Richard fingered the gold medallion at his chest. “I don’t think so.”
“At least we can be glad he no longer has an ally in Prince Geoffrey,” de Mandeville said, sounding proud of his logic.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Richard answered. “If Geoffrey did plan the overthrow of Normandy himself, who do you think was beside him all the while, whispering words of encouragement into his ear?”
“You’re a soldier,” Henry taunted, “but you talk like a girl! Maybe you don’t have the balls to go against Capet, but I do. I handled Louis and I can handle him. If you weren’t so damned anxious to prove you’re right about Philippe, you’d know that.”
It all had such a familiar sound. Anger had faded to a sick feeling of discouragement and suddenly Richard felt very close to tears. “I am right,” he answered, “but by the time you come to understand that it may be too late—perhaps for all of us.” He held up his hands as if to dismiss himself from the entire situation. “Do what you wish. Sit here and debate with these men who are afraid to call you wrong. Bully them with your office. Talk all night. Talk all week. But remember this, Henry, it won’t change anything. You are cosseting your own destruction. You don’t need my help.” He turned and began walking toward the door.
“Sit down!” Henry barked, “I haven’t finished with you.”
Richard halted abruptly and his spine went rigid, but he didn’t turn around. “I have. I won’t stare straight ahead as you walk blindly into the trap Philippe Capet has set for you. Settle it yourselves. I want no part of it. Goodnight.”
“Richard!” Henry shouted, and then louder, “RICHARD!!”
The word echoed back upon the closing of the door. The king lunged forward, striking the table over and over with his fist. Godfrey stood at Henry’s elbow, looking down at him with pitying eyes. Walter and de Mandeville said nothing.
John bowed his head and fiddled with his signet ring in silence. The memories were alive inside of him; boiling, and they tasted like vomit in his mouth. He laid his head upon his folded arms and closed his eyes.
From the chapel below her bedroom, Constance could hear the sounds of Easter mass being celebrated by the household as she held her newborn son to her breast. A sense of calm settled over her mind and body. The pain was over now, forgotten, and weariness was sweet as she suckled her baby boy. This was her hope, her future. Someday he would inherit all that was hers. Nothing, no one, could take that promise from her.
The mid wives bustled about the room, oddly quiet in their tasks, but Constance was aware of only one other person in the room. At the foot of the bed stood William Desroches, her chancellor. Constance smiled at him and offered her right hand as he came closer. He squeezed it in a firm grip of admiration. “You are a brave woman, Constance,” he told her. “All of Brittany salutes you for your courage.”
Faint tears of appreciation stung her eyes. Throughout these past few months William had been her constant friend, her bulwark. It had not been easy for her to carry the child of a dead man beneath her breast. Grief at her husband’s death had been further complicated by the interference of Henry Plantagenet. He had sent a never-ending set of written directives to her, insisting she forswear her allegiance to Philippe Capet once her child was born, and promising war if she did not.
The King of France was not particularly to her liking: Constance wondered at his motives, as she wondered at the motives of all men. But he had been her husband’s friend, and because of that she trusted him. For the time being her son would be safer in the legal care of France than England. But someday this tiny child would hold Brittany, and hopefully when that day came he would owe himself to neither sovereign. She felt she could not wait till that day came. It would be her own liberation from a lifetime of political indebtedness.
In his communiques Henry had made it known that if her child was born a boy he should be named for him. Yet another Henry! Constance had thrown each letter into the fire and watched it burn. Let Henry Plantagenet burn as well, cast into hell where he belonged! Her child would not be named for him. Her child would bear a name that marked him as one of his own people.
Smiling weakly she looked up at William, then down at her child. Already she loved him with such a fierceness it made her heart ache. “Arthur,” she murmured sweetly. “I shall call him Arthur.”
“Welcome to Paris, my lord of Mons.”
Isabel smiled up at Gilbert as he took the hand she held out to him. He kissed the fingers, lingering over the delicate skin he’d come to love so long ago. Then he released her hand and stepped back to admire the changes in her.
Isabel was more radiant than he remembered.
This was no longer the nymph who had enthralled and tempted him. Isabel was truly a woman now; seventeen, and at the zenith of her beauty. She’d grown taller, though not by much, and her splendid figure was displayed in a tight-fitting azure chainse with clinging neckline and low-hanging girdle. She was voluptuous, but with delicate bones that marked her as an aristocrat. The essence of her sensuality, which he so well remembered, had been enhanced by marriage and motherhood.
He had never wished so much that she belonged to him.
It was early May. Two weeks ago at Mons, Gilbert had received a letter from Isabel. She was carrying her husband’s child once more and this one would be a son. She knew it with all the instincts of a woman. Further assurance had come to her in the nature of a dream, wherein angels had drawn a boy child from her womb and wrapped it in a cloth of gold.
Obsessed by the knowledge that she carried Philippe’s heir beneath her breast, Isabel had decided the time for repentance was at hand. She needed to cleanse herself with God’s forgiveness in order to be ready for the great honor awaiting her in October when she bore Philippe’s son.
There was a problem though, for Isabel could not trust one priest or other member of the clergy in all of France with her secret transgressions. The admissions of the confessional were private, yes—but she was too shrewd to think that the information might not, in some way, be used against her. Philippe knew some of it but he did not know all, and that was the way she wished to keep it. A few pieces of silver to line the almoner of an untrustworthy priest—that was all it would take to bring her down completely.
But Gilbert would keep her secrets. Whatever she revealed to him would be for their ears alone, and God’s. Isabel could have her forgiveness and her privacy too, and Philippe need never know. She explained all this to Gilbert as she led him by the arm to the private chapel in her room.
He told her he would do exactly as she asked.
She prayed silently for a quarter of an hour while Gilbert donned his chasuble and set out the holy tools of his work. When the time for confession came, Isabel knelt before him and told all there was to know.
When she had finished, Gilbert absolved her with Christ’s blood and body and administered a blessing on her cheek with holy water. She hugged her prayer beads to her heart, kissed the hem of Gilbert’s gonne, and knew that she was saved.
Henry gathered up one thousand of his Norman knights and took them south. Since the early days of May, King Philippe’s men had swept through Berry like a fire gone wild. Now they lined the borders of Maine and Tours, all the way south to the city of Chateauroux, in preparation to march on Aquitaine.
The King of England had tried to forestall events with all weapons of diplomacy that had been so useful to him in the past. In April the two kings had met at Gue St. Remy, where Philippe had made deliberately excessive demands. He claimed legal custody of Brittany and the infant Arthur; the right to retake the Vexin, the complete removal of all English troops within fifty miles of any border of the royal French demesne, or any fiefs held in trust by the crown. There was yet another condition: Richard would marry Alais Capet immediately, or all her dowry—lands and money—would be returned at once.
Philippe could afford to make the dictates: everything was in his favor. He had assembled a tremendous army,
and there was a promise of more men from the imperial forces in Lombardy. All of Europe was watching: waiting, cautious, unwilling to cross the French king lest they regret it later.
In mid-May the Count of Flanders deserted to King Henry’s camp. He had his reasons, and in any case it was but a small annoyance to Philippe. Flanders would be back, once he found Henry had nothing worthwhile to offer him. Meanwhile the threat of open war was growing. The French were in position to attack a half-dozen English strongholds on the continent, and it was doubtful that Henry would be able to hold them back.
Richard had been right all along.
The boy was a man now, and he would not be stopped.
Henry flung Philippe’s most recent message to the ground. “I don’t understand how this happened!” he wailed. “I should have stayed in England and got clear of this mess.”
Richard slumped into a camp chair beside his father. “I hardly think that would have been possible. Wherever you had chosen to be, ‘this mess,’ as you call it, would still be upon us.” He glanced uneasily at Henry. “I did try to warn you.”
Yes he had. But it made no difference now. Two days ago King Henry’s forces (led by de Mandeville, Richard, Godfrey and John) had flooded into the city of Chateauroux, and driven back Philippe’s men a few miles to the south—a meagre victory. Now both armies were encamped on either side of the Indre River. The knights and other fighting men waited upon the word of their commanders, while the commanders sent terse messages back and forth across the lines, and schemed in secret behind the cover of their tents.
“Philippe’s demands are preposterous!” Henry grumbled. “How can he dare to claim Brittany—and my grandson—for himself?”
“If the reports from Brittany can be believed, the barons are more than willing to name Philippe as custos for the duchy,” Richard answered. “If that will keep him at bay it might bear our consideration.”
“No!” Henry shouted, leaping to his feet. “I will not give up what is mine to him without a fight! If you tell me to do otherwise you are no help to me.” He threw a woollen cloak about his shoulders and went to the edge of the tent. He stood there for a long time, his gloved hand holding the canvas flap aside, letting a little of the spattering rain fall at his feet. He was staring across the black line of the river at a landscape he could not see, wondering when everything had begun to go so wrong, and why he was powerless to stop it.
Behind him he heard Richard smoothing out the discarded piece of paper; then, just as Henry had done, he threw it aside. The two of them were silent for a long while. There was very little left for them to say that had not already been spoken.
Henry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could fulfill one of Capet’s conditions.” He turned abruptly, facing Richard. “If you were to marry Alais …”
That was as far as he got. “No,” Richard shouted back, “I will not marry Alais and you know the reason why I will not. Do you really think I would shame myself with such a union? Do you take me for a fool?”
“She is your fiancee,” Henry reminded him.
“She is your mistress! John’s too, no doubt; the two of you share everything.”
Even in the dimness Henry’s eyes looked tired and bloodshot. “Don’t be such a prig. What do you care if the girl’s no virgin? You don’t like women anyway. You don’t even have to bed with her if you’re too dainty for the task. Just do your duty as a prince and marry her.”
“No!” Richard shouted, “forget it. You’ll have to make some other bargain with Philippe.”
“Very well,” said Henry, hostility in his voice. “I’ll find another way.”
Long after Richard had gone to his own tent, Henry lay wakeful, trying to ignore the pains that ran like scars up and down his legs. Oh, for the softness of his bed at Chinon and the comfort of a woman’s arms! He was too old to bear the rugged indignities of a soldier’s life.
Yet here he was, and it was too late to leave. That would give Philippe his victory no matter what happened on the field. Everyone would say, Henry is afraid. And they would be right.
But perhaps there was still time to avert the unhappy conclusion he had so often visualized these past few weeks. It was possible there would be no battle … but that would mean bowing to Capet’s ridiculous demands. Was there another way? Henry was tired, too tired to rationalize his situation. If only there was some solution. Perhaps. Perhaps.
Sleep was coming, stealing into his mind like a guilty friend returning. Henry rolled over on his side and pulled a wool coverlet close about his ears. He was shivering; even wearing his sheepskin bliaud and covered with the blanket he was shivering.
It was so cold for May.
Richard was with his father the following afternoon when Godfrey came to announce two visitors from the French camp.
“Show them in,” Henry answered brusquely, then when Godfrey had gone out he turned to Richard. “Stay here and observe my method. I was awake most of the night trying to come up with a solution to our situation—”
His words were interrupted as Godfrey ducked back into the tent and held the flap aside for two tall, well-dressed men. Richard recognized them both: William of Rheims and Theobold of Chartres.
Henry greeted them with a solemn nod of his head, though he did not rise. To Godfrey he said, “Bring chairs for the Count of Chartres and His Grace of Rheims …”
Richard stood with his back turned, symbolically distancing himself from the situation. The men seated themselves with dignity. Theobold spoke first.
“We come as envoys from our royal nephew as you requested. It is Philippe’s understanding that you have a proposal for us.”
Henry bowed his head and swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat. “I have only this to say, and ask you to carry back my words to your king: For many years I have been a sinner, but now it is my will to repent of all my wrongs and reconcile myself with God. In order to achieve this I wish to travel to the Holy Land to fight against the pagans who assail our faith. I cannot do this unless the King of France will grant me a truce, in order that I might fulfill my pious obligation without fear of sieges by his armies while I am away. Tell this to your king also: that if he will not grant me two years’ grace in which to accomplish this, it is he who must answer for the state of my soul before God.” Having said this speech. Henry leaned back in his chair and covered his face with quivering hands.
William and Theobold looked at one another, passing unuttered thoughts between them. They had not been swayed by Henry’s words: this was obviously a bluff and it was difficult for either of them to pretend belief. William coughed to gain the king’s attention. “I shall tell Philippe what you have said. But I cannot guarantee his answer, nor will my brother or I try to influence his mind.” He rose, and Theobold with him. “In any case, my lord, the state of your soul is your responsibility.”
With gracious bows to Henry and his sons, the two men left the tent. Richard and Godfrey stood by in silence, neither of them able to meet the king’s unhappy eyes. He seemed diminished, a waning candle in the wind. He had humiliated himself, thrown himself on the pity of Philippe Capet and his uncles, and now there was nothing more to say.
Henry sat for a while, hands covering his face. All at once he began to shake, then sob, his body heaving till the cloak he wore fell from his shoulders onto the muddied ground.
Philippe had just finished his bath and was dressing when William and Theobold returned. He sat upon the camp bed, stretching out his long legs as he fitted fine chamois boots on his feet while his uncles told him what the English king had said.
“Don’t tell me you believed him,” Philippe laughed when they had finished. “That tale has grown as grey as he has, and well it might. He used it often enough to extract promises of a truce from poor old Louis.”
William waved an artistic hand to intercede. “The point should be well taken nonetheless. Henry is within his legal rights—”
“Don’t speak to me of his rights,”
Philippe snapped as he pulled his bliaud on. “He is getting only a little of what he deserves in return for all the things he did to hurt my father. You both know that; you’ve said it often enough in the past. Don’t turn weak-bellied on me now and expect that I should make things easy for him.” He tossed the mantle about his shoulders and stood before them, scowling darkly.
“What you say is right,” Theobold agreed, “but my counsel to you is this: wait and see if he fulfills his promise. If he does not, then challenge him in the field. If he does keep his word, then you have bought us all some time.”
Philippe sat down before the table that had been laid for him and indicated they should do the same. “I’m not the one who needs time,” he told his uncle. “That is Henry’s worry. Let him meet my terms.”
William mumbled a hurried blessing over the food before turning the conversation back to politics. “He will in time, my boy. But there’s no need to hurry things along.” He broke off a piece of bread and handed it to Philippe. “Be patient.”
The king dipped his bread into a bowl of honey and tasted it before he spoke. “Are you saying that I should withdraw our troops?”
William and Theobold exchanged glances. “Yes,” the bishop said at last, “for the time being.”
Philippe eyed them wordlessly, then drew the dagger from his waist and began to cut his meat with it. “Why?” he asked.
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