It was some time before the archbishop had a moment to himself, and he accepted gratefully when one of his archdeacons proffered a wineskin, for by then his throat was sore and his voice hoarse. He could not remember ever being so exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Nor could he ever remember feeling such a sense of peace. The Bishop of Tripoli had joined him, saying, “I confess I did not see the cross in the sky myself. By the time I looked, it was gone. But none would argue that this has been a day for miracles.”
The archbishop glanced at his friend and then across the field, where the kings of England and France were being mobbed by their supporters. “The greatest miracle,” he said with a smile, “was getting those two to take the cross.”
Constance knew she was sprinkling salt into an open wound, but she could not seem to help herself. Lying awake in the dark of a cold February night, sharing her bed with a stranger, she could not keep her memories at bay, could not stop comparing her two wedding days. She remembered well how unhappy she’d been as she struggled to play the role of Geoffrey’s blushing bride. Looking back upon it, she realized that her barons had not shared her discontent. By then they’d had six years to take Geoffrey’s measure, had a better idea of the man she was marrying than she did.
This time around, the Bretons and she were of one mind-embittered that the English king had forced his own man upon them. They’d not bothered to make much of a pretense of amiability either, proof that they expected the young Earl of Chester’s influence to be limited in scope. The duchy was bilingual, with Breton and French both in widespread use. The Breton tongue was more likely to be heard in the western areas such as Leon; lords such as the de Vitres and the barons of Fougeres were native French-speakers, as Constance herself was. But the wedding feast had resonated with the sounds of Breton, an effective means of isolating their new duke, for Randolph of Chester spoke only French. He had spent enough time in Brittany, though, to understand the insult he was being offered by his wife’s vassals.
Randolph stirred and Constance stiffened, listening intently until his soft, even breathing assured her that he still slept. Even though their initial coupling had not been a success, giving her no pleasure and him very little, she knew that with youths of eighteen, the flesh was always willing and a naked woman in his bed would be a temptation he was not likely to resist. His eagerness had been part of their problem; she could tell he was embarrassed by how quickly he’d spilled his seed. Geoffrey had taught her well and she could easily have shown him those tricks a man could use to prolong his pleasure. But why should she? She’d wanted only to get it over with as quickly as possible, for it had been harder than she’d expected-having to submit to the wrong man’s intimate caresses. Her mind may have accepted the unwelcome reality of her marriage, but her body still felt violated.
It had not helped that she’d felt Geoffrey’s presence so strongly, that her memories had been so merciless. It was too easy to envision Geoffrey watching from the shadows, offering a sardonic commentary on Randolph’s lovemaking. She knew she had to exorcise him from her head and heart if there was any hope of reaching an accord with her new husband. She knew, too, that she might even feel a flicker of pity for Randolph if she let herself, for he was laboring under some severe handicaps-thrust into a land that was not his own, having to cope with vassals who did not want him there and a worldly older wife who did not want him, either.
But if his plight was awkward, what of her own? Widowed at twenty-five, left with three young children to raise and protect on her own, caught between the French and English kings like those ancient sailors forced to brave the perils of Scylla and Charybdis. Where was the fairness in that? Was it fair that Geoffrey had died so needlessly? That he’d left his wife and family in such peril? Was it fair that she must now share her body and her bed with this callow lordling? That she would never again know the pleasures to be found in a man’s arms?
Unlike her first wedding, when she’d abstained from wine to be sure she’d be able to govern her tongue, she’d lost track of the cups she’d drained this night, hoping that if she were tipsy enough, she’d find it easier to submit to Randolph. It hadn’t helped much. She was definitely not sober, but all that wine had done little to dilute her misery. If she ever did get to sleep, she’d likely awaken in the morning with a wretched headache, too, what Geoffrey had called “the drunkard’s penance.”
Was he going to haunt her like this for the rest of her days? Go away, Geoffrey, she entreated silently. Please go away. Do you truly want me to go away, darling? She knew it was not really his voice that was echoing in her ears, but it sounded so real, so like him. “No,” she whispered, “no…” and shut her eyes tightly as she tried to squeeze back her tears.
Later in the month, Henry convened a council at Le Mans, where it was decided that a tax would be levied upon a tenth of all the movable property and revenues of his subjects, what would be known as the Saladin Tithe and would become extremely unpopular even among churchmen. Those who took the cross were exempt from the tithe; any debts they owed were postponed until their return, and their property was taken under the protection of the Church. Men found themselves under increasing pressure to take the cross, and those who did not were mocked and presented with distaff and wool as an obvious slur upon their manhood. Crusading fervor swept through Christendom, and rulers vowed to set their differences aside and unite for the defense of the Holy Land.
It was expected to take well over a year to make the necessary preparations, but Richard was not willing to wait that long, and he sought Henry’s permission to raise money on the security of Poitou and to receive public acknowledgment of his status as heir apparent before he departed. But Henry insisted that Richard wait, arguing that they should travel to the Holy Land together. Richard’s demand for official recognition was once more brushed aside. Richard was not dissuaded and began to make his own arrangements for an early departure. It was then, though, that another rebellion broke out in Poitou, begun when a friend of Richard’s was slain by Joffroi de Lusignan and quickly joined by the Count of Angouleme and Geoffrey de Rancon. Richard swooped down upon them, once again captured the impregnable castle of Taillebourg, sparing the captured rebels only when they agreed to take the cross.
Richard had little time to enjoy the resumption of peace in his duchy, for his old enemy, the Count of Toulouse, seized this opportunity to make trouble, maltreating Poitevin merchants passing through his lands. Richard retaliated by capturing one of Count Raimon’s closest advisors and refusing all of the count’s offers to ransom the man. Count Raimon then arrested two English knights making their way home from a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Outraged by this sacrilegious attack upon pilgrims, Richard launched a major assault upon Toulouse, capturing seventeen castles with impressive speed and driving his army into the heart of Raimon’s domains.
An alarmed French king then came to the defense of his liegeman and raided into Berry. To the dismay of the Church and those men who’d pledged to recover the Holy City, the accord reached at Gisors seemed about to go up in the smoke of burning towns in Toulouse and Berry.
July had been an inclement month so far, and the castle at Sarum was being buffeted by high winds and thunderstorms. Eleanor had been surprised by Henry’s unexpected arrival that week, for Sarum was out of his way; he was planning to sail for Normandy in response to the latest crisis and his fleet was awaiting him at Portsea. Her transfer to Sarum had shown Eleanor that she was back in her husband’s bad graces, because of his deteriorating relationship with Richard; each time his son dared to defy him, his suspicions invariably spilled over onto her, too. But during his brief stay at Sarum, she’d come to the startling conclusion that he’d made a deliberate detour in order to bid her farewell. She’d attempted to find out if he was ailing again, to no avail. No one was better than Henry at giving evasive responses to questions he did not want to answer, and she finally decided that as he aged, he was coming to share the natural anxiety of
all sensible people when making a Channel crossing.
That theory lasted no longer than his announcement that he planned to sail if the winds were in his favor, the rain and choppy seas notwithstanding. Gazing at her husband in exasperation, she could only shake her head in feigned disbelief. “If it is your destiny to drown, why do you need to give fate a helping hand?”
Her scolding sounded so familiar that Henry could not help smiling. “Since when have I let bad weather interfere with my plans? Have you forgotten that we sailed in a God-awful storm to claim the English crown?”
Eleanor remembered that turbulent voyage all too well, although it seemed so long ago that it might have happened to two other people. Knowing it was futile to argue once he’d made up his mind, she focused instead upon the crusader’s emblem stitched to the shoulder of his mantle. “Well, they say the Almighty looks after those who’ve taken the cross, however halfheartedly they took their vows.”
He was not offended by her gibe, for Eleanor was the only one with whom he could be truly honest about the crusade. Even with close friends like Willem, he could not confess his misgivings, for Willem had already undertaken one pilgrimage of his own and was eager to undertake another. Nor could he confide in his sons, for Richard’s crusading fever burned fiercely and he did not feel comfortable talking to John man-to-man, his instincts still to shelter his last-born.
“If you think I was halfhearted,” he said, “you ought to have seen Philippe Capet trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm. I think he was convinced that I’d taken the cross just to spite him. But one of the few advantages of aging is that you learn to recognize when defeat is staring you in the face, wearing an archbishop’s miter. Not even Merlin himself could have escaped that trap.” Moving to the window, he pulled the shutter back to gaze out at the dismal, rain-drenched bailey. “I do care about the recovery of Jerusalem, Eleanor. But I cannot help putting the interests of my own kingdom first. Philippe and I are struggling against the tide, though, and all we can do is try to stay afloat.”
Eleanor could sympathize, for Poitiers mattered more to her than the Holy City. Moreover, Louis’s disastrous crusade had raised doubts in her mind about the efficacy of such a quest. “It is not always easy to be a good Christian and a good king.” Unable to resist adding, “Or a good father and a good king.”
“Or to be a good mother and a good wife,” he shot back, and she acknowledged his riposte with a wry smile.
“That is not as difficult as you seem to think, Harry. Let me prove it. Let me tell you a simple way to resolve your differences with Richard and restore peace, both to our family and your empire.”
He raised a brow. “Can you also turn water into wine?”
“No, nor can I turn a rebellious, resentful son into a respectful, contented one. But you can, Harry, and it would be so easy. You need only make a public declaration that Richard is your heir, to be king after you. That is all it would take.”
“You just proved my argument for me. If I were foolish enough to take your advice, Richard would benefit greatly, all at my expense. If there were no longer any doubts about the succession, I’d have no leverage at all, no way to exert any influence over Richard.”
“But you’d not need leverage if you formally named Richard as your heir, for he would have no grievances then. All he wants is his birthright. As your eldest surviving son, he is entitled to inherit the kingdom in his turn. You need only say so, without evasions or equivocations, and you remove the main cause of contention between you.”
“I’d like to give you the benefit of the doubt, assume that you honestly believe what you’re saying. How can I, though, when you know the sorry story of Richard’s past history fully as well as I do. Does your memory really need refreshing, Eleanor? Must I remind you that last year’s near-war with Philippe ended with Richard riding off with him to Paris? Or that all reports had them acting closer than brothers? Have you forgotten what Richard did next? He rode to Chinon, seized the treasury I kept there, and hastened into Poitou to fortify all his castles against me.”
Henry had been endeavoring to sound matter-of-fact, but he betrayed his inner agitation by the color rising in his face. “And that is not the half of it. Richard never fails to believe the worst of me. Indeed, I think it gives him pleasure. He nurses his suspicions the way a miser hoards his coins, and nothing seems too far-fetched for him to believe. I have even heard that he suspects me of providing money to the Poitevin rebels and the Count of Toulouse. Supposedly I am the mastermind behind all the strife in his duchy, hoping to create enough unrest to keep him from going to the Holy Land.”
“Oh, my,” Eleanor said, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “You know, that sounds just devious enough to have come from your brain, Harry.”
“I did nothing of the sort!” he snapped, so indignantly that she could not doubt his sincerity on this much, at least.
“I believe you. But you cannot blame Richard for giving it some credence. You’ve always been too clever by half, Harry, and now you are reaping what you’ve sown. You’ve spun such fine webs over the years that I suppose it was inevitable you’d eventually ensnare yourself in one.”
“I am glad that you find this so amusing.”
“Believe me, my lord husband, I find nothing even remotely amusing about any of this. I will not deny that Richard trusts you no more than you trust him. But why is that? Because of your determination to keep him in suspense about his heritage. Because you gave him reason to think you were considering Geoffrey in his stead and you continue to raise suspicions with the favor you show John. Because you even sought to take Aquitaine away from him!”
“I meant to deprive him of nothing! I was only trying to provide properly for Johnny, as any father would. You keep blaming me for not acknowledging Richard as my heir. Well, I offered to do just that after Hal died. But Richard scorned the offer, surely the only man in Christendom who’d choose a duchy over a kingdom!”
“Dear God in Heaven!” Eleanor was staring at him in dismay. “You have not given up on that, have you? You still hope to coax or coerce Richard into yielding up Aquitaine to John!”
He was too angry to deny it. “What if I do? As you delight in reminding me, Aquitaine is your legacy. It makes more political sense to have it ruled by its own duke, as Brittany is. If Richard becomes king, he’ll have little time for personal rule over that hornet’s nest of rebels and malcontents!”
“‘If Richard becomes king?’ That truly goes to the heart of the matter, to your reluctance to anoint your successor. The only thing worse than not learning from your mistakes is learning the wrong lessons. Richard is not Hal, and your refusal to see that may end up costing you dearly!”
He glared at her, then swung around to stalk out. He halted at the door, though, standing motionless for a moment and then slamming his fist into the heavy oaken wood. When he turned back to face her, his mask was gone. “Do you think I wanted it this way? I loved my father dearly, never imagined that my sons would not love me.”
“Ah, Harry…”
“I lost Hal and then Geoffrey, and Richard…he was always yours, never mine. If it were not for Johnny…Can you not see why I want to do right by him? He is all I have left.”
She was shocked by what he’d just done, dropping his defenses to give her a glimpse of an open, bleeding wound. Crossing the chamber, she came into his arms. He held her so tightly that it hurt and they stood like that for a timeless moment, one in which they recognized all that still bound them together and mourned all that had been lost.
When Henry released her and stepped back, he was once more in control of himself. “I would ask you to come with me to the Holy Land,” he said lightly, “but it has been agreed that women are to be banned from the expedition, save only laundresses of good character.”
“My legacy, I daresay,” she said with a smile. “Apparently the stories of my pilgrimage with Louis have passed into legend.” He smiled, too, encouraging her to make one last
attempt. “Harry, I am imploring you to give some thought to what I’ve said. There is still time to make things right with Richard.”
She’d half expected him to react in anger again. Instead, he took her hand in his, pressed his lips to her palm, wondering if their marriage might have been different if she’d given to him the utter, unconditional loyalty that she gave to Richard. “I hope Richard realizes how fortunate he is to have you as his advocate.”
She almost told him the truth, that her fears were not for Richard. Time was Richard’s ally, not his. But she knew he’d never forgive her if she admitted that she saw him now as the vulnerable one. So she said only, “I will pray for your safe voyage to Barfleur.”
Henry sailed in a violent storm, but he found conditions no less turbulent upon his return to Normandy and the rest of the summer was taken up with skirmishing, raids, threats, and futile peace conferences. At one held near Gisors that August, it went so badly that Philippe angrily ordered the ancient elm tree be chopped down. A second meeting in October at Chatillon-sur-Indre was no more successful. It began promisingly, with the agreement that Philippe would return the gains he’d made in Berry and Richard would relinquish his conquests in Toulouse. But then Philippe demanded that Henry surrender his castle at Pacy as a “good faith pledge,” and the council broke up in acrimony.
Richard’s frustration grew by the day, for he could not depart for the Holy Land as long as this sporadic war raged between England and France. He received some unexpected support that autumn when the Count of Flanders, the Counts of Blois and Champagne, and other French lords balked at continuing to wage war against their fellow crusaders, and faced with the defection of a large part of his army, Philippe reluctantly agreed when Richard proposed another peace council at Bonsmoulins in November. Henry was willing, too, and Richard set the plans in motion. But he was determined to end this impasse one way or another, and he had a secret parley with the French king before they were to gather at Bonsmoulins.
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