kept them beholden, always on a tight leash.
“If you’re short, Johnny, I can make you a loan,” he offered, and John’s hazel eyes darkened with suspicion.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Why not?”
“Why are you being so friendly of a sudden, Geoffrey? Since when are you willing to do me favors?”
“Ah…I see. You are nursing a grudge for my past sins.”
He sounded amused, and John did not like it. “I do not have a single pleasant childhood memory of you or Richard, not even one!” His outburst was unplanned, but he found satisfaction now in being able to speak up for his younger self, at long last.
“How could you? We had to adhere to the code, after all.”
“What code?”
“The one that sets out the rules for treating little brothers, of course. They are to be bedeviled without mercy, made the butt of every joke. It was just your bad luck that you had no one younger to pick on, in turn.”
“My bad luck, indeed,” John said coolly, remembering those hours he’d spent in that open grave, remembering his pleas for help that Geoffrey and Richard had claimed never to have heard.
Geoffrey was regarding him pensively. “Now that I look back upon it, all those jokes and pranks that we played on you…” He paused significantly. “I have to tell you, Johnny, they were fun.”
Lulled into expecting an apology, John stiffened in surprise, but after a moment, he could not help laughing. “Come on, lad,” Geoffrey said with a grin. “Let’s go shoot some dice.” They had just started across the hall, though, when John stopped suddenly, directing Geoffrey’s attention toward the door behind the dais.
Tilda saw her brothers at the same time and came toward them, so hastily that they knew something was amiss. “Geoffrey, thank God you’re here! Richard and Papa are having a terrible argument, their worst one yet, and if it is not stopped, I fear they may even come to blows!”
“I’d pay to see that,” Geoffrey said before he could think better of it, and his sister stared at him in disbelief.
“I am beginning to think all of you have gone stark, raving mad! Maman and I could hear their shouting, and she went in to make peace. But by the sound of it, she’s had no luck. Now are you going to help me or not?”
Geoffrey was not keen about getting into the crossfire, especially since he was sure his intervention would be meaningless. He did not have the heart to disappoint Tilda, though, for not only had her husband gone back to Mainz in hopes of obtaining a pardon from the Holy Roman Emperor, but she’d recently revealed that she was pregnant. “Of course I will help,” he said, with far more confidence than he was feeling, and then glanced over at John, who’d once more been overlooked. Having spent much of his own life overshadowed by Hal and Richard, Geoffrey was motivated to say, “Come on, Johnny. I’ll likely need all the help I can get.”
“I would not miss it for the world,” John said, with utter sincerity. He did not understand why Henry could not just order Richard to yield up Aquitaine, for he was the king, after all. He’d initially been sure it would be quickly resolved, but during the course of the Easter Court, he’d begun to fear that Henry might be the one to back down, not Richard. He’d never taken his father’s talk of an Irish kingdom for him very seriously, for he could not envision himself ruling over that strange, wild isle on the western edge of the world. But Aquitaine was different; it was real, one of the richest duchies in Christendom, a land of milk and honey. He’d not even dreamed it might be his, not until that Michaelmas Eve in Rouen, but now he could not bear to think it might be snatched away. Richard was to be king, no longer needed it. Why was he being so selfish?
They found that Tilda had not exaggerated, hearing the angry voices while they were still in the stairwell. Geoffrey did not bother knocking, shoved the door open, with Tilda and John at his heels. Henry and Richard were confining themselves to verbal violence, at least so far. If Eleanor had interceded in hopes of mediating, she’d soon become a combatant herself, to judge from the way she was berating Henry. He and Richard were stalking each other like the big cats Geoffrey had once seen at the Tower of London, and he found himself thinking that this scene was true to form for his family, with everyone shouting and no one listening. Eleanor glanced in their direction, but the men were so intent upon their confrontation that they never even noticed the new arrivals—not until Geoffrey turned and slammed the door resoundingly.
“They can hear all the cursing and bellowing down in the hall,” he said, “and they’ve started to wager which one of you will draw first blood. I came up to see whom I should put my money on.”
That was not the sort of help Tilda had in mind, and she frowned at Geoffrey’s levity. But it worked, for neither Richard nor Henry liked the idea of entertaining others with their quarrel.
“We are done here,” Henry said, glaring at his eldest son, before adding an ominous warning, “for now.”
Not at all intimidated, Richard glowered back, and started for the door. But then he stopped, unwilling to be dismissed so curtly. “I’ll gladly go,” he said defiantly, “and I’ll not be coming back. The next time you want to threaten and rant, you can come to me in Aquitaine.”
John, watching in dismay, saw his great chance slipping through his fingers, and he swung around to demand of his father, “Papa, does this mean Richard has bested you and Aquitaine is lost?”
Eleanor winced, Geoffrey rolled his eyes, and Henry gave his youngest a look John had never gotten from him before. “My life would have been much more peaceful if I’d had only daughters,” he snapped. “As for Aquitaine, it is yours if you can take it.”
Richard had halted when John protested. Now he looked the youth up and down very deliberately, and then he laughed. Geoffrey was astonished that his father had actually said that, for surely one Becket moment was enough for any man’s lifetime. Clearly, Eleanor’s thoughts had taken the same track, for she said scathingly, “Very good, Harry. It is always heartening to see that you’ve learned from your past mistakes.”
But it was Tilda’s reaction that overrode the others, for she cried, “Stop it!” in such pain that all heads turned in her direction. “I cannot bear any more, cannot watch my family being torn apart like this!”
There was a sudden, abashed silence and then alarm as Tilda seemed to falter. She looked so stricken that Geoffrey hastily grabbed her arm so he could hold her upright if necessary. Eleanor and Henry were immediately at her side, united, for that moment at least, in their concern for their distraught, pregnant daughter. She let them guide her toward the closest chair and the next few moments were hectic as Henry and Eleanor hovered over her, Richard hurried to get her wine, and Geoffrey asked if he could fetch one of her women. He was feeling remorseful, sorry he had not spared her this stressful scene by insisting she remain below in the hall, and his relief was considerable when she turned so the others could not see and winked. He at once entered cheerfully into the conspiracy, lamenting how pale and shaken she seemed and doing all he could to keep the focus upon Tilda, and away from their latest family conflagration.
John alone had not gone to Tilda’s aid. He stood apart, as if he were watching a play, hearing only the echoes of Richard’s scornful laughter and his father’s dismissive words.
It is yours if you can take it.
J
UNE HAD BEEN A COOL,
rainy month, but with the approach of July, the Breton summer finally put in an appearance. Constance had spent the morning dealing with tedious correspondence, and felt she deserved a respite for her diligence, so after dismissing her scribe, she headed for the nursery. Hearing the murmur of voices, she paused in the doorway, smiling at the sight meeting her eyes: her husband and Morna, the wet-nurse, hanging over the cradle, agreeing that they’d never seen a more beautiful baby.
“You just say that because she looks like you, Geoffrey,” she said, and he glanced up with a grin.
“I do not deny I’m a handsome devil,” he said, “but I think she looks more like you. She has your eyes.”
Morna giggled at that, for she’d already explained to Geoffrey that it was too early to tell the baby’s eye color. The infant had begun to whimper, and she reached for the child, but Geoffrey forestalled her.
“No, let me,” he insisted and showed some skill in gathering his daughter up into his arms.
As Morna discreetly withdrew to give them some private time with their infant, Constance joined Geoffrey by the cradle. She loved her child with a fierce intensity that she’d not expected, but she’d still been greatly disappointed that their firstborn was not a son, and she had been both relieved and surprised that Geoffrey seemed so content with a daughter. It was true that females could inherit the duchy, as she herself had done. She’d observed, though, that most men were set upon sons. Watching as he rocked their baby, she could not help asking, yet again, “You truly were not letdown that I birthed a girl?”
“Look at her eyelashes,” he marveled, “just like golden fans. I am beginning to think I’ll have to swear a blood oath to satisfy you. How could any man be disappointed in this perfect little pearl? I’ll not deny that I might become concerned if you give me four or five girls in a row, but I am not going to fret until then. We have time on our side, after all, and if it means I must pay more visits to your bed, well, I am willing to make the sacrifice.”
“How noble,” she said dryly, but once again he’d said what she needed to hear. He was right, for at twenty-three and twenty-five, they had all the time in the world. “I’m not sure I’d want to visit the birthing chamber as often as your mother, though,” she confided. “Two with Louis and then eight with your father—the woman is truly a force of nature!”
“She definitely had a surfeit of sons,” he agreed. The baby had begun to fuss, so he handed her over to Constance; he liked to watch as his pragmatic, commonsense wife melted as soon as she held that tiny bundle in her arms. Sitting down, Constance cradled their daughter, calling her “Aenor,” the Breton form of Eleanor.
“I have to confess,” Geoffrey said, “that I was surprised when you were so willing to name her after my mother. I’d thought for certes that I’d have to coax you into it.”
Constance thought it was more than a fair trade-off, a reward he’d earned after responding so graciously to the birth of a daughter. “Well, I’ll admit that I have never had any great interest in pleasing your mother,” she allowed, “but I’ve always had a very healthy interest in vexing your father and calling our daughter Eleanor was virtually assured to do that.”
As their eyes met over Aenor’s head, they both laughed. Just then a knock sounded on the door and a servant entered to announce the arrival of Geoffrey’s brother.
Geoffrey was taken aback. “Does he have an army with him?” When the puzzled servant said no, he glanced over at Constance with a shrug. “Then it cannot be Richard.” He did not think that John or Geoff were likely to come all the way to Brittany for a family visit, either, and he wondered if his father had a bastard they didn’t know about. The servant had departed before he could ask the identity of this mystery visitor, and he and Constance were unable to satisfy their curiosity until John was eventually ushered into the nursery.