He diverted some of his pain into rage, dredging up memories of the worst curses he’d ever heard his father utter. The French king was a fainthearted, misbegotten weasel, not worthy to wear a crown. The Count of Flanders was a self-seeker of the worst sort, one who’d pawn his honor for the mere promise of profit. The French lords were spineless lackeys, the Flemings no better. His brothers were beneath contempt, Hal a swaggering, empty-headed puppet and Geoffrey a backstabbing sneak. He could almost believe they were foundlings, for how else explain their treachery?
And now what? He was cornered, trapped with no way out. He’d gone up against the Aquilon, the North Wind, and had been found wanting. What mercy could he expect from his father? He’d be publicly humiliated, shamed, tethered like a lady’s pet spaniel. He was a man grown, but his father would never see that. The years would go by and nothing would change. Aquitaine would not be his as long as his father drew breath. And his mother would grow old in an English prison, her exile ended only by death.
Twilight had given way to full night, but he hadn’t noticed. It was not until he saw the glow of campfires in the distance that he realized how much time had passed and how far he’d ridden. Halting his mount, he gazed down at those flickering fires in his father’s camp. During the course of this wild, wretched ride, he’d swung back and forth between anger, defiance, and despair, spitting out curses and blinking back tears that he blamed on the wind’s edge, whispering prayers only God could hear. But he understood now where the Almighty had been leading him.
For an endless time, he sat there, absently patting the neck of his lathered mount as he watched the soldiers move about below him. And then, before he could repent of it, he spurred the horse down the hill. Sentries rode out to block his advance, alarmed by the sudden appearance of this lone youth in their midst. Richard reined in his stallion before them. “I am Richard, Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “I am here to see my lord father, the king.”
Richard was ushered into Henry’s tent by startled guards. He had a quick glimpse of the men-his father, the Earl of Essex, Maurice de Craon, and Richard du Hommet, the constable of Normandy-all of them looking no less astonished than the guards. At the last moment, his courage failed him, and he looked away, not wanting to watch their triumphant faces as he humbled himself. Fumbling with the belt of his scabbard, he unbuckled his sword. It was his prized possession, a gift from his mother on that day two years ago when he’d been invested as Duke of Aquitaine, fashioned by the best bladesmith in Bordeaux, with a thirty-inch double-edged blade, an enameled pommel, inlaid with silver for that was thought to prevent blunting, engraved in Latin with the words In Nomine Domini, the ultimate symbol of knighthood. He’d called it Joyeuse, said to have been the name of Charlemagne’s celebrated sword, which flashed lighting in the heat of battle. He’d never expected to surrender it, and giving it up now was as painful as any physical wound.
Coming forward, he carefully placed the sword and scabbard on the ground, then sank to his knees before his father. “I am here to seek your forgiveness, my liege,” he said hoarsely. “You may do with me as you will.” To his horror, tears filled his eyes, and he angrily swiped at them with the sleeve of his tunic before nerving himself to look up at Henry. To his amazement, he could see tears shimmering in his father’s eyes, too. Henry reached down, holding out his hand.
“Of course you are forgiven,” he said, and when Richard took his hand, he was raised to his feet and then gathered to the older man in a tight embrace.
Richard was not sure what he’d expected, but not this warm welcome, this genuine and manifest joy. His father’s companions seemed to share it, too, treating him as if his was the return of the Prodigal Son, not the surrender of a beaten rebel. Wine was brought out, and then food, venison like the meal being served back in his own camp. Richard held his plate awkwardly, not sure if he could swallow a morsel. “I ought to send word to my men,” he said hesitantly. “Raoul de Faye and Saldebreuil de Sanzay are there, amongst others. Need I…need I fear that they will be punished for my sins?”
Henry reached for another piece of bread, unable to remember when he’d been so hungry. “No,” he said, “I mean to issue a general pardon for all who took part in the rebellion.”
Richard’s shoulders slumped, so great was his relief. “Thank you,” he mumbled, for that seemed expected of him. All around him, the other men were laughing and talking, gesturing with their wine cups, and his sense of unreality grew ever stronger. Could it truly be this easy?
“We will return to Poitiers on the morrow,” Henry declared, “and ride into the city together so that all may see peace has been restored. And at Michaelmas, we will meet your brothers and the French king, put all this foolishness behind us.” He shifted so that he could look directly into Richard’s face. “I mean to do right by you and your brothers. The provisions will not be as lavish as the terms I offered last year, but I think you will be pleased.”
“Thank you,” Richard said again, the words coming automatically to his lips with a calm that belied his inner turmoil. He knew it would be wise to keep silent, to do nothing to threaten this rare moment of harmony. But he could not do that. “May I ask you a question?”
Henry nodded. “Ask,” he said, with a slight smile, and Richard drew a deep, bracing breath.
“You have forgiven me for taking up arms against you. You have said that you do not mean to imprison or disinherit the others who joined the rebellion. You have been more generous than I dared hope. But there is this I must know. Can you not find it in your heart to forgive my mother?”
The mood in the tent was transformed as soon as the words had left his mouth. He saw the other men stiffen in the way he’d seen people react when caught out in a storm, listening uneasily to the rumble of thunder and scanning the skies as lightning flashed overhead.
Henry did not speak for a time, struggling against the tide of raw emotion unleashed by the mere mention of Eleanor’s name. He’d not wanted to make Joanna choose between them, for she was a child, an innocent who could not be blamed for loving unwisely. He’d not intended to extend that privilege to his sons, for surely they’d forfeited that right by swallowing her poison so willingly. But as he looked now at Richard, he realized that it would not be that simple, that easy. He saw emotions in Richard’s face as conflicted as his own-fear and defiance and confusion and love, love for the woman who’d betrayed him so cruelly. He was going to have to learn to live with that, with Richard’s misplaced loyalty, at least until the boy came to see the truth about his mother.
“That took courage,” he said at last, “and you’ve earned an honest answer…this one time. I will not speak of this again, Richard. I know this is not what you want to hear. But it cannot be helped. No, lad. I cannot forgive your mother. Not now, not ever.”
On September 29, Henry met the French king on the riverbank of Montlouis-sur-Loire, not far from Tours. The day was overcast and dark clouds were gathering ominously along the horizon. Henry and Richard arrived at the same time as the French, and after an awkward exchange of greetings, they moved into the village churchyard so they could take shelter in the church if the storm broke.
“Before we discuss terms for peace,” Louis said earnestly, “your sons wish to express their remorse and grief that it ever came to this.”
Henry frowned, not sure if he could long endure Louis at his most sanctimonious and self-righteous. As if he were a Good Samaritan, who wanted only to heal this lamentable family feud! But Hal and Geoffrey had taken their cue and were coming forward to kneel respectfully before him. Hal’s distress seemed genuine; Henry could not help wondering, though, what he regretted most-that he’d rebelled or that he’d lost. He did not want to let such suspicions mar their reconciliation, and he did his best to put any doubts aside as Hal and then Geoffrey expressed their sorrow, their contrition, and their resolve to make amends, to be the dutiful, loving sons that he deserved.
&n
bsp; When their penance was done, Henry played his part and offered them absolution, raising them up for the formal kiss of peace and then quick, paternal hugs. “What’s past is past,” he said, “and it is forgiven.”
Beaming, Louis then embraced Hal and Geoffrey, too, but when he took a step in Richard’s direction, he was warned off by the expression on the youth’s face, and contented himself with declaring his joy that this breach was mended, quoting from Scriptures to prove his point. Honor thy father, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee; that thy days may be prolonged. And if some noticed that he’d diplomatically edited the Holy Writ by excising any mention of thy mother, none were tactless enough to comment upon it.
Hal and Geoffrey now offered strained greetings to Richard, who was even more laconic in reply. Hal then took Henry aside, seeking a moment alone. Withdrawing into the cemetery that bordered the churchyard, they walked among the wooden crosses and flat gravestones as Henry waited, with rare patience, for his son to speak.
“Not the most auspicious of settings, is it?” Hal said wryly, gesturing toward the moss-covered grave markers. “Making peace in a burial ground is like getting wed in a whorehouse. But I do want there to be peace between us, Papa. That I swear to you upon the surety of my soul.”
Henry was as moved by the tears in Hal’s eyes as he was by his words, and he felt a surge of gratitude that the Almighty and St Thomas had given him this second chance, an opportunity to make things right with his sons. “I also want that, Hal,” he said, and when they embraced, he truly believed that they’d made a new beginning. From the way Hal’s eyes were shining, he could see that Hal believed it, too.
“As much as I enjoy watching Louis wriggling on the hook,” he said, “we’d best rejoin the others so I can end the suspense about my intentions.”
Hal was one of those anxiously awaiting Henry’s judgment, for all knew this was not a genuine peace conference. As the victor, the English king would be the man dictating the terms of that peace, and they would have to swallow his brew, however bitter they found it. He could only hope that his father would be lenient as he followed Henry back into the churchyard.
Henry wasted no time on preliminaries. “I mean to issue a general pardon to all those who took part in the rebellion,” he said, before adding a proviso. “There are four exceptions, however, four men who will not be included in the pardon: the Scots king, the Earl of Leicester, the Earl of Chester, and the Breton lord, Raoul de Fougeres. They will have to bargain for their freedom, and only after I feel they can be trusted to honor their oaths.”
There were murmurings of relief, for all who owed homage to Henry had been well aware that he could have charged them with treason. Hal edged over toward Will Marshal to murmur sotto voce, “See, I told you that there was no cause for concern. I knew my father would not punish you for being loyal to me.”
Will hadn’t been so certain of that, and he was savoring his reprieve. Pray God that he’d never again be forced to choose between his king and his young lord. “We were lucky, my lord,” he said softly, “so very lucky.”
Hal thought that remained to be seen, for his father had yet to announce what provisions he’d make for his sons. “The first thing I want to do is send for Marguerite. I am sure she was well treated, but my bed has been cold without her. I am not used to sleeping alone.”
Will was not fooled by the flippancy, for he knew how upset Hal had been by his wife’s gilded captivity. Hal was still talking about Marguerite, and Will nudged the younger man, saying, “Your lord father is about to speak again.”
Henry waited until the audience fell silent, until he was sure all eyes were upon him. “Last year I offered what I felt to be generous terms to settle this conflict. Sadly, they were rejected. Circumstances have changed since then,” he said dryly, unable to resist reminding Louis and the Count of Flanders of the respective reality of their positions. “This was a costly war.” How costly he was not going to admit to these men-more than twenty percent of his yearly revenues had gone toward the protection of his crown and kingdom. “Alas, I can no longer offer the same terms that I did last September.”
Addressing his sons directly now, he said, “I think, though, that you will not be displeased with what I am offering. I realize now that I was remiss in not providing incomes commensurate with your titles.” That was an argument he’d often had with Eleanor, a memory he hastily pushed away. “My lord king,” he said to Hal, “I will be endowing you with two castles in Normandy and an annual income of fifteen thousand Angevin pounds, to be spent as you choose.”
Hal swallowed, thinking of how much more he’d been offered last year at Gisors: half the crown revenues of England or Normandy, plus four English castles or six strongholds in their continental domains. Reminding himself then, that this was still a very generous offer from the victor to the vanquished, he smiled and made a graceful acknowledgment of his good fortune and his gratitude.
“I have already discussed this with my son Richard,” Henry continued. “He is to receive two unfortified castles in Poitou and half of my revenues from that province. To my son Geoffrey, I offer half of the income of Brittany, and all of it once he weds the Lady Constance.”
Richard and Geoffrey expressed their appreciation in appropriately formal terms, and Henry smiled to see the three of them standing together, thinking that this was the first step toward the restoration of his fractured family. “Now…there is the matter of my youngest son’s inheritance. I regret to report that I have recently received very sad news from England. Alice of Maurienne, my son John’s betrothed, was taken sick last month and the doctors were unable to save her. We gave orders for a funeral befitting her high birth, distributed alms to Christ’s poor in her name, and this sweet child of God will not lack for prayers that she may soon depart Purgatory for the glory of Life Everlasting.”
The men had not heard of the little girl’s death, and they were quick to offer conventional expressions of sympathy, with many repetitions of “May God assoil her.” There was little surprise, though, for all knew how fragile life was in those early years of childhood. Some considered it remarkable that Eleanor had given birth to ten children in the course of two marriages and only had to bury one.
Hal felt a quick stab of pity for the little girl, thinking how sad it was to die so young, so far from her family and homeland. That was followed by great relief as he realized that Alice’s death rendered John’s marriage settlement moot, which meant there was no longer any need to surrender his castles at Chinon, Mirebeau, and Loudun, the proximate cause of the rebellion. But he felt then a twinge of shame that he could find reason for rejoicing in the death of a child.
“Naturally,” Henry continued, “I hope to make another favorable marital alliance for John. I have decided, however, that he ought to have lands of his own. I am therefore giving him the English castles of Nottingham and Marlborough, as well as five castles in Normandy, Anjou, Touraine, and Maine. This will require, of course, the consent of my eldest son, but I am confident that he will find it acceptable now that we have restored harmony in our family and our domains.”
Hal’s gasp was loud enough for Geoffrey to jab him warningly in the ribs. That reminder alone would not have been enough. But his gaze happened to alight upon his brother Richard, who was watching him with malicious satisfaction. Richard’s smirk acted as a lifeline to pull him back from defiant disaster. “If it pleases my lord father,” he mumbled, “it pleases me.”
Henry had not expected any other response. “Ere we commit these terms to writing, I think it advisable to renew acts of homage. As for my sons, I will gladly accept homage from Richard and Geoffrey, but I waive this act from my eldest son, in recognition of his rank as a crowned king.” He’d thought that Hal would be very pleased by this boon, this public recognition of their status as peers. Hal showed no enthusiasm, though; he was staring at the ground, his face hidden by a sweep of fair hair.
Turning his eyes away from his son, Henr
y looked coolly at the Count of Flanders. “I believe, my lord, that you have a charter to relinquish, one that gave you a claim to my castle at Dover and the county of Kent.”
After receiving Count Philip’s assurances that it would be forthcoming, Henry decided then to give them food for thought-an example of what he could have demanded had he been vindictive or vengeful. “From here, I expect to return to Falaise to continue negotiations with the Scots king. I am willing to grant his freedom, but after such savage raids against my English subjects, I understandably feel the need to demand proof of his future good will. He will not be released from confinement until he acknowledges himself as a liegeman of the English Crown and agrees that the Scottish Church shall be subordinate to the Church of England. I shall require also that the Scots earls and barons do homage to me against all other men, and if King William should default in his fealty to me, his liege lord, the Scots lords and bishops will hold to me against the King of the Scots, and in such an event, the Scots bishops shall place Scotland under Interdict until the Scots king repents of his disloyalty. Lastly, to guarantee the safety of my borders, I will take possession of the Scots castles at Roxburgh, Berwick, Jedburgh, Edinburgh, and Sterling, with the costs of garrisoning them to be paid by the Scots treasury.”
There was utter silence when he was done speaking, as his adversaries pondered the sad fate of the Scots king and the fearful consequences of defying the man who was King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou, Poitou, Touraine, and Maine, Lord of Ireland and Wales, liege lord of Brittany, now restored to the good graces of the Church and the favor of St Thomas of Blessed Memory.
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