Isabel’s head was flung back in violent acquiescence, eyes closed. Her moist lips parted as she whispered, “Please, please …”
In the tangle of his thoughts Philippe didn’t know if she was pleading with him to stop or begging him to take her; he no longer cared. He leapt forward, embedding himself within her in a single thrust as she clung to him, pulling him deeper, till he was almost numb with fear and craving. “Do you want me? Do you? Do you?” he gasped, but her lips moved soundlessly as her lids fluttered, and her hands flung out to claw the bedcovers.
In a fury of want Philippe fixed his teeth upon her shoulder, feeling the skin break under the pressure, tasting the salty stickiness of sweat overlayed by blood. He felt himself dangling at the edge of frenzy, the blood in his head pounding till the sound of it thundered in his ears like a storm. Her body was the center of a dark universe about to explode into light. Isabel clutched him tighter, more tightly still, crying out because he was hers, hers finally—and in an instant, hers completely and forever.
He lay upon her breast, hearing the thudding sound of her heart even above the rasping of his own breath. Fresh beads of sweat prickled his skin like a thousand tiny stings and he shivered, suddenly aware of how chilly the room had gone in the midst of the storm. Beneath him she lay, barely breathing, hair half hiding her face. Philippe kissed her shoulder where it bled, then she pulled him even closer and whispered into his ear, “Only me, Philippe. From now on, only me.”
END PART II
PART III
March, 1182
WHAT IS THIS morbus aedificandi, this disease of building? It persists within the Ile-de-France. Everywhere great cathedrals rise to show Man s pride. Two generations ago Bernard of Clairvaux despised the building of those lush Romanesque edifices which he called Synagogues of Satan. Today we have the recriminousness of Gothic splendor under the auspices of the Bishop of Paris.
To build cathedrals as is done at present is to sin against God. Chancels are built higher and higher; architecture substitutes prayers in stone. Christ, who is at our head, is more humble than His church on earth …
The sacristies of all cathedrals of the Ile-de-France have been raided in order to obtain precious relics for display within the newest Gothic masterpiece: Notre Dame de Paris. Even the famed Blue Virgin of Suger’s St. Denis has been brought to Paris. From Our Lady at Chartres King Philippe has taken the fabled pearls of St. Clotilde to grace the sacristy at Notre Dame; they have since been put around the neck of his young queen. Rheims has been looted for its finest relics—these will be blessed by papal legate Henri de Chateau-Margay when he consecrates the great altar of Notre Dame on the upcoming Feast of Pentecost.
For this show of vainglory the money of thieves, prostitutes and other ignobles has been accepted. For this the Jews of Paris were exiled north, abrogated of their debts but for a minimum percentage which has found its way into the personal keeping of the King. All so that Our Lady may rise as a monument to master builders and master planners.
The Church is God’s house, not Man’s.
Pierre la Chantre
Summa Ecclesiastica
March, 1182
Elizabeth of Vermandois died at Amiens on April 15th, 1182. Her passing deprived Philip d’Alsace of the fashionable, brilliant and celebrated consort to whom he had been married for nearly twenty-three years. Their relationship had withstood many complications, including Elizabeth’s perennial adulteries, and the fact that she had been unable to bear Philip a child.
The Count of Flanders spent little time in grieving for his wife, but he was exceedingly distressed in any case. Her death was to have profound political repercussions, some of which were immediately evident. Vermandois and Valois, her territorial holdings, had been parceled into the marriage package dangled before the awestruck eyes of Philippe Capet when the anxious Philip of Flanders had arranged his marriage to Isabel. It had been folly, as Baldwin had pointed out at the time, but Flanders’s greed at securing a tighter hold upon the young French boy had been so great that the risk had seemed worthwhile.
Now, with Elizabeth predeceasing him, Flanders was in the unenviable situation of having to cede Vermandois and Valois to the French. It would have been a sustainable loss had the French-Flemish alliance remained intact. But given the current hostilities between Philip d’Alsace and Philippe Capet, the former was unwilling to relinquish so prized a share of his land.
Almost at once Flanders decided upon his revenge. This time, though, he vowed there would be no reprisals from stronger forces on the continent. On the day following Elizabeth’s funeral, Philip set sail across the Channel for England and an audience with Henry Plantagenet.
The most epochal of all days in the history of fair France came on the 19th day of May, the Feast of Pentecost, the year of our Lord 1182 when Paris raised as one to Heaven in gracious and most profound joy to celebrate Our Lady—the consecration of the great altar at Notre Dame de Paris.
Henri de Chateau-Margay, papal legate and the highest ranking churchman in France, led the procession from Montmartre, where hundreds had gathered at sunrise. Our great Bishop, Maurice de Sully, assisted in the ceremony and the blessing of the thousand relics which were brought to grace the sacristy of Our Lady. The King of France and his Queen received the Sacrament and Absolution. Later, before the altar they washed the feet of the poor… .
Adam of Perseigne
May, 1182
Richard Plantagenet had a genius for discord. In the middle of summer the noble barons of Poitou rose against him and King Henry of England had to intervene on the side of his son to insure peace within the duchy. He had sent his son Geoffrey ahead to Limoges (the seat of the rebellion) to pave the way for his own entrance into the city, so that the word might be spread that Henry of England supported Richard’s power in the Aquitaine.
Geoffrey, however, saw his mission as a sparkling opportunity to sow further family tribulation. Personally he had little in common with either Harry or Richard, and he was jealous of their power. Geoffrey enjoyed playing them off against one another, then standing back to watch with a bemused smile.
Far more satisfying yet was the chance to circumvent his father’s orders. So though he assented to Henry’s order to fortify Richard’s reputation among the Poitevan nobles, he did exactly the opposite. Seeking out the foremost barons, Geoffrey used his charm and subtle means of persuasion to caution them further against Richard. How much better, he stressed with calm resolution, that they look to the young king—Harry, the eldest brother—who would eventually rule in England and thus make his influence known upon the continent. Richard was warlike and rapacious. Harry was the “heart of chivalry.” Geoffrey’s gentle propaganda was successful. By the time Henry arrived the barons and even the petty nobles were convulsed in a fervor of spirit on the side of the young king.
Henry was furious, but it was no more than he had come to expect of his sons. Each time he trusted them he was rewarded with betrayal. Time and time again he found himself forgiving them (they were flesh of his flesh, etc.) but it was becoming a bitter cup for him to drink.
When Harry arrived in Limoges it was to the overwhelming cheers of the assembled crowds. Buxom peasant girls threw flowers in his path. Young men serenaded him. Knights avowed his chivalry. Bertran de Born, one of the petty nobles of the south—an aging playboy who had once championed Richard—commemorated the event in one of his charming sirventes:
Crowned in flowers, ho! Harry Plantagenet,
young king of England, who is his like?
Richard fights as a lion
Yet Harry coos as a dove
They bear nothing of each other in their faces
Even love.
For soothe, Richard will be fantastic in his legend; and
Harry will be king—while behind the royal curtain
Younger brother Geoffrey smiles at everything …
Harry was too vain to realize that his surging reception had been the result of Geoffr
ey’s smooth dissemination. He saw only the love that the people had for him, the splendid awe in which they held him, and his “victory” over Richard.
Eventually the shrewd machinations of Henry Plantagenet prevailed and a truce was formed between Richard and his hostile, insurging barons. Those who had captured fortresses and taken up arms against Richard their duke were forced to surrender. At the instigation of King Henry all parties met, were appeased, and went on their way.
The public demonstrations on Harry’s behalf had humiliated and infuriated Richard. Henry was also angry, but there was more to trouble him. The young king was now twenty-eight years old, but he was as immature, feckless and undisciplined as a boy of sixteen. Henry’s stern reproaches throughout the years had done little to prepare Harry for the position he would eventually occupy. It was as though he wished to spend the rest of his life in meaningless revels.
This latest business had shown the English king that Richard could not stand well against Harry. Henry had always supposed that he could, and the recent evidence to the contrary was worrisome to him. Henry was a logical man: logic told him that Harry, who was so charming and loved by all, was a vain, foolish, capricious, haughty boy with little character and even less reason—considerably less gifted mentally than either Richard or Geoffrey. He would never make even a satisfactory king; Henry knew this and hoped that the combined threat of two ambitious, capable younger brothers would spur his heir to a semblance of duty. But it had not happened.
Before leaving Limoges, Henry took his eldest aside. The king draped an arm warmly about his son’s shoulder and nudging him in affection said, “You made quite an impression on the crowds here, my son, but when you are king you will be judged by more than the fine silks you wear or the graciousness of your bearing.”
Harry was staring with disinterest out the window, but at those words he turned to give his father a cool lavendereyed look. He said nothing.
“Harry,” the king muttered, “you must have realized that your behavior flew in the face of your brother. It was not good form, it was not good manners …” he stroked his son’s shoulder in affection, “and most assuredly it was not good politics. You should not seek to eclipse Richard before his subjects. He resents it.”
“What should I care for Richard’s opinions?” Harry snapped. “He baffles me with his lack of understanding in how to manage his people. I am sure that I would have no trouble in handling these Poitevans. Richard’s personality breeds division and dissent.”
The older king was a man of conservative perspective who tended towards orthodoxy. His mind could seize upon facts, balance them, rationalize. It was something he had inherited from his astute mother; his eldest son had none of it. Henry tried now to put his analysis into verbal terms that the indolent Harry could understand and would accept.
“My boy, I don’t want you and Richard at odds, not in public. It instills rebelliousness within the nobles and incites riots and revolts. I don’t want the people here in the south thinking that Richard isn’t fit to govern.”
“Maybe he isn’t,” Harry replied. “You know what he’s like. He gets on the wrong side of people. All he knows is fighting.” He gave a winning smile to his father. “Most of what Richard has gotten through his constant wars he could much more easily have won by softer means.”
Henry exhaled an audible breath. He knew now that Geoffrey’s smooth and clever tongue had been at work again. This would take some careful undoing. “Whatever your brother Geoffrey has said to you,” he began, “or to others on your behalf, you must put aside. The Aquitaine belongs to Richard. It is for him to govern, not for you. Don’t play-act at being a symbol of these people. If you invite their favor you will invite Richard’s disfavor; and difficulties and war will come on the heels of that.”
Harry jerked his burgundy-colored surcoat about him angrily. His face was creased in petulance. “How can you say such things to me? I am your favorite, and your heir. Certainly I am your most loyal son.” He was silent for a moment before he asked, “And why do you bring up Geoffrey’s name?”
Henry was pulling at the cuff of his sleeve with rigid fingers, trying to restrain the anger that was rising quickly within him. “What do you and Geoffrey have working between you?” he asked between tight lips. “Geoffrey isn’t inciting revolution in your name for you alone—he isn’t that generous. What have you promised him in return?”
Again the petulant expression. “What are you asking me? I’ve barely seen Geof in these past few months. Why—do you have it in your mind that we’ve put together some tidy little conspiracy?”
“Would that be so inconceivable?”
Harry slumped into a chair and glared at his father. “I will tell you this much: I am tired of Richard. He is a danger to me, Father, a mortal threat. He will never accede to my authority. He will not help me. Have you thought seriously about what might become of me when you are dead?”
Henry was pacing stiff-kneed back and forth in front of his son. “Those are words too much on the lips of all of you,” he growled.
Harry ignored him. “Once I am king, Richard will gladly take the field against me, stir up the whole realm against me, and what will I do then? Have you thought how easily, if properly flanked by barons and traitors and possibly Philippe of France, Richard could wrest the crown from me? Have you thought of that, Father? Have you?”
“There is very little you have thought of that I have not pondered first,” Henry answered pointedly. “But why do you mention Philippe of France? What has he to do with this? You two have been closer than decency allows for many years.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You know how quickly the shape of things can change. Richard has as many charms to offer the French king as I have. Today I am in Philippe’s favor; tomorrow he may take Richard to his bed. Or Geoffrey. Nothing is certain. Nothing in this world.”
The king was regarding his beloved son with an expression close to disgust. “Is that how the world will turn once I’m gone?” he asked, truly shaken. “Is that the diplomacy on which the future of this realm will depend? Whichever of my sons can best fuck the King of France will hold power here? Grace be to God I won’t be here to see it!”
Harry laughed till he felt a spasm of coughing rising in his chest. Then gasping, he smirked, “Your outrage makes exceptional theater, father, but very little sense. Since when do foul morals make you cringe? Most of the sins I commit I’ve learned from you, and I could never hope to equal your indiscretions. You’ve—”
Henry’s hand was hard and hot against his son’s cheek, and Harry fairly reeled from the blow. Tears of rage and pain leapt to his eyes but his voice was steady. “It has been a long time since you have stooped to that.”
“Damn you!” Henry rasped, “you are as heartless as your brothers! Christ Almighty, what must I do to gamer your love, your respect? I have favored you, adored you, set you above every other person in my life and in my heart. I have accorded you every honor. You rule Anjou and Normandy with me: I give you concordance in Maine and Gascony—you’ll get the whole damn kingdom when I’m gone, isn’t that promise enough for your damn greedy selfishness!”
“I rule nothing!” Harry shouted, jumping to his feet. “You have given me titles. Father, but you’ve never given me any power!
The words rang in Henry’s ears and without thinking he drew back, flinching from his son. Could it be possible that this headstrong, gaudy young man wanted more than the trappings of success? And was there more still? Frustration and bitterness showed in Henry’s face. “What else could you want unless it is my death? I cannot conceive of such corruption. Jesus!” He staggered backwards, hands over his face.
Harry stood by impassively, watching his father’s formidable fury. He waited, then finally spoke with fitting insensitivity. “You think I only came to Limoges to make a great show of myself and to humiliate Richard. It wasn’t only that; there is more. I came because I knew you would be here a
nd I had to talk to you. Are you listening now, Father?” Harry leaned forward, peering into his father’s face. “I don’t want your death, Henry. That is the truth, if you will believe it. And God knows you are the king, so the power is yours to give or no. But if not the power, Father, then the means to do without it …”
Henry’s features hardened, tensing into a perceptible likeness of his coin image. “What are you saying?”
“The money, Father. The money. That’s what I want, what I deserve. I can’t live on the pittance you give me or the tiny revenue afforded me in Normandy or Anjou. I can no longer pay the knights in my service. Marguerite is penniless as well, and cannot pay the ladies of her retinue. We cannot maintain any of our former livings or households.” He waited for his father to make a comment. “I need your help, Henry. I have the right to ask this of you. I have the right.”
It was not the first time the young king had come, penniless, to his father, demanding a hand-out. As recently as February Henry had made it clear to all of his sons that he was no longer financially responsible for them. It was at that time he had made his will and told his sons the contents thereof. They were to expect no more than the territories which had been allotted them years earlier, and minimal drafts from the treasury. Of course, none of them had been satisfied. Henry had managed to extract a promise of frugality from each, grudgingly given. Now Harry had decided to dance out of that agreement. With measured calm that was very difficult to affect, the king said, “You have run through your inheritance, is that it? What became of the money I advanced to you at Epiphany? Has it gone for your damn fool tournaments?”
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