Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  He was somewhat surprised when Philip had his men wait outside, and as soon as they were seated, he could not resist a sardonic gibe at the Flemish ruler’s expense. “Since you want to speak in private, should I assume, Cousin, that you are thinking of switching sides? There is little love lost between you and Philippe, after all.”

  Philip gave him a sharp look and then smiled, somewhat sourly. “True enough. My relationship with the French king is almost as stormy as yours with the English king.” Taking a taste of his wine, he nodded approvingly. “It would be a shame to see your Poitevin vineyards go up in flames when you can produce wines like this. Look, Richard, let’s speak plainly. Your interests are not being well served if this standoff results in a bloody battle. Despite your father’s games-playing, we both know England will eventually be yours. But so will Normandy and Anjou. Is it truly wise to make an enemy of the man who will be your liege lord?”

  “What would you suggest, instead? That I betray my father to court favor with Philippe? You’re losing your touch, Cousin, if this is your idea of subtlety. Shall I also renounce my Christian faith whilst I am at it?”

  Philip’s smile did not waver, even as he marveled to himself that the genial Hal and this man could have come from the same womb. “Sheathe your sarcasm, Cousin. I am asking only that you talk directly with the French king, see if you can persuade him he will gain little and risk much by taking to the battlefield. I in turn will do what I can to get your father to see reason.” Adding wryly, “And may God have mercy upon us both.”

  Richard had been acquainted with Philippe Capet since the latter was four, but as he studied the French king, he realized that he did not really know the younger man. They had little in common. Philippe was stiff-necked and judgmental, disapproved of swearing, had shown little interest in those pleasures that other men enjoyed. He denounced tournaments, disapproved of gambling and minstrels and troubadours, and did not even hunt much because he disliked horses. To Richard, a superb rider and swordsman who loved music and swore like a sailor, Philippe seemed as alien as a Carthusian monk. But he knew Philip of Flanders was right; he would eventually have to deal with this man and so it made sense to find out more about him.

  So far they’d been dodging and weaving, using polite language and courtesy to guard their real thoughts, and Richard was growing tired of evasions and ambiguity. As he looked into the French king’s pale blue eyes, he saw what his brother Geoffrey had also seen-a cool, calculating intelligence. Making up his mind then, he said, “Let’s talk about my real reason for being here. You and my lord father are far from fools, so I assume you will eventually agree to a truce. How much longer must we wait?”

  “What makes you think I am bluffing?”

  Although Philippe’s tone was composed, Richard noticed that his hands had briefly clenched upon the arms of his chair. So the French king was sensitive to slights upon his manhood. He marked that down as a useful fact to know and set his wine cup aside, leaning forward in his seat.

  “You are bluffing for the same reason that my father is bluffing, because neither one of you wants to risk all upon one throw of the dice. I am paying you a compliment, for no capable commander commits his men to a pitched battle unless he is confident he will win or he has no other choice. Hellfire, Philippe, even I do not want to fight at Chateauroux and you know what they say of me-that I get drunk on bloodlust the way other men do on wine!”

  Philippe looked taken aback, but when Richard grinned at him, he grinned back. “Let’s talk then,” he agreed, “about how your father and I save face and come away with enough to satisfy us both. And when this is done, I would like you to visit Paris…as my honored guest. I got to know both Hal and Geoffrey, would like to know you better, too.”

  I daresay you do, Richard thought, for what better weapons can you have against my father than his own sons? “I will give it serious consideration,” he promised, and as soon as he said it, he realized that he meant it.

  “ So if I agree to let Philippe hold on to the castles he took at Issoudun and Freteval, he will agree to a two-year truce?” When Richard confirmed it, Henry regarded him skeptically. “And what do I get out of it?”

  “You get what you want,” Richard said impatiently, “a chance to defer your reckoning with Philippe. That is your favorite tactic, after all, Papa…delay and delay and delay again. It has served you well in the past; think how long you’ve managed to keep Philippe in suspense over Alys and the Vexin.”

  “Are you telling me that you now want to wed the girl? Or that you’re willing to hand over the Vexin?”

  “I was not being critical of your stratagem,” Richard insisted. “Of course I am not willing to yield the Vexin to Philippe. And since I have no great interest in wedding Alys, what else can we do but put Philippe off? What I am saying is what we both know, that you do not want to meet the French army on the field. So how much time are you willing to waste here whilst you and Philippe swap threats? Of course we can always go with one suggestion being bandied about-that you resolve your differences by choosing your best knights to joust on your behalf. The last I heard, men were proposing Philip of Flanders, Henri of Champagne, and the Count of Hainault as the French champions, and Will Marshal, your friend de Mandeville, and me as yours.”

  By now Henry and Richard were both laughing, for in that, they were in full agreement: that war was not a game and ought not to be treated like one. “Very well,” Henry said, “let him keep those damned castles…at least for now. I’ve matters to deal with in Brittany, cannot spend the rest of the summer camping out here in Berry.”

  Henry paused then, looking pensively at his son. “We can accomplish a great deal when we are united, Richard. If there is trust between us, what could we not do together?”

  If that was meant as an olive branch, Richard made no move to grasp it. “Yes,” he said, “trust is essential,” but he knew better, for he knew the old man would never trust him. Once that awareness had hurt, but no more. He no longer cared if he had his father’s trust or respect. He wanted only what was his birthright, to be openly acknowledged as the heir to the English throne, and he meant to do whatever he must to secure his legacy…starting with a trip to Paris.

  Leon was one of the most remote, inaccessible areas of Brittany, and its viscount had liked to boast that he “feared neither God nor man.” He’d long posed a threat to ducal control of Brittany, and more than once Henry had led campaigns to quell his rebellions. He’d eventually broken faith one time too many and Geoffrey had seized the barony, compelling the viscount to make a penitential pilgrimage to atone for a lifetime of spectacular sins and disinheriting his sons. Upon Geoffrey’s death in Paris, the sons promptly rebelled again, capturing two ducal strongholds. After concluding the truce with Philippe, Henry led an army into Brittany and retook the castles. He then visited Nantes in order to see his grandson.

  Henry was cradling Arthur in his arms, looking for the moment more like a doting grandfather than the man who cast such a formidable shadow over Brittany. Constance was neither charmed nor placated by this glimpse of her father-in-law’s softer side and had to dig her nails into her palm to resist the urge to snatch her son out of his grasp. The Breton barons were just as unhappy and, like their duchess, more angry than grateful for his punitive expedition into Leon, as his campaign only underscored their subordination to the English Crown. Not that they needed a reminder, for after Geoffrey’s death, Henry had dismissed Raoul de Fougeres as Seneschal of Brittany and replaced him with the Angevin lord, Maurice de Craon.

  Arthur, a curious, lively baby, seemed content in this stranger’s embrace, but Constance was reaching her breaking point and signaled to the nurse, hoping Henry would take the hint. He did and reluctantly handed his grandson over to the woman, saying to Constance, “I think he looks like Geoffrey, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Constance’s elder daughter was tugging at Henry’s tunic. He’d brought lavish gifts for the children: an e
xpensive ivory rattle, carved wooden tops, whistles, felt puppets, balls, and poupees for the girls, one of linen and the other of wood, with yellow yarn hair and their own wardrobe. What had won Aenor over, though, was his willingness to kneel on the ground and show her how to spin the tops. Now she brandished her favorite new toy, a leather ball stuffed with wool and dyed a bright shade of red, entreating her grandfather to “play catch” with her.

  Before Constance could intervene, Henry assured Aenor he’d like nothing better, and clasping her little hand in his, he suggested that he and Constance take a stroll in the gardens. This did not meet with the approval of her barons, who had been sticking closer to their duchess than her own shadow, but Henry had already started for the door, matching his pace to Aenor’s toddler’s steps, and Constance had no choice but to follow.

  The day was overcast without even a hint of a breeze, for so far September had been as humid and sultry as August. With Constance’s spaniel leading the way, they crossed the castle bailey and entered the gardens, fragrant with the last flowering of summer blossoms. Constance settled upon a turf bench, watching with a stiff smile as her daughter and the English king tossed the ball back and forth. He showed surprising patience with the little girl, continuing to play until she lost interest and began to throw the ball for the spaniel. Only then did he return to Constance and drew her to her feet, saying that they could talk as they walked.

  They circled the grassy mead in silence, for Constance was not able to feign pleasure in his company; she thought he should count himself lucky that she managed to be civil. Henry paused in the shade of a pear tree, for it afforded them a good view of Aenor, but was distant enough to allow them to speak privately.

  “I have been dealing with the duchess,” he said, “but now I would talk with my daughter-in-law. You have never liked me, Constance, and in all honesty, you have not given me much reason to be fond of you either. But we share a common interest that matters more than our personal ill will.”

  “Yes…the Duchy of Brittany.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “That, too. But I am speaking about your children, my grandchildren. Their future is inextricably entwined with that of the duchy, and I want to make sure that they do not suffer because of adult missteps or mistakes.”

  “What mistakes do you have in mind?”

  “For one, the decision Geoffrey and you made to ally yourselves with the French king.” Henry’s voice was even, his face impassive, as if he were speaking of mundane matters, not the rebellion of his son. “As a stratagem, it had much to recommend it, with one great flaw. It had hopes of success only if Geoffrey lived to carry it out. Without him, you were likely to find yourself at Philippe’s mercy, and that is indeed what happened.”

  Constance said nothing, and after a moment he resumed. “Philippe has made his intentions very clear. He means to deprive you of both legal and physical custody of your children. He will send the girls off to live in the households of their future husbands, men he will handpick for them. I would expect him to keep Arthur in Paris, ruling on his behalf until he comes of age. For your duchy, that will be more than twenty years with Philippe’s hand firmly on the helm, twenty years in which to mold your son into a ruler who’d put the interests of France above those of Brittany. As for you, he’ll marry you off as quickly as possible to a man of his sole choosing, possibly even one of inferior rank since his primary concern will be the loyalty of your new husband, and you can expect to live out your days on a remote manor far from the Breton borders-”

  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 t
alking 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 Fougeres and Andre de Vitre coming toward her. She took several deliberate breaths, then rose to her feet and went to meet them.

  Henry had been shocked and alarmed when Richard departed Chateauroux 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.