“It did surprise me,” Henry admitted, “to hear Hal speak so harshly of Philip of Flanders. I’d not go so far as to say Hal idolized the man, but he did seem rather fond of the ground upon which he walked. So this is quite a reversal.”
Geoffrey was laughing. “Have you ever known a spurned lover to take rejection well? Philip spent years cultivating Hal’s good will. For certes, he did not pay for Hal’s tournament expenses out of the goodness of his heart. Hal’s nose is out of joint because Philip has dropped him like a hot coal in favor of a more promising prospect, young Philippe.”
Henry frowned, for he did not want to see Hal’s outrage as personal pique; that implied Hal’s sense of justice was only engaged when his self-interest was. Why was it that his sons were so critical of one another? “Do you agree with Hal’s appraisal of Philippe?”
“Yes…up to a point. I think Hal is too quick to put all the blame on Philip. Philippe may be callow, and God knows he lacks Hal’s style or Richard’s swagger. But he is no man’s fool and no man’s puppet. He knows his own mind, Papa. I do not believe he’d have heeded Philip unless he also believed that his uncles exercised too much influence at Louis’s court. Paris is rife with rumors that Philippe means to take the seneschalship away from Thibault and bestow it instead upon Philip. But if there is any truth in that, it would be like ridding your woods of foxes by bringing in a pack of wolves.”
Henry leaned back in his seat, his expression pensive. “Men have always observed how closely Hal resembles my father, and he does have the same coloring and features. But I think you are the one who is most like him.”
Geoffrey glanced up with a surprised smile. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You should, for I’ve known few men as shrewd or as astute as my father. It is not too much to say I owe him my kingship. It is true that my blood claim came from my mother, but if my father had not won Normandy at the point of a sword, I may not have been able to win the English crown. Because he did take Normandy and then turned it over to me, Stephen’s barons were forced to choose between their English and Norman estates, and his support began to bleed away.”
“At the very least, I doubt Maman would have agreed to wed you if you were not already Duke of Normandy and not merely the Count of Anjou’s heir,” Geoffrey said daringly, and was both pleased and relieved when Henry laughed.
“You’ve got my father’s sense of humor, too, lad. He always had a feel for the vitals.”
As far back as he could remember, Geoffrey had looked at his world with oddly dispassionate eyes; sometimes he felt as if he were watching someone else’s life. He knew that he was about to make a mistake, but he’d never before experienced a moment of emotional intimacy like this with his father, and he could not help himself. “You were not yet seventeen when he handed Normandy over to you.”
Henry stiffened, for he knew where this was going. “That ground has been ploughed over and over again, lad.”
“But I need to know, to understand. Your father could have held on to Normandy until you were of age, and few would have blamed him. Why can you not do the same for me and my brothers?”
“Because-” Henry broke off and shook his head. “Let it be, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey couldn’t. “Papa, I need to know!”
“Because-because I cannot trust you and your brothers the way my father could trust me!” The bitter words were no sooner out of Henry’s mouth than he wished he could call them back. “I did not want to say that,” he said at last, “but you kept pushing…”
“I wanted an honest answer,” Geoffrey said slowly, “and you gave me one. I’ve no cause for complaint.” But even as he sought to make light of it, he was shaken, for he’d recognized a truth that did not bode well for the future. The wound inflicted upon his father by their rebellion had not healed, would never heal. And that meant his father would never be willing to share power, not until he drew his last mortal breath.
Philippe’s relationship with his family and nobles continued to deteriorate, as more and more of his barons became alarmed at the influence wielded by the Count of Flanders. Philippe had announced plans to have his new queen crowned with him that June on Whitsunday. But Philip advised him to have the coronation performed earlier so that none could hinder it, and Philippe and Isabelle were secretly crowned by the Archbishop of Sens at the abbey of St-Denis on Ascension Day. As French kings were traditionally crowned only by the Archbishop of Rheims, Philippe’s uncle was outraged by the slight, and war seemed more and more likely until Henry persuaded the young French king and the count to meet him near Gisors in late June.
The day was hot and despite the shade offered by the tree known as the peace elm, the men were soon sweating. Henry found himself reminded of the many times he and Louis had assembled here in past years. It seemed strange to see Louis’s place taken by this fledgling. Philippe was still two months shy of his fifteenth birthday, still in that awkward gangling stage, his pallor hinting at his serious illness last summer, his face framed by a halo of tousled brown hair, bristling like a hedgehog’s quills. Henry could see little of Louis in the boy.
Henry’s patience was fast fraying, for he’d made what he considered a very fair offer, agreeing to make peace with Philippe upon the same terms that he and Louis had accepted three years earlier at Ivry. He knew he’d surprised them, for he was known to take ruthless advantage of an adversary’s weaknesses and Philippe’s vulnerabilities would have been obvious to a blind man. They were quite willing to avoid hostilities with England, but they were balking at one of his conditions-that Philippe reconcile with his mother, Queen Adele, and her brothers.
Philippe was letting Philip do most of the talking, but he was watching Henry intently, taking in every word, every gesture. Unlike his father, his face was not a window to his soul, and Henry noted approvingly that it was impossible to know what he was thinking, for that was a valuable skill in a king, one Hal had so far failed to master, much to his disappointment. Glancing up at the sun, he measured the passing time, and then said in an abrupt change of tone:
“I think it will be in all our interests if we speak frankly, cast aside the ambiguous, elusive language of statecraft. I need not point out, my lord Philippe, that you may be facing the Devil dogs of rebellion and war if an accommodation is not reached with me and your royal kinsmen. That would not be an auspicious way to begin your reign. And you take the risk that I may not always be feeling so benevolent. The time might well come when I can no longer resist the temptation to profit at the expense of your youth and family troubles.”
Philippe’s eyes flickered, but he showed no other reaction. Philip was scowling openly. “Is that meant as a threat?”
“A threat, a warning, call it what you will,” Henry said, and then, like the others, he was turning to watch the approaching riders. As they drew nearer, it became evident that one of them was a woman, and when Philippe’s face suddenly flamed with color, Henry hid a smile, knowing that the young king had recognized his mother. Sauntering over, he gallantly helped the French queen to dismount.
Adele of Blois had been only fifteen when she’d wed Louis, and twenty years later, she was still a strikingly handsome woman. Moving toward her son, she made a graceful curtsy. “My lord king.” And when she added, “My son,” Philippe no longer looked like the ruler of a great realm, more like an errant youngster whose sins were about to be made public.
“I thought it was time,” Henry said blandly, “for mother and son to talk face-to-face, without intermediaries or mediators.” Draping his arm around Philip’s shoulders, he suggested that they go for a walk in order to give the French king and queen some privacy. The Flemish count’s body was rigid, resistant, but Henry was not to be denied, and Philip reluctantly let himself be led away once he realized that it would take physical force to disengage the English king’s grip.
“Let’s get out of the sun,” Henry said amiably, “so we can talk candidly.” Moving into the shadows of a leaf
y willow tree, he leaned comfortably against the trunk as he regarded the Count of Flanders. “I cannot say I blame you, Cousin. A gyrfalcon coming across a newborn lamb alone and unprotected will want to make a meal of it. But once the gyrfalcon realizes that the flock’s ram is close at hand, it flies off in search of easier prey.”
“Very amusing,” Philip said coldly. “You are enjoying this.”
“Actually, I am. There are times when the exercise of power can be very gratifying, Philip.”
“I am Philippe’s godfather and, now, his uncle by marriage. That gives me the right to offer him advice and counsel and comfort.”
“Need I remind you that your mother and my father were sister and brother? That makes us first cousins, but that would hardly give me the right to meddle in Flemish affairs, would it?”
“I know what I can get from Philippe. What can I get from you, Cousin?”
“We once had an agreement under which I paid you a yearly fief-rent of one thousand pounds in return for the service of five hundred of your knights. I am willing to renew that agreement.”
Philip considered the offer. “Why should I settle for that when I can obtain so much more?”
“Enough about offers and profits and benefits, Cousin. Let’s speak instead of debts, of what is owed.” There was no longer any amusement in Henry’s voice. “For years you did all you could to estrange me from my eldest son. You owe me a blood debt, my lord count, but until now I have made no effort to collect it. You might want to think about that, think about it long and hard.”
Philip was ten years Henry’s junior, had effectively ruled Flanders since he was Philippe’s age. Renowned for his knightly prowess on the battlefield and in the tournament, he was not a man who was easily intimidated. But he was also a realist, one who’d always known when it was time to fish and time to cut bait.
Correctly interpreting his silence, Henry said, “I think we understand each other. Shall we go back and see how the family reunion is going?”
Emerging from the willow’s screen, they walked without speaking for several moments. They were soon close enough to see that Philippe and Adele had drawn apart from the others and were conferring quietly together, their faces earnest and intent. Seeing the last of his hopes fluttering away on the wind, Philip came to a sudden halt. “At least you can tell me why you are doing this for Louis’s son. I am entitled to that much.”
Henry had stopped, too. “Because,” he said, “there were none to do this for my sons.”
Louis Capet, seventh of that name to rule France, died on September 18 of that year at Barbeau, the Cistercian abbey he’d founded, and Philippe’s reign officially began.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
July 1181
Winchester, England
Eleanor had just finished dictating a letter to a scribe. “Thank you, Edwin,” she said, and as he departed, she exchanged a look of amused understanding with Amaria, both of them sharing the same thought: that her circumstances had definitely taken a turn for the better. She was permitted to write and even to receive letters now, although she was sure that they were read before being dispatched or delivered. Henry had named Ralf de Glanville as his new justiciar, and she was technically in his custody, although Ralph Fitz Stephen continued in his role as her warden. She’d confided in Amaria that she suspected de Glanville was interpreting the rules of confinement as generously as possible, for he’d struck her as a highly capable man with an eye for the main chance, one too shrewd to make an enemy of their future king’s mother.
“I was writing to my daughter in Castile,” she told Amaria. “Not yet twenty and already the mother of two. My grandchildren are certainly getting singular names: Berengaria and Sancho, Richenza, Lothair, and Otto.” She wondered if there’d ever be an Eleanor. Hal would name a daughter after her if Harry was dead, but would he dare do so whilst his father lived? Richard would, and Geoffrey…mayhap; her third son remained the one she found hardest to read.
“We may as well go down to the great hall,” she said, “for the dinner hour is fast approaching.” Amaria was helping her adjust her wimple when they heard footsteps in the stairwell, and a moment later, the Countess of Chester was announced.
Eleanor’s delighted smile faded at the sight of her friend’s face. “Maud? What is wrong?”
Maud’s eyes filled with tears. “My son…Eleanor, my son is dead.”
“ Drink this, dearest,” Eleanor urged. “Amaria fetched it from the buttery just for you.” She’d held the other woman as Maud wept, knowing there were no words to ease so great a grief. When Maud felt like talking, she listened; when she did not, Eleanor kept silent, and gradually the story emerged. Hugh had taken ill soon after Easter and his condition steadily worsened. He died a fortnight ago at his manor in Staffordshire, only in his thirty-fourth year, leaving a young widow, an eleven-year-old son, and four daughters. Death came for them all in God’s Time, but Eleanor thought it was harder to accept when it came in a man’s prime. Parents should not outlive their children.
“I’ve done my share of mourning.” Maud’s sobs had subsided, but tears still streaked her cheeks. “I lost my parents and my husband, though widowhood was a blessing of sorts. Then Roger was taken, as were all of my brothers except Will, the worst of the lot. Until now I thought my greatest heartbreak was my son Richard, that he never lived to manhood. But now Hugh is gone, too, and all I have left is my daughter.”
“Not so. You have Hugh’s children. And Bertrada, for you’ve often said she is more like a daughter than a daughter-in-law. She is going to need you, Maud, with five children to raise on her own.”
“Hugh had a fine crop of bastards, too,” Maud said, smiling sadly, “four that he acknowledged as his. He’d want me to make sure they were taken care of…Ah, Eleanor, how have you done it? How have you survived nigh on eight years of confinement without going mad with grief or rage or sheer boredom? Teach me how, dear friend, teach me to accept God’s Will as you have done.”
“It is an ongoing struggle, Maud. Too often I have days in which my captivity seems to be Harry’s will, not the Almighty’s. But I persevere, for as a wise Welshwoman once pointed out, what other choice have I?”
“What choice do any of us have?” Maud acknowledged, and they talked for a while of her son, finding comfort in memories of happier times. They spoke, too, of Eleanor’s first husband. Eleanor admitted that she prayed for Louis’s soul, which convinced Maud that she had indeed learned to let go of many of her earthly grudges. Eleanor also shared sad news of her own, that her daughter Marie had been widowed that February. The Count of Champagne had been captured in the Holy Land and although the Emperor of Byzantium ransomed him, his health had suffered in captivity and he’d died on his way home to France.
“Enough,” Maud cried at last. “No more talk of death or regrets or unhealed wounds. Tell me something cheerful, something hopeful, even if you have to make it up!”
“As it happens,” Eleanor said, with a sudden smile as luminous as her eyes, “I do have good news-a letter from my daughter Joanna. She is with child.” And Maud discovered that she could take solace from that, from this reassuring proof that the circle of life was eternal and her son Hugh would live on in his children until the day that they’d be reunited at God’s Throne.
As Morgan and his elder brother walked along the quays of the Rouen waterfront, they were attracting glances from passersby, and Bleddyn finally noticed. “These Norman maidens are bold ones,” he joked, “for they are definitely looking you over, lad.”
Morgan grinned. “I’ll not deny that women find me irresistible, but you’re the one drawing all the attention. They are not accustomed to seeing men with mustaches but no beards, are doubtless wondering what odd and alien land you come from.”
“Passing strange that you should say that, Morgan, for I find the sight of your beard to be just as odd. Who knew you were old enough to shave?”
“Clearly your memory is failing in your old age
,” Morgan shot back, “if you’ve forgotten that I turned seventeen in February.” As much as he was enjoying this brotherly banter, he was somewhat surprised by it, too. Bleddyn was almost thirteen years his elder and they’d never before bandied jests and gibes as equals, so he was particularly pleased that his brother was no longer treating him like a fledgling newly fallen from the nest.
When Bleddyn had first sought him out at the castle, he’d gone cold with fear, terrified that he was bringing word of a family tragedy. To his vast relief, Bleddyn assured him that their parents were quite well; he was here with the Lady Emma, who had stopped in Rouen on her way to visit her young son at Laval. Morgan had been astonished to learn that Bleddyn was now serving Emma’s husband, given the long-standing hostility between Davydd ab Owain and their father.
Bleddyn had laughed at his surprise, assuring him that Davydd was actively pursuing friendly relations with the English Crown and Ranulf’s status as the king’s favorite uncle mattered more than his past friendship with Davydd’s slain brother Hywel. Nor did he see any difference between his serving the Prince of North Wales and Morgan’s serving the English king’s son, he’d pointed out dryly. And Morgan had conceded defeat, stopped bedeviling Bleddyn about the loathsome Davydd, and took him out to see the city of Rouen.
So far he’d shown Bleddyn the marketplace, the partially completed cathedral, the archbishop’s palace, and the belfry tower from which two alert monks had spotted the French king’s sneak attack and rang the great bell “Rouvel” in time to alert the citizens and stave off attack until Henry could come to their rescue. Bleddyn did not have any particular interest in Norman towns, but he was willing to indulge his young brother and listened patiently as Morgan bragged about the leper hospital Henry had built five years ago and the stone bridge paid for by his mother, the Empress Maude, and the fact that Rouen had once been a Roman outpost known as Rotomagus. But when Morgan suggested that they visit the tomb of William the Bastard in the Abbey of St Ouen, Bleddyn balked, and expressed his desire to find a tavern, the sooner the better.
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