Constance could stand no more, for he was giving voice to all the fears that had haunted her nights since Geoffrey’s death. “I know,” she said sharply. “I know full well what I would have to look forward to—the loss of my children and my duchy and a miserable marriage to one of Philippe’s lackeys. This is what always happens, is it not? What highborn widow gets the wardship of her own children? Even my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Brittany, sister to the Scots king. When her English husband died, the custody of their young son was not given to her. Why should I care whether my life is ruined by English or by French doing? What difference does it make to me?”
“Because it need not be that way. I do not want to take your children away from you—”
“And I am to believe that? Saint Henry, champion of widows and orphans! Say what you intend for me, for Brittany, but do not insult my intelligence, too. Why should I expect any more justice from you than I can from Philippe?”
“Because these are my grandchildren, of my blood. Can you truly doubt what family means to me? Surely I’ve proven it each time that I forgave my sons for betraying me yet again, as I would have forgiven Geoffrey for his conniving with the French king!”
He was no longer dispassionate, his voice rising, and Aenor stopped playing to look toward them in concern. “All is well, sweeting,” Constance said hastily, and they both mustered up reassuring smiles for her benefit. Turning back to Henry, she said quietly, “You say you do not want to take my children away. What does that mean exactly?”
“It means that they remain with you. I want what is best for them and…and I know it is what my son would have wanted. This is what I am proposing, Constance. You retain the custody of Arthur, Aenor, and Matilda.” The corner of his mouth curved in a hinted smile. “Arthur. Eleanor. How did you ever let Matilda slip in there? I’m surprised you did not call her Melisande since you seem to enjoy picking names sure to vex me.”
“Geoffrey wanted to name Matilda after his sister,” she said simply for she was not up to trading barbs with him, not now. “You say I can keep my children with me. And where would we all be? England?”
“Ruling Brittany from England would not make a great deal of sense.” He heard her swift intake of breath, and said, “I expect you to continue to govern Brittany on Arthur’s behalf. I also expect, of course, that you’ll be willing to be guided by my counsel when necessary.”
“And you would expect me to wed a man of your choosing.”
“Naturally. I do not think you will be disappointed with my choice, though, for he is very highborn, my cousin, in fact. He holds a rich earldom in England, but he also has vast estates in Brittany, so the match makes sense. Moreover, he is a fine lad, clever and courtly and ought to make a satisfactory husband, a kind stepfather.”
“You are talking about the Earl of Chester.” When he nodded, she blurted out, “But…he is just a boy, fifteen or sixteen!”
“He is seventeen. I intend to knight him at year’s end, so he will be eighteen or nigh on to it by the time of your marriage. I was thinking of a date sometime in February, ere the start of Lent, and I assume you would prefer that the ceremony be held in Brittany.” When she did not respond, he reached out and tilted her chin up so that their eyes met. “I understand that you might not be ready to wed again, lass. Unfortunately, it is too dangerous to let you remain unmarried for long. If you were to fall into Philippe’s hands, all our plans would be set at naught if he were able to marry you off to one of his ‘lackeys,’ as you so aptly put it.”
He released her then and stepped back. “I daresay you want to give it some thought. You’ll want to consult with your barons, too, of course.”
Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded, but he did not press her for more. She sank down upon the edge of the freestone fountain as he crossed to her daughter, bent over to whisper in the little girl’s ear. He then continued on along the pathway as Aenor came running toward her, with the dog yipping at her heels.
“Grandpapa said you wanted to give me a hug.”
Constance gathered the child into her arms, holding her so tightly that Aenor soon started to squirm, protesting, “I cannot breathe, Maman!”
“I am sorry, poppet.” Aenor stayed on her mother’s lap, turning so she could splash her fingers in the fountain, and Constance watched her play, smoothing back the child’s chestnut curls. When she whispered a name, though, Aenor looked up, her expression quizzical.
“Are you talking to Papa? I talk to him a lot, Maman.”
“I am glad you do, Aenor.” Constance smiled at her daughter, a smile that was edged in self-mockery. What was she going to do, ask for advice from a dead man? What did she expect Geoffrey to tell her? She already knew what she must do—what was best for her children and her duchy. The spaniel had begun to bark and she glanced up, saw Raoul de Fougères and André de Vitré coming toward her. She took several deliberate breaths, then rose to her feet and went to meet them.
H
ENRY HAD BEEN SHOCKED AND ALARMED
when Richard departed Châteauroux in the company of the French king. But worse was to come. Reports soon came from Paris about the newfound friendship of the two men, reports of a growing intimacy that could only bode ill for the English Crown. Henry did his best to coax Richard away from the French court, and when his messengers went unanswered, he delayed his planned return to England. By now his spies were warning him that Philippe had persuaded Richard his inheritance was in peril, that his father planned to disinherit him in favor of John, claiming that a plan was afoot to marry Alys to John. Richard’s response was swift and characteristic. Leaving Paris, he rode for Chinon, where he seized the treasury and then withdrew into Poitou to fortify his castles. Henry eventually prevailed upon him to discuss their problems in person, and they held a tense meeting in Angers not long after Henry’s return from Brittany. He was able to convince his son that Philippe’s charges were untrue and Richard then did homage to him again. No one believed that a true and lasting reconciliation had been achieved, though, not even Henry.
But events were occurring in the Holy Land that were to have a profound effect upon the Angevin empire. In July, Guy de Lusignan had been lured into a disastrous battle against Saladin. The result was a catastrophic defeat for the Christian army. Guy was taken prisoner, over a thousand of his twelve hundred knights were either slain or captured, the knights of the military orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers were executed, and Saladin captured the most sacred of relics, the Holy Cross.
Word of the battle at the Horns of Hattin reached Europe by October. Pope Urban III died of a seizure upon hearing the news, and his successor at once urged another crusade to rescue the Holy Land and the city of Jerusalem. Richard learned of the defeat in early November. The next morning, he sought out the Archbishop of Tours and took the cross. Henry’s multitude of enemies commented that he seemed more distraught by his son’s action than he did by the news of Saladin’s victory.
W
ILLIAM DE MANDEVILLE
wrapped himself in a blanket and slid out of bed. Caen Castle was filled to overflowing with guests attending Henry’s Christmas Court, but Willem’s rank and friendship with the king guaranteed him one of the better accommodations, and the chamber was spacious, heated by a wall fireplace that was now burning low. Willem’s squires were stretched out on pallets close by the hearth, theirs the sound sleep of young men who’d downed more than their share of wine during the course of the evening. He hadn’t the heart to awaken them and foraged for himself until he found a flagon of wine and a loaf of manchet bread, hastening back to the bed with his windfall.
“Bless you,” his wife proclaimed, eagerly breaking off a chunk of the bread. “I ought not to be so hungry, for I ate a goodly amount of food at supper tonight, but I feel as if I’ve not had a decent meal in days.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” Willem said with a smile, for it amused him that Hawisa, who was as slender as a willow wand, had an appetite that would have put a burly quarryman to shame. “I am glad, too, that you are here for the Christmas Court.” That was not something he could take for granted, as Hawisa had a mind of her own and was not one to be summoned like other, more docile wives. He supposed it was to be expected that a great heiress was strong-willed, and because he was easygoing by nature, her assertiveness had rarely caused troubles in their marriage. All in all, he was very satisfied with the wife that Henry had given him, marveling that their eighth anniversary was not far off. “I am very glad that you’re here,” he repeated and handed her the wine cup.
She took a swallow and then gave him a wine-flavored kiss. “So…tell me all the gossip. Is the king still swiving that wench with the red hair? Is it true that young Chester is going to wed the Duchess of Brittany? What sort of devilment has John been up to in Caen? Have you heard how the French king’s baby is faring? They say he is as sickly and pitiful as a stray kitten, and I doubt that Philippe will get many more off that little queen of his; I heard that she almost bled to death expelling the afterbirth.”
She paused for another swallow of wine and another quick kiss. “And is it true that the king was in a tearing rage when he was told that Richard had taken the cross? I heard that he would not come out of his chamber for days, just like when Archbishop Thomas was slain!”
Willem chose to address her last query first, reaching over to steady her grip on the wine cup. “That is not so. The king was not happy about it—I’ll not deny that. And he did some brooding for a few days, but he was not so much angered as he was troubled. He was also vexed, of course, that Richard had done this without consulting him first.”
“If he thinks Richard will ever be as biddable as John, he is blinder than old Peter, my almoner. Some hawks are too wild to be tamed, can never be broken to the creance and jesses.” Hawisa devoted herself then to eating the bread but was soon ready to resume her interrogation of her husband. “I know you have a great fondness for the king, love, and I’ll not deny he has been right good to you. But I do not understand why he has so little interest in the Holy Land. Most men would be proud that their son had taken the cross as Richard did. As I recall, he was not happy when Hal took the cross, either, and he would not let John go back with the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Nor has he fulfilled his own vow to go on pilgrimage to atone for the archbishop’s death.”
This was their one serious bone of contention, that Hawisa did not see the king as Willem did. He did not want another argument on the subject, but he could not keep a defensive note from entering his voice. “Yes, Harry did vow to take the cross, but soon after, his sons and queen rebelled, and he could hardly leave, then, could he? And since then his kingdom has been in ferment thanks to those same sons. He has been extremely generous, though, with his financial support, has given the vast sum of thirty thousand silver marks for the defense of the Holy Land.”
“Yes, but you told me once that the money is being held by the Templars and Hospitallers, cannot be dispensed without the king’s consent. Is that not like giving a gift with the proviso that you can always change your mind and take it back?”
“Indeed it is not. The bulk of the money was to be spent when the king was able to travel himself to the Holy Land. In any event, Guy de Lusignan and his barons drew heavily upon the funds this year to increase their army in the face of Saladin’s growing threat.”
“And that was a great success,” Hawisa said caustically. “I daresay the king considers that money well spent.”
“I assume the rest of it is being used to defend Jerusalem, and Harry would never begrudge a penny of that,” Willem insisted. Seeing that his wife did not look convinced, he said, “You cannot blame the king for fearing for the safety of his sons in so dangerous a place as Outremer. And as it happens, I did ask him why he was not more concerned about the threat to the Holy Land.”
Hawisa’s eyes brightened with interest. “Did you now? And what did he say?”
“He gave me one of those looks of his, where he cannot believe anyone could ask so foolish a question. And then he said, ‘Of course I care about the fate of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. But I care more about the fate of the Kingdom of England.’”
January 1188
Gisors, Normandy
H
ENRY WAS AT BARFLEUR
waiting for favorable winds when he learned of the French king’s new threats. It seemed that Philippe was no more pleased than Henry by Richard’s decision to take the cross, for he was warning that Richard must wed Alys before he departed for the Holy Land or Gisors must be returned at once to the French Crown. If not, he would lay waste to Normandy. Henry reluctantly delayed his return to England and agreed to confer with Philippe at their traditional meeting place, the ancient elm tree near Gisors Castle.
Henry was not sanguine about their chances of reaching an accord. He could not really blame Philippe, for in the latter’s place, he’d have been making the same demands. But he was not about to yield up Gisors, for he was convinced the Vexin was rightfully part of Normandy. Neither he nor Richard wanted the marriage, though. Richard had never shown any interest in Alys, and Henry had learned to his cost how dangerous a marital alliance with the French was, for he was convinced that Hal would not have been so easily led into rebellion had he not been the French king’s son-in-law. The last thing he wanted was to give Philippe an opportunity to suborn another one of his sons. He felt some pity for Alys, but if the price of her freedom was the loss of the Vexin or outright war, it was too high to pay. A king must do what was best for his realm.
The conference started badly with Philippe insisting at the onset that there’d be no compromises on this issue, and Henry saw they were in for a long, difficult day. Only half listening to arguments he’d heard many times before, he found his attention wandering: to the crowd of onlookers eager to watch the spectacle of two kings in conflict, to the lowering winter sky that was threatening snow, and then to approaching riders. Even at a distance he could see they were well mounted and richly garbed, his gaze drawn to a man wearing a stiff linen miter that marked him as a prince of the Church.
No longer even making a pretense of listening to Philippe, Henry watched as they dismounted, the spectators parting to let them pass. The prelate was resplendent in a blue chasuble and purple dalmatic, both of finely spun silk, brandishing a crozier with a delicate ivory crook. But his face was unfamiliar. By now Philippe had paused to watch, too, and shook his head when Henry asked, “Is he one of yours?”
Identification came from the Count of Flanders. “I know him!” he exclaimed in surprise. “We met in the Holy Land…Joscius, the Bishop of Acre.”
“No,” Henry corrected, for he’d spotted the lamb’s wool pallium around the man’s shoulders. “He’s no longer a bishop, Cousin. We’re being honored by a visit from the Archbishop of Tyre.”
Greetings were prolonged for the archbishop was accompanied by a number of high-ranking churchmen and the two kings by many of their lords and barons. But once the amenities had been observed, the archbishop drew Philippe, Henry, and Philip aside and shared with them the heavy burden he’d been carrying since leaving Outremer that autumn. As dire as the news of the battle at the Horns of Hattin had been, this was far worse. After a brief siege, the Holy City of Jerusalem had been captured by the Saracens.
A
S WORD BEGAN TO SPREAD,
the grieving swept through the crowd like a rogue wave, engulfing men and women alike. People wept openly, cursed aloud, fell to their knees on the frozen ground to pray. It had been less than a hundred years since the first crusaders had retaken Jerusalem for Christendom, but no one had expected the city to fall to the infidels. Surely the Almighty would never let such an atrocity happen?
The kings and their highborn vassals were no less stunned than the spectators. The Count of Flanders was striding up and down, slamming his fist into his palm again and again. Philippe was making the archbishop repeat the story, as if he expected the ending to change upon hearing it again. And Henry’s shock was giving way to horror, for he was a student of history and he knew what had happened when Jerusalem had been captured by the Christian army in God’s Year 1099. It had been a massacre. Men, women, and children alike were shown no mercy, and it was reported that the bodies of the slain Muslims and Jews had been stacked up in the streets like kindling and knights rode in blood up to their horses’ ankles. The archbishop was still occupied with Philippe, and Henry beckoned to one of his companions, clad in the distinctive red cross and white mantle of the Knights Templar, the warrior monks who prided themselves upon being the soldiers of God.
“Tell me the worst,” he demanded. “How many died when Jerusalem fell to Saladin?”
To his amazement, the knight shook his head. “There was no slaughter of the citizens.”
“Are you saying that Saladin allowed the city to surrender peacefully?”
This time the Templar nodded. “Balian de Ibelin, the Lord of Nablus, was commanding the defense of Jerusalem. When he saw they were doomed, he went to Saladin under a truce and asked to be permitted to surrender. Saladin refused, reminding him of the thousands of Muslims who’d died when the Christians had taken the city. Lord Balian warned him that if they had nothing left to lose, they would kill all of the Muslim prisoners they held, then they would destroy the Dome of the Rock and all the Holy Places in the city, those sacred to Christians and Muslims both, and burn Jerusalem to the ground. Saladin then agreed to ransom the citizens. You saved thousands from slavery or death, my lord king.”
“Me? Ah…Balian paid for the ransoms with the money I’d provided for the Holy Land.”
“Yes, my liege. We paid ten dinars for a man, five for a woman, and two for a child.” The knight paused, for it was not easy to speak well of his infidel enemies, not after the blood of his brother Templars had flowed so freely at the Horns of Hattin. But he was an honorable man and felt compelled to admit that “they did show some mercy. Saladin protected patients at the Hospital of St John, and he freed hundreds at Lord Balian’s behest and spared the elderly. His brother asked him for a thousand Christians and then set them free. About seven thousand men and eight thousand women and children were still sold as slaves. With your money, though, we were able to buy the freedom for seven thousand of the city’s poor.”
“Thank God for that,” Henry said softly. He was pragmatic by nature and could take comfort from the fact that it could have been so much worse. As he looked around, though, he saw that few would see the loss of Jerusalem in that light. For them, all that mattered was that the Holy City was now in the hands of the infidels. And it was only then that he realized what this dreadful defeat would mean for him. He glanced quickly toward Philippe, saw that the French king had not yet recognized how adroitly they’d been ambushed, and he smiled grimly. Philippe would not long remain in ignorance.
And indeed, Archbishop Joscius was already stepping forward. “It is only fitting that I speak to the people, tell them what has occurred,” he said, and gestured to some of his companions, who began to shout for silence. When the throng finally quieted, he took up a jeweled cross and raised it high.
“Behold the cross of our salvation,” he cried in a rich, resonant voice that confirmed Henry’s suspicions; the archbishop was a polished orator. “But alas, this is not the most precious of Christendom’s holy relics. This is not the fragment of the True Cross. That was stolen by the infidels at the Horns of Hattin, and we’ve heard it was paraded through the streets of Damascus to jeers and mockery.”
He paused for his audience to react and then held his hand up to quiet them. “When I was chosen to tell the Holy Father in Rome of the dreadful calamity that has befallen us, our galley had black sails so that all would know we were the bearers of evil tidings. Everywhere on our journey, we have left wailing and lamentations in our wake. Men and women of faith cried out to Mary, Mother of Mercy, we poor banished children of Eve, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears.”
Again he flourished the cross aloft. “You know those words of the Salve Regina, have sung it in our churches for the feasts of the Purification, Annunciation, and Nativity of Our Lady. But how many of you know its origin? How many know it was composed by the Bishop of Puy-en-Velay or that he was the first to take the cross from Pope Urban of blessed memory?
“For that is the message I bring to you this day, good people. The time for tears is past. More is demanded of you, of us all. Because of our sins, the enemy of the cross has devastated with the sword the Promised Land, has dared to invade the Holy City itself. But we must not lose faith, for when God Almighty has been soothed by our repentance, He will bring us gladness after our grief.
“I say to you,” he thundered, turning suddenly to face the assembled kings and nobles, “‘you soldiers of Hell, become soldiers of the Living God. It is Christ Himself who issues from His tomb and presents to you His Cross. Wear it upon your shoulders. It will remind you that Christ died for you and that it is your duty to die for Him.’ So said Pope Urban when he first called upon men to take the cross. His plea is echoed by our Holy Father today. He has charged me to remind you of your duty as sons of the Faith. And to those who undertake this quest with a humble heart and who die in repentance for their sins, he promises a plenary indulgence for all their sins and eternal life.”
The crowd was cheering wildly now, but he never took his eyes from his true audience, the men of rank and power, the two kings and their vassals. “Who will answer the call? Who will come to the defense of Zion? Who will free the Holy City from men who do not know God?”
Henry looked around appraisingly. Philippe appeared impassive, showing the public stoicism expected of royalty, but a muscle was twitching in his cheek. The Duke of Burgundy and the Counts of Flanders, Blois, Champagne, Sancerre, and Ponthieu were listening to the archbishop with as much outrage as the prelate could have wished. Henry was sure they’d be trampling one another in their eagerness to answer the archbishop’s call. But now all eyes were turning to him and to his adversary, the French king. Suppressing a sigh, Henry stepped forward and in silence utterly remarkable for such a large crowd, he knelt before the archbishop.
“I, Henry, by God’s Grace King of the English, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou, do hereby pledge myself to the recovery of the Holy City. My lord archbishop, I ask to be allowed to enter the way of God and to take the cross from your hand.”
There was a roar from those watching, as loud a sound as Henry had ever heard, and within moments the field was echoing with the chant that had launched the first crusade. Even those who knew no Latin but the response to the Mass knew this, the battle cry of their Church:
“Deus vult!”
God wills it!
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my lord king,” the archbishop said smoothly as one of his archdeacons appeared at his side. Crusader crosses were usually small and crudely cut from whatever cloth was available. The one that the archbishop offered Henry now was of fine linen embroidered with gold thread. The eyes of the two men caught and held, Henry conveying an ironic appreciation of the archbishop’s tactical talents and the latter offering an equally ironic acknowledgment of the unspoken compliment. And then Henry rose and raised his cross high for all to see, setting off another spate of cheering.
Philippe stepped forward hastily then, giving Henry a look sharp enough to stab before he knelt and he, too, asked for the cross. Philip of Flanders could barely contain himself, rushing toward the archbishop as soon as Philippe was done, followed by Marie’s son, the young Count of Champagne, his uncle the Count of Blois, the Duke of Burgundy, and other men of rank, jostling as they awaited their turns. So many men sought to answer the archbishop’s call that he dispatched the other prelates to accept these vows, and for a time there was considerable chaos. An emotional day became even more so when some people cried out that they saw a cross shimmering in the sky above them and this celestial sign of Divine Providence encouraged even more men to volunteer for God’s army. The response was so great that the more practical-minded among them suggested that crosses be assigned according to realm, and it was soon agreed that the men of Flanders would bear green crosses, the French would bear red ones, and Henry’s vassals would wear white.
It was some time before the archbishop had a moment to himself, and he accepted gratefully when one of his archdeacons proffered a wineskin, for by then his throat was sore and his voice hoarse. He could not remember ever being so exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Nor could he ever remember feeling such a sense of peace. The Bishop of Tripoli had joined him, saying, “I confess I did not see the cross in the sky myself. By the time I looked, it was gone. But none would argue that this has been a day for miracles.”
The archbishop glanced at his friend and then across the field, where the kings of England and France were being mobbed by their supporters. “The greatest miracle,” he said with a smile, “was getting those two to take the cross.”
C
ONSTANCE KNEW
she was sprinkling salt into an open wound, but she could not seem to help herself. Lying awake in the dark of a cold February night, sharing her bed with a stranger, she could not keep her memories at bay, could not stop comparing her two wedding days. She remembered well how unhappy she’d been as she struggled to play the role of Geoffrey’s blushing bride. Looking back upon it, she realized that her barons had not shared her discontent. By then they’d had six years to take Geoffrey’s measure, had a better idea of the man she was marrying than she did.
This time around, the Bretons and she were of one mind—embittered that the English king had forced his own man upon them. They’d not bothered to make much of a pretense of amiability either, proof that they expected the young Earl of Chester’s influence to be limited in scope. The duchy was bilingual, with Breton and French both in widespread use. The Breton tongue was more likely to be heard in the western areas such as Léon; lords such as the de Vitrés and the barons of Fougères were native French-speakers, as Constance herself was. But the wedding feast had resonated with the sounds of Breton, an effective means of isolating their new duke, for Randolph of Chester spoke only French. He had spent enough time in Brittany, though, to understand the insult he was being offered by his wife’s vassals.