He looked at me with a rather blank expression, rubbing his eyes. Poor thing, the long journey had made his little body quite weary.
“Here, just you come to mama,” I said, taking him in my arms.
I looked over to Adela, who had roused a very cross Geoffrey. His little cries filled the carriage.
“Everything is fine, Geoffrey. Your father is waiting for you,” Adela told him, but it was no use. The cries continued apace.
I heard the call of my husband outside. “I hope you do not intend to make me wait for ever to see my sons!”
Suddenly, little Henry pointed toward the curtain and said, “Mean!”
“What did he say?” Adela asked, desperately patting her charge on the back.
“He thinks his papa is mean,” I said, trying hard not to smile. “Your papa loves you very much, Henry,” I assured him. “Let us go see him!”
The four of us finally stepped out of the carriage, and Count Geoffrey cried with delight.
“Henry! Come to me!” he called, bending down and throwing his arms open.
I set my firstborn on the ground and he tottered more than walked to his father, who swept him up in an embrace.
“How big you have grown!” Count Geoffrey declared. “Do you know who I am?”
For just a moment, I was afraid that he might answer “mean,” but fortunately young Henry answered, “Papa.”
“Hand me the baby, Adela,” I instructed, and she placed him in my arms. I waited until my husband had released our first son, then approached. “Here is your other self, my lord: the new Geoffrey of Anjou.”
“And how very like myself are his looks,” he replied, taking hold of the child.
He looked down on little Geoffrey with far more affection than he had ever granted me, but I was not jealous, for I wanted my boys to have a more positive bond with their father than I had with mine, even if he was not one of the better men in the world.
“What a happy day this is for Anjou that two such princely lads now rest within the bosom of our love!” my husband proclaimed. It was only after he had marveled at the babe for some time that he noticed the other person standing there. “Who is this?” he asked, nodding his head to indicate Adela. “And where are Lady Agnes and Joscelyn?”
“This is Adela, my new lady,” I explained. “I found her in Rouen. The other ladies are with us, but they stopped in town to collect some things for the boys.”
“Of what family are you, Adela?” Count Geoffrey asked, looking at her, turning up his nose slightly.
“No family of note, my lord,” she replied with a bow. “I was lately with the nuns of Saint Catherine, but left before taking my vows.”
“Do you mean to say you stole her from an abbey?” the count said to me with a laugh, raising his brows.
“I did not steal her!” I declared. “She came of her own free will, and with the permission of her superior.”
He shook his head, still laughing. “It seems an odd way to acquire a royal servant.”
“She helped to save my life, and that of your son,” I noted, pointing to the babe in his arms.
This seemed to change his mood. The look on his face became more serious and respectful.
“Then I suppose we must welcome her with open arms,” he admitted. “Well met, Adela, and welcome to our county!” He tipped his head.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied.
“Come, let us feast!” Count Geoffrey proclaimed.
We all turned and began walking toward the entrance of the great hall, Adela holding Henry and big Geoffrey still carrying little Geoffrey.
“Has your father consented to grant us the castles?” my husband whispered to me.
“I attempted to reason with him, but he would not see sense. He continues to refuse them,” I said quietly, being careful not to make any show of anger that could be guessed by those around us.
“What?!” Count Geoffrey cried, stopping in his tracks. “What on God’s earth does he think he’s playing at?! Those are mine by right of marriage! They are to go to our sons!”
So much for keeping this conversation secret, I thought. I looked around and saw that not only those walking near us, but even the guards on the bulwarks were paying attention.
I took a step nearer my husband. “My lord, please lower your voice. We do not want all the servants knowing our business.”
“Everyone should know of this treachery!” he argued. “You and the rest of the Normans have done nothing but scorn Anjou since this marriage started.”
“Me!” I cried. “I defended you to the king, and believe you me, that was not an easy thing to do when I was feeling his wrath!”
“I do not mean that,” he said. “I mean when you abandoned me.”
“Oh, so we are bringing up ancient history today?” I scoffed. “I came back to Anjou. I came back and I am committed. I have borne you two sons now. What more must I do to convince you of my resolve?”
He looked at me for a moment, the breath flowing strongly in and out of his nostrils. I thought he might devise some new affront against me, but he did not.
“Very well,” he said. “I am—” Here he seemed to bite his tongue, as if struggling with the words.
“Do you mean you are—sorry?” I asked, truly astounded.
“Let us go inside,” he concluded, moving on quickly toward the door.
I stood there for a moment smiling and laughing softly. Not much of an apology, but I’ll call it a victory!
XX
Ah, what anger was awoken in my husband when I informed him of the king’s words! The joy he felt in his new son was quickly turned to bitterness. Before the day was done, he sent a new letter to King Henry, demanding that he surrender all the castles along the frontier, from Pontorson in the West to Conches in the East. I need hardly tell you the response he received, but perhaps I will relay some of my father’s choicest words.
Geoffrey, who ought to have been a true son to us, but I find you now as the prodigal son of scripture, coveting your father’s fortune while still he lives and breathes. Shall I then consent to this base demand and bend the knee to him who is by right my sworn vassal? The Lord himself would not have advised such a course.
What our Lord Jesus might have advised, God only knows, but this reply only served to harden Count Geoffrey’s resolve. For myself, I was bound to side with him, for we needed those castles to ensure the inheritance of my sons. If and when my father passed from this earth, it would be difficult to control Normandy if the castles were held against us, and even more difficult to press on to England. Why my father could not see this was a mystery to me.
There were great stirrings throughout the land and rumors spread abroad. Men looked upon my ascension as the ancient Israelites did the coming of Jezebel. I knew full well how I looked in comparison to others: Count Theobald of Blois, Count Stephen of Boulogne, and even brother Robert. Any one of those men seemed more fit for the royal office, or so the masses said. I knew the danger, and my husband saw it as well.
“We must press to have the nobles swear to you again, now that you have two children,” he said to me at one point, “or better yet, let them swear also to young Henry.”
“You know not the mind of the king,” I replied. “The years have taught me that I never had his love, I who was from the beginning despised, loathsome, not fit for great affairs of men—I who was in my mother’s womb deformed, born not of the noble breed of Adam, but with the sinful taint of Eve! Were he to be given the keys of the kingdom of heaven, even as Saint Peter, King Henry would spring Prince William from his eternal sleep and send me off to my reward!”
“Even so, it is all the more vital that he should make them swear to you again, that no man may claim that he did so without knowledge or under threat of force,” Geoffrey concluded.
Although I did not particularly care for the man, Count Geoffrey did hit upon the truth occasionally. His argument won the day, and I wrote to King Henry and made the
request, which was promptly denied. The matter then rested for the remainder of the year, and I was able to devote my time to watching my sons grow and learn. Oh, how I adored them! Even though I was a royal lady, I wanted to spend time with them whenever possible. They were my pride and joy. I could see already the types of people they were becoming: Henry brave and active, Geoffrey more cautious and meek, but both equally beloved.
Around this time, we received word that my only living uncle, Robert the former duke of Normandy, had at last died in Cardiff Castle. For twenty-five years he had languished in prison, forced to endure the scorn of men and the death of his son, William Clito. Not that I pitied him, for treason must have its just reward. In truth, it removed one more person to whom men might flock upon my father’s death, and thus I had no cause to rue it. Although my sons ought not have suffered any challenge to their right by blood, evil and rebellious men will find any false standard to follow.
The New Year brought with it a return to our controversy, with King Henry swearing that while he lived and breathed, Count Geoffrey would never be lord over a Norman castle. But the king made an error of sorts when he denied the inheritance of the sometime rebel William Talvas, count of Ponthieu, one of the most powerful lords in southern Normandy. The count banded with Robert Stafford, castellan of Conches, and together they rose against the king’s authority.
I remember the day we received the news. Our little family was sitting by the fire in the hall, which had been otherwise deserted to give us privacy. I was helping the boys—who must have been ages two and one—build something with their blocks. Actually, I was helping Henry build, and Geoffrey was knocking all our creations down on the wood floor. Count Geoffrey was seated on a bench by one of the long tables, reading over his letters and paying little attention to our endeavors. Suddenly, he rose from his seat, filled with a new vigor.
“Now we have caught the king and can force his hand!” Count Geoffrey declared. “These men—William Talvas and Robert Stafford—control the very lands we hope to gain. Let us ride to their aid!”
While I understood why he should desire to ride out and claim the castles, I was filled with fear at my husband’s declaration. The Norman rulers had a habit of going to war against their kind—that much was true. However, I feared King Henry far more than Count Geoffrey did, whether because I had felt his wrath personally, I was older and wiser, or I had a lesser opinion of my husband’s skill in battle. Indeed, Count Geoffrey had never undergone a real test of arms: not against someone like the king. He was only about twenty-one years of age! Would he gain King Henry’s respect by riding out against him, or would he merely be goading the dragon? What if he did something so rash that it caused the king to forsake my sons?
“Have a care, husband,” I cautioned, rising to address him. “It is a fearful thing to take up arms against the king. If you wish to have one of my cousins on the throne, by all means proceed.”
“You do not think I can do this?” he asked, anger in his voice. “Do you think me so weak?”
I shook my head. “No, I think the king is strong—strong and prone to great cruelty and wrath. My father may be old and less powerful on a horse than he used to be, but my brother Robert is as good as any commander on earth. He loves me, but he also loves our father, and he will fight for him. Trust me, husband: you do not want to face Earl Robert of Gloucester in battle. And if you are thinking of appealing to France, you can forget that too. Just remember when William Clito tried that in Flanders!”
My husband still had a glare on his face, but he let out a great sigh, and I sensed that his spirit had given way. “Let us do it from afar then,” he said. “We shall lend them our support without lending them our presence. We will send aid to the count of Ponthieu, but I will not ride out.”
He collected his papers and made to leave, but turned suddenly to utter one last comment, which seemed rather like a threat. “I hope you are right, Lady England, for the sake of our sons.”
What was I to do? It pained me to think that in the space of less than a year we had descended into such rancor that it cast doubt upon my inheritance. It was the king who began it by denying me what was my due, yet were I to reach out and seize it, an even greater inheritance would be denied. I consented to Count Geoffrey’s design, but forbid him to set foot in Normandy. King Henry then rode south and crushed the rebellion with all swiftness, even as I had foreseen. We were accused of treachery, and for what?
Lord, preserve the life of the king for long enough that I might recover his regard! I prayed. Let the inheritance pass to me and my sons!
Many years earlier, on the second day of August in the year of our Lord 1100, a hunting party had set out into the wood that men call the New Forest, though in truth it is no more new than the earth on which we stand. At the head of the company was King William II of England, and with him was his brother Henry, my own father. The king went out that day to hunt, but little did he know that he would be fortune’s prey. An arrow pierced his chest and the life ebbed from him even as his blood. Some said it was murder—others an act of God, for the king’s pleasures were not as they ought to have been. My father rode with all haste to Winchester and laid claim to the royal treasury, ere some lesser men might take advantage of the king’s death for their own devices. He then proceeded to Westminster, where he was crowned king of England.
William II was not the only one of my uncles to meet his end in the New Forest. Some thirty years earlier, Prince Richard, son of the Conqueror, had suffered an accident of equal severity, but as he was not king at the time, the story did not pass into legend. My brother Robert’s bastard son also perished in that very same wood. It is no wonder that men counted it accursed!
Yet even a devil’s spell would not have kept King Henry from the hunt. He simply sought out a happier forest. In Normandy, my father’s best hunting ground was near Lyons-la-Forêt and the castle of Saint Denis. It was there that his thoughts turned once he had put down our ally the count of Ponthieu, and in the waning days of autumn 1135, he pursued the beasts of Normandy to his heart’s content.
Meanwhile, those of us in Anjou were filled with concern over the count’s defeat, and none more so than I. We had lent support to rebels against King Henry’s authority, but they had been crushed easily. We therefore gained nothing but my father’s anger. While the king was off stalking, I was left to wonder what the future held for myself and my dear sons. So far, the king had not seen fit to revoke my inheritance, nor to cast doubt upon the succession, but I could well imagine how some noble might whisper in his ear and cause him to forsake that allegiance of blood that is more sacred than any on this earth.
As the season of Advent began, I sought out something to distract myself, and I found it in my sons. Little Henry was growing apace, his mess of red curls duly increasing, and every day he learned a new word. He no longer toddled but ran, and his frame was more lean and less like an infant. Meanwhile, Geoffrey was beginning to walk on his own, but he could not yet form words. He was particularly taken with Adela and could often be seen tugging on her skirt, wanting to be held.
One evening, I asked Lady Agnes to bring the boys to me in my bed chamber before they were sent to bed. They were already in their night shirts when she presented them. Geoffrey’s was far too large: the maids had given up sewing him a new one every other month and made something to suit him for a year. The result was that it trailed on the floor even as the arms absorbed his hands, and I was tempted to laugh at the sight.
“Young Geoffrey, young Henry,” I said, kneeling down and kissing them each in turn. “Were you good today?”
“Yes, mama,” Henry replied, but his brother was mute.
I looked into the eyes of my younger son. Even as the lids drooped farther down, he made a valiant effort to open them further.
“Geoffrey, I know there is some great discourse forming itself in your mind, waiting to be released,” I mused.
The boy babbled something, which I took to b
e a sign of agreement.
“We shall be counting the days before you are able to speak it. Now, off to bed with you!” I concluded, embracing them both.
“Mama,” Henry asked, “where is King Henry?”
“Why, he is in Normandy, watching over his kingdom,” I replied, taking his two little hands in mine. “Do not think that he has forgotten you! He loves you most in all the world.”
In truth, I was somewhat surprised that the boy even remembered the king, for he was less than two years old when last they met. Yet for all the sadness in those little eyes, they might have been the best of friends. Perhaps he has simply heard us speaking about him a lot, I thought.
“I will write to the king and ask him if we can visit,” I told him. “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” he answered with a smile.
“Very well. Follow your brother to bed, and make sure to say your prayers.”
I embraced him again, and the three of them departed. I walked over to my desk of cherry wood next to the far window. It had been a gift to me from my husband after the birth of our second son. As I sat upon the soft cushion in my chair, I observed that while Count Geoffrey had many flaws and no great love for myself, he at least had an eye for fine things and knew how to reward those who did him a good turn.
I straightened the stack of parchment in front of me and dipped my quill in the ink. It was made from the feather of some strange African bird that my husband had acquired, the very sort of thing he enjoyed wearing. I could not help but shake my head and laugh softly. I then considered how I might make my request of the king for my sons to visit him, which in effect was a request for a truce of sorts. It must be written in my own hand: that much was certain. I would appeal to his love for my boys, and in so doing, hope for reconciliation. I had only just begun to set ink to parchment when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in if you wish me well!” I called over my shoulder.
Count Geoffrey swung the door open and entered the room with great purpose, striding toward me and brandishing a paper in his hand.
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