John did not share his amusement. “I was seventeen,” he said sullenly, in that moment realizing that he resented Richard’s indulgence more than his hostility. He also realized that he did not like to be called Johnny, not by Richard.
Richard had gone back to his song, frowning as he tried several chords. When he was finally satisfied, he glanced up, saying, “How does that sound to you?” But John was gone.
H
ENRY PROVED RICHARD RIGHT
by reaching Châteauroux in record time. Philippe raised the siege, but to the surprise of all, he did not retreat, and with two armies separated only by the waters of the River Indre, it began to look as if a battle was inevitable. This was uncommon, for battles were usually a commander’s action of last resort. Sensible men were not eager to submit themselves to the Judgment of the Almighty, and a decisive battle seemed to prove that the victor had God on his side. Most people preferred not to put the Lord’s Favor to such a stringent, conclusive test. Nor were the barons of either army keen to fight with one another, for many had kin and friends in the opposing camps. These men did their best to persuade Henry and Philippe to resolve their differences by more reasonable means.
So, too, did the numerous clerics and prelates accompanying both armies, for the Church did not want to see two such powerful Christian kings at war when the real enemy was to be found in the Holy Land. In this way, a fortnight dragged by, with highborn messengers shuttling back and forth between encampments with proposals and counterproposals. No real progress had been made, however, and the fate of many continued to depend upon the whims of two strong-willed, unpredictable kings.
R
ICHARD HAD JUST RETURNED TO HIS TENT
and his squire was helping him to remove his hauberk when he was informed that the Count of Flanders had ridden in under a flag of truce, asking to confer with him. Richard swore and then sighed, for by now he was thoroughly disgusted with the mummery masquerading as peace negotiations. He was tempted to tell Philip to go away, but he knew, of course, that he could not do that, and he directed that the count be brought to his tent.
He was somewhat surprised when Philip had his men wait outside, and as soon as they were seated, he could not resist a sardonic gibe at the Flemish ruler’s expense. “Since you want to speak in private, should I assume, Cousin, that you are thinking of switching sides? There is little love lost between you and Philippe, after all.”
Philip gave him a sharp look and then smiled, somewhat sourly. “True enough. My relationship with the French king is almost as stormy as yours with the English king.” Taking a taste of his wine, he nodded approvingly. “It would be a shame to see your Poitevin vineyards go up in flames when you can produce wines like this. Look, Richard, let’s speak plainly. Your interests are not being well served if this standoff results in a bloody battle. Despite your father’s games-playing, we both know England will eventually be yours. But so will Normandy and Anjou. Is it truly wise to make an enemy of the man who will be your liege lord?”
“What would you suggest, instead? That I betray my father to court favor with Philippe? You’re losing your touch, Cousin, if this is your idea of subtlety. Shall I also renounce my Christian faith whilst I am at it?”
Philip’s smile did not waver, even as he marveled to himself that the genial Hal and this man could have come from the same womb. “Sheathe your sarcasm, Cousin. I am asking only that you talk directly with the French king, see if you can persuade him he will gain little and risk much by taking to the battlefield. I in turn will do what I can to get your father to see reason.” Adding wryly, “And may God have mercy upon us both.”
R
ICHARD HAD BEEN ACQUAINTED
with Philippe Capet since the latter was four, but as he studied the French king, he realized that he did not really know the younger man. They had little in common. Philippe was stiff-necked and judgmental, disapproved of swearing, had shown little interest in those pleasures that other men enjoyed. He denounced tournaments, disapproved of gambling and minstrels and troubadours, and did not even hunt much because he disliked horses. To Richard, a superb rider and swordsman who loved music and swore like a sailor, Philippe seemed as alien as a Carthusian monk. But he knew Philip of Flanders was right; he would eventually have to deal with this man and so it made sense to find out more about him.
So far they’d been dodging and weaving, using polite language and courtesy to guard their real thoughts, and Richard was growing tired of evasions and ambiguity. As he looked into the French king’s pale blue eyes, he saw what his brother Geoffrey had also seen—a cool, calculating intelligence. Making up his mind then, he said, “Let’s talk about my real reason for being here. You and my lord father are far from fools, so I assume you will eventually agree to a truce. How much longer must we wait?”
“What makes you think I am bluffing?”
Although Philippe’s tone was composed, Richard noticed that his hands had briefly clenched upon the arms of his chair. So the French king was sensitive to slights upon his manhood. He marked that down as a useful fact to know and set his wine cup aside, leaning forward in his seat.
“You are bluffing for the same reason that my father is bluffing, because neither one of you wants to risk all upon one throw of the dice. I am paying you a compliment, for no capable commander commits his men to a pitched battle unless he is confident he will win or he has no other choice. Hellfire, Philippe, even I do not want to fight at Châteauroux and you know what they say of me—that I get drunk on bloodlust the way other men do on wine!”
Philippe looked taken aback, but when Richard grinned at him, he grinned back. “Let’s talk then,” he agreed, “about how your father and I save face and come away with enough to satisfy us both. And when this is done, I would like you to visit Paris…as my honored guest. I got to know both Hal and Geoffrey, would like to know you better, too.”
I daresay you do, Richard thought, for what better weapons can you have against my father than his own sons? “I will give it serious consideration,” he promised, and as soon as he said it, he realized that he meant it.
“
S
O IF I AGREE
to let Philippe hold on to the castles he took at Issoudun and Freteval, he will agree to a two-year truce?” When Richard confirmed it, Henry regarded him skeptically. “And what do I get out of it?”
“You get what you want,” Richard said impatiently, “a chance to defer your reckoning with Philippe. That is your favorite tactic, after all, Papa…delay and delay and delay again. It has served you well in the past; think how long you’ve managed to keep Philippe in suspense over Alys and the Vexin.”
“Are you telling me that you now want to wed the girl? Or that you’re willing to hand over the Vexin?”
“I was not being critical of your stratagem,” Richard insisted. “Of course I am not willing to yield the Vexin to Philippe. And since I have no great interest in wedding Alys, what else can we do but put Philippe off? What I am saying is what we both know, that you do not want to meet the French army on the field. So how much time are you willing to waste here whilst you and Philippe swap threats? Of course we can always go with one suggestion being bandied about—that you resolve your differences by choosing your best knights to joust on your behalf. The last I heard, men were proposing Philip of Flanders, Henri of Champagne, and the Count of Hainault as the French champions, and Will Marshal, your friend de Mandeville, and me as yours.”
By now Henry and Richard were both laughing, for in that, they were in full agreement: that war was not a game and ought not to be treated like one. “Very well,” Henry said, “let him keep those damned castles…at least for now. I’ve matters to deal with in Brittany, cannot spend the rest of the summer camping out here in Berry.”
Henry paused then, looking pensively at his son. “We can accomplish a great deal when we are united, Richard. If there is trust between us, what could we not do together?”
If that was meant as an olive branch, Richard made no move to grasp it. “Yes,” he said, “trust is essential,” but he knew better, for he knew the old man would never trust him. Once that awareness had hurt, but no more. He no longer cared if he had his father’s trust or respect. He wanted only what was his birthright, to be openly acknowledged as the heir to the English throne, and he meant to do whatever he must to secure his legacy…starting with a trip to Paris.
L
ÉON WAS ONE OF THE MOST REMOTE,
inaccessible areas of Brittany, and its viscount had liked to boast that he “feared neither God nor man.” He’d long posed a threat to ducal control of Brittany, and more than once Henry had led campaigns to quell his rebellions. He’d eventually broken faith one time too many and Geoffrey had seized the barony, compelling the viscount to make a penitential pilgrimage to atone for a lifetime of spectacular sins and disinheriting his sons. Upon Geoffrey’s death in Paris, the sons promptly rebelled again, capturing two ducal strongholds. After concluding the truce with Philippe, Henry led an army into Brittany and retook the castles. He then visited Nantes in order to see his grandson.
H
ENRY WAS CRADLING ARTHUR IN HIS ARMS,
looking for the moment more like a doting grandfather than the man who cast such a formidable shadow over Brittany. Constance was neither charmed nor placated by this glimpse of her father-in-law’s softer side and had to dig her nails into her palm to resist the urge to snatch her son out of his grasp. The Breton barons were just as unhappy and, like their duchess, more angry than grateful for his punitive expedition into Léon, as his campaign only underscored their subordination to the English Crown. Not that they needed a reminder, for after Geoffrey’s death, Henry had dismissed Raoul de Fougères as Seneschal of Brittany and replaced him with the Angevin lord, Maurice de Craon.
Arthur, a curious, lively baby, seemed content in this stranger’s embrace, but Constance was reaching her breaking point and signaled to the nurse, hoping Henry would take the hint. He did and reluctantly handed his grandson over to the woman, saying to Constance, “I think he looks like Geoffrey, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Constance’s elder daughter was tugging at Henry’s tunic. He’d brought lavish gifts for the children: an expensive ivory rattle, carved wooden tops, whistles, felt puppets, balls, and poupées for the girls, one of linen and the other of wood, with yellow yarn hair and their own wardrobe. What had won Aenor over, though, was his willingness to kneel on the ground and show her how to spin the tops. Now she brandished her favorite new toy, a leather ball stuffed with wool and dyed a bright shade of red, entreating her grandfather to “play catch” with her.
Before Constance could intervene, Henry assured Aenor he’d like nothing better, and clasping her little hand in his, he suggested that he and Constance take a stroll in the gardens. This did not meet with the approval of her barons, who had been sticking closer to their duchess than her own shadow, but Henry had already started for the door, matching his pace to Aenor’s toddler’s steps, and Constance had no choice but to follow.
The day was overcast without even a hint of a breeze, for so far September had been as humid and sultry as August. With Constance’s spaniel leading the way, they crossed the castle bailey and entered the gardens, fragrant with the last flowering of summer blossoms. Constance settled upon a turf bench, watching with a stiff smile as her daughter and the English king tossed the ball back and forth. He showed surprising patience with the little girl, continuing to play until she lost interest and began to throw the ball for the spaniel. Only then did he return to Constance and drew her to her feet, saying that they could talk as they walked.
They circled the grassy mead in silence, for Constance was not able to feign pleasure in his company; she thought he should count himself lucky that she managed to be civil. Henry paused in the shade of a pear tree, for it afforded them a good view of Aenor, but was distant enough to allow them to speak privately.
“I have been dealing with the duchess,” he said, “but now I would talk with my daughter-in-law. You have never liked me, Constance, and in all honesty, you have not given me much reason to be fond of you either. But we share a common interest that matters more than our personal ill will.”
“Yes…the Duchy of Brittany.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “That, too. But I am speaking about your children, my grandchildren. Their future is inextricably entwined with that of the duchy, and I want to make sure that they do not suffer because of adult missteps or mistakes.”
“What mistakes do you have in mind?”
“For one, the decision Geoffrey and you made to ally yourselves with the French king.” Henry’s voice was even, his face impassive, as if he were speaking of mundane matters, not the rebellion of his son. “As a stratagem, it had much to recommend it, with one great flaw. It had hopes of success only if Geoffrey lived to carry it out. Without him, you were likely to find yourself at Philippe’s mercy, and that is indeed what happened.”
Constance said nothing, and after a moment he resumed. “Philippe has made his intentions very clear. He means to deprive you of both legal and physical custody of your children. He will send the girls off to live in the households of their future husbands, men he will handpick for them. I would expect him to keep Arthur in Paris, ruling on his behalf until he comes of age. For your duchy, that will be more than twenty years with Philippe’s hand firmly on the helm, twenty years in which to mold your son into a ruler who’d put the interests of France above those of Brittany. As for you, he’ll marry you off as quickly as possible to a man of his sole choosing, possibly even one of inferior rank since his primary concern will be the loyalty of your new husband, and you can expect to live out your days on a remote manor far from the Breton borders—”