The room was suddenly overwarm—the air between them stifling and evil. Isabel’s mind was swimming. Could it be true? It was Gisors all over again. At this moment she could be sure of nothing. For a few moments she sat with her hands covering her face, afraid to move, afraid to think.
Isabel heard him rise, and then he came to stand beside her, draping an arm about her trembling shoulders. She remained resolute and unmoving, as angry with him this moment as she was with her uncle. It had been Gilbert of Mons who had finally convinced Baldwin of the need to forge an alliance with the French. They had all agreed then: Baldwin, Gilbert, Flanders and Philippe. There had been no thought of her. Now it was she who was suddenly the only one who could resurrect a solution.
Even as she turned that bitter thought over and over in her mind Gilbert spoke, standing close behind her, caressing her temples where her hair was silkiest. “You must convince Philippe, Isabel. Tell him what I told you. Tell him to go to d’Alsace and promise to reassert his influence here in Paris. Flanders is a proud man but he is fond of Philippe and can be swayed by him.”
She toyed absently with the fluted silk of his raspberry-colored sleeve. “If I can sway Philippe,” she muttered sadly.
Gilbert bent closer; her senses surrendered to the cinnamon smell of him; his lips brushed her cheek softly. “There is no one you could not sway,” he whispered.
Philippe was sour and unapproachable upon his return from Burgundy. He remained sequestered in his bed for the next week with a violent attack of stomach flu, which he in morbid obsession believed to be food poisoning. He would see no one but de Puiseaux, Sully, and the half-dozen physicians who remained in attendance for the duration of his illness.
It was the third week in October before the young king judged himself able to rise from bed. He celebrated his recovery by making a pilgrimage to St. Denis with Sully, and he did not see Isabel before he left. He had made a purposeful decision to stay away from her.
She was the real reason for his visit to St. Denis; the reason he felt the need to cleanse himself with prayer. His illness had been a crucible, plagued by disturbing dreams—the sleeping evidence of his brooding sense of guilt.
He was guilty, he felt shame. In the past he had known many instances of remorse for his relationship with Harry but that was nothing in comparison to the tottering extremes of emotion he felt for Isabel, had felt ever since he had first beheld her. Since that moment he had known no peace.
Isabel was uneasy. She sensed this new estrangement between them. She was brave enough to seek out an explanation from Philippe but she had not been allowed a single private moment with him since his return from Burgundy. Her only hope was that Philip d’Alsace would abandon his antagonisms against her husband. But she knew it wasn’t likely.
Philippe was pacing fitfully beside the council table as the Bishop of Rheims sat watching the behavior of his willful nephew.
All at once Philippe stopped abruptly and pivoted around to face the serene bishop. “I am sick of you and the rest of your family trying to run my life!” the king shouted. “You’ve done nothing but lambast and harass me ever since my coronation. I am of age now, I am the king and I don’t have to ask your permission for what I do!”
William sighed with exasperation. “Your father was content to have my counsel. The advice I gave you was not in the way of interference but a suggestion. I don’t think it is advisable that you absent yourself from Paris at this time. I know that Geoffrey Plantagenet is your friend, but a trip to Rennes at this time seems extravagant to me.”
“Let me be the one to decide that,” Philippe sneered.
William folded his hands before him on the table and looked with stern fixity at Philippe. “You are the one who is forever suspicious that when your back is turned someone will plunge a knife into it.” Philippe pointed his index finger toward William and defiance was in his voice. “When that happens it will be someone from your family who does it!”
“Stop drawing demarcation lines,” William snapped. “We are your family as well.”
Philippe leaned forward, his palms spread flat atop the table. “Yes,” he answered,“that is my particular misfortune.”
“Your father was content enough with us as kin,” William reminded him.
Philippe gave a derisive laugh. “He loathed you, and himself for giving you such power. But Louis was a great fool—too much of a fool to defend himself against the likes of my mother’s family. But you’ll have no such luck with me, Bishop! I’m not your ward, your plaything, your sycophant! I am king of this land and shall do as I wish in all things! I leave for Rennes today!”
William’s eyes were a sad reflection of his inner feelings. “I don’t know why you see me, your mother and our brothers as your enemies. We are here to aid you, to support you in all things.”
Philippe jerked to a stand-still and glared at William with ill-concealed fury. “Only a bishop would dare to tell such an obscene lie as that! You care nothing for me, least of all for my welfare! The day is coming and coming soon when I shall root out all of you and you shall know who is king in this land! Don’t think because your authority is pope-given that it is inviolate. Sweet blood of Jesus Christ, I would take on the pope himself if he opposed me!”
William reached out to take hold of his nephew’s arm, but Philippe jerked it away. The bishop shook his head in desperation. “You have a great deal to learn about governing. A king is God’s mediator on earth, Philippe—His servant of earthly justice. Your concept of kingship is avaricious, cynical—something taught to you by Philip of Flanders.”
The young king’s black eyes flashed with anger. “Keep his name off your lips, uncle. That business has nothing to do with you!”
William’s calm gaze came to rest upon the far wall where a century-old tapestry depicted a damask-woven Christ suffering in Gethsemane. The bishop held his tongue for a moment, then he spoke. “Not even an earthly king can rule alone, Philippe. He must have God at his head and friends at his side. You seem to think that to rule completely means to rule totally, uncontested and without advice. That is not a just man’s way.”
Philippe’s handsome features were set in haughty determination. “Not your way, surely. You would expect me to give up my powers to you. Oh, you weave a pretty motif, my righteous uncle: you speak of God, of justice, and of indebtedness to both. But your slyness is evident behind the morality of your words. I don’t trust you, I will never trust you!” Philippe began pacing the floor once more, gripping his hands together as though to constrain the full onslaught of his anger.
William’s tone hinted at sadness. “What can I say to convince you that I am not your enemy? How can I prove my loyalty? Secure your trust?”
The answer came from the doorway. “Don’t grovel before that brat, William.” Both Philippe and the bishop turned toward the open archway where Theobold of Chartres stood with Hughes de Puiseaux. The chancellor didn’t move, but the count walked briskly toward them and came to stand beside his brother, though his attention was directed at Philippe, whose answer was a dark glower and a sarcastic remark. “Have you come to teach me my will too. Uncle Theobold? I’ll have none of your advice! I’ve had a bellyful of counsel today.”
Theobold was the least amiable of Adele’s brothers, the least likely to attempt a truce with his young nephew. A few brisk steps carried him to a place directly before Philippe. “My brothers and I have taken all the sauciness from you we intend to take,” he declared sourly. “You had better mend your ways, boy.”
Philippe’s lips twitched angrily. Reaching to the table he snatched up his crown and set it firmly upon his head. “Or you’ll do what?” he snapped. Then he stalked toward the archway where de Puiseaux still stood, an eyebrow crooked in puzzlement. “Come with me!” Philippe spit out the words, and jerked Hughes by the sleeve out into the corridor.
Theobold’s sharp expression hardened into a deeper intensity as he looked down at his brother. “Did you tell him, Wi
lliam?” he asked.
“No.” the bishop admitted. “I am not a party to this, but even so I will not speak against our brother Stephen, or you. Whatever you and he and Flanders have planned has not been confided to me, and I do not wish to hear it,” he lifted his gaze to lock with Theobold’s, “not even from you, brother.”
Theobold was angry, adamant. “That brat has tried my patience for the last time. It is time he learned that putting a crown upon his head does not insure subjugation of all around him, especially us. He needs to be taught a few lessons.”
“He is our nephew!” William argued. “Though his attitude is not what it should be. I have no wish to see France involved in civil war merely to satisfy the greedy lusts of a man like Philip d’Alsace. Why do you wish to join with him? It is because of him that we have been edged out of our rightful roles. He cares nothing for our family. His only satiation will be at avenging the ills he believes Philippe has done him.”
“That is the satisfaction I long for as well,” Theobold answered with finality.
“And I still say I want no part of it,” William insisted. “I will say nothing to Philippe of Stephen’s plans and your own, but neither will I deliver up the Burgundian border to help you.”
Theobold’s voice was cynical, annoyed. “That is your decision to make, my brother. But I tell you truly from my heart, I would rather look to a man of Flanders’s ability, a proven soldier, than to a boy who orders me about like a serf.” He touched William’s shoulder. “Join us . ..”
In his private audience chamber Philippe was speaking in frustrated animation to Hughes de Puiseaux, who listened with indulgence. “Oh, the infernal vicissitudes of this office!” Philippe wailed, his forehead pressed to the wall in despair. “Can a day never pass without insults and humiliation piled upon me by those in my service?”
Hughes placed a reassuring hand on Philippe’s shoulder, his fingers light on the rumpled moss-colored velvet. “Don’t take on like this. Your uncles are noble men. They wish only good things for you.”
Philippe jerked his head up and gave Hughes a fixed stare. “Where did you learn that pretty tale?” he asked scornfully. “In my mother’s bed?” He pulled free of de Puiseaux’s touch. “You are in league with my mother against me! Your loyalty is to her, not to me!”
Hughes managed a smile. “I am not in league with anyone against you. Least of all your mother. It is true that Adele and I are lovers—where is the harm to you in that?” The smile became a cocky grin. “Rather you should be glad of it. How much better for you that Adele be occupied in amorous matters than to be fiddling with the tools of state.”
Philippe sucked his cheeks into hollows. “My mother has the sexual appetite of a she-goat, de Puiseaux. Don’t flatter yourself that you are the only one who warms her bed. But she is hungry in all matters, and it is those matters which touch me.” He turned his face away and muttered, “The day my mother prefers copulation to chicanery you can be sure she’s halfway to St. Peter.”
“Calm yourself,” Hughes replied. “You are not beset by enemies as you seem to think. When you leave Paris today you may do so in full assurance that I will protect your interests while you are gone.” He patted Philippe’s shoulder once more. “Is Isabel going with you to Rennes? Or shall she be remanded to me—” he caught Philippe’s frown and quickly changed the structure of his question, “to my charge?”
“She is going with me. I told you that last week. Are you so lovesick with my mother’s caresses that you cannot keep your wits about you?” He was angry; fear and frustration had pushed him to the very limits of his emotional endurance. Worse even than that was the panic: the terrible dread of losing control in front of others. He succumbed to it too often now. Resentment quickened his resolve to be strong. Philippe drew himself up straight and tall, his long slender neck extended royally. “I wish that I were not taking Isabel with me,” he declared, “but I did promise her in the past that I would. Should I leave her behind now I would have to listen to her constant complaints when I returned.”
“Surely you can command obedience from her,” Hughes offered with a bit of a smug smile. “She is your wife. And she is yet young enough to be ruled.”
Philippe heaved a dismal sigh. “Females are incomprehensible to me. What God was thinking of when He made them, I’ll never know.” His eyes had a distant, troubled look, but then in a second his gaze seemed to snap into focus as he looked at Hughes. “See to all matters for me while I am away. You had better hope for your sake and for my mother’s that you are truly my relied ally. For if I find you’ve been up to any mischief with my uncles against me while I’m gone, you will pay. Every one of you will pay, do you understand that?” He waited only for de Puiseaux’s assenting nod. Then he turned and walked away.
GEOFFREY PLANTAGENET married Constance of Brittany in all proper solemnity at the great cathedral at Rennes on the 13th day of November, 1181. There was little joy for either in this match. Both parties had lost interest in the intervening years since their betrothal. Constance was twenty-one. She had been engaged to Geoffrey for sixteen years.
Hers was a noble pedigree: she was the daughter of the late and formidable Conan IV of Brittany and Margaret of Scotland. By the age of eight Constance had lost both her parents and was thus turned over to the care of her prospective in-laws, to be brought up with the other Plantagenet children. Quiet, intelligent, exceedingly observant, Constance had grown to hate the Plantagenets, all of them, for their pride, their unspeakable arrogance, their terrible greed for power. Much as Marguerite of France and only a little less than the pitiful Alais Capet, Constance was a life-long victim of Plantagenet plunder.
Now she was married to Geoffrey. Physically he was the image of his lovely mother: crystalline green eyes, dark lashes, black curling hair; a wry, wise mouth surmounting a pointed chin. He also had inherited many of Eleanor’s gracious ways: a love of music, a sense of poetry, an artistic spirit of incredible clarity. From Henry he had inherited intellect: a mind hard as a diamond and the smooth, able tongue of a diplomat.
Geoffrey was charming, the most charming member of his family. But his affable, captivating manner was infused with all the personal vanity bred of his mother’s Provencal background; all the unyielding ambition of his father’s Angevin descent.
Eight years earlier Geoffrey (with the support of brothers Harry and Richard) had joined with Philip of Flanders in an all-out rebellion against Henry of England. Flanders had proved quite an influence over Henry’s troublesome sons, who were mesmerized by the Flemish lord’s brilliant circle of chivalry. Philip, with no sons of his own to impress, made a habit of affecting others’. In the end Henry had beaten down the rebellion and made individual pacts of peace with each of his sons, but the erosion of loyalty between Henry and them had left its scar.
Of all the Plantagenet princes, Geoffrey bore the deepest stain of resentment against his father. It was a living, breathing hatred, born of a child’s adherence to his mother’s reviled jealousy; fostered through years of domestic deceptions, betrayals, and family crucibles. The battle lines had been drawn within the familial ranks long ago: young Harry on the side of his permissive, adoring father; Richard clinging firmly in devotion to Eleanor; Geoffrey somewhere in between. Too cynical to be devoted to either of them, too smart and self-seeking to alienate himself completely from either of them, Geoffrey retained a measure of toleration from Henry and Eleanor, while he silently hated them both.
Years ago upon his betrothal to Constance, Geoffrey had been given the promise of his territorial inheritance, Brittany, while his two older brothers claimed the richer possessions of Normandy and Aquitaine. His own purpose in the Great Rebellion of 1173 had been to create a reassessment of that situation and to force his father’s hand. Henry, however, remained obdurate: Geoffrey’s inheritance was Brittany, and Brittany was all that he could expect.
Geoffrey had other ideas but his perspective had changed. He was finished fencing with his f
ather; it was to no avail. He was through with looking to self-aggrandizing opportunists such as Philip d’Alsace; they had no personal stake in such a matter. He was done taking the proverbial crumbs which fell from his father’s royal table; Brittany was a pittance compared with what Geoffrey felt he deserved. He had made an end of trusting his brothers to stand together with him in loyal opposition to Henry’s territorial stinginess. When Geoffrey took his vows on the morning of November 13th, he became the Duke of Brittany. It was the springboard to a new, complex and infinitely more creative political experience than he had been allowed before. This time, however, he had deigned to look outside of his regular circle for a fellow conspirator.
It was a curious family gathering assembled at Rennes, in superficial harmony for the celebration. There was Harry and Marguerite (temporarily reconciled and seemingly affectionate); Richard, Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine—the envy of his generation; then there was young John who was handsome and witty but ignored by everyone in the family save his father; and there was the king himself, and on his arm the remarkable Eleanor, liberally set free for this occasion from her imprisonment at Salisbury. Isabel met all these splendid Plantagenets, and she was totally enthralled.
Constance was polite to her but aloof. Tall and regal in appearance, she stood several inches in height above her husband. Her looks were cast in an attractive mold of cool blond seriousness. Isabel noticed how she responded without friendliness when they were introduced, but she understood the reason. Geoffrey and the others had cast many fascinated glances at the young French queen and Constance was jealous. Isabel smiled a little to herself.
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