“Of course.” The monk retreated before Henry could ask the identity of this son, and as he waited, he entertained himself by trying to guess which one it might be. Not Johnny. Not Richard, either, for it would not even occur to him to ask for permission; he’d just sweep on into the crypt. Nor would Hal have sought permission. His innate good manners had succumbed to a more pressing need-to show the world that he was a king in deed as well as name, his father’s equal in all matters. So that left one of his Geoffreys, he concluded, and was pleased to be proven right a few moments later when Geoff came into view.
“What a welcome surprise, Geoff! When did you get back to England?” Struck by a sudden ominous thought, he did not wait for his son’s reply. “You are not bringing word that Philippe has died?” And when Geoff shook his head, he sighed with relief. “Thank God for that. I do not see myself as craven, but I would not want to be the one to tell Louis that his son was dead.”
“I came straight from Tours, did not even know Philippe was ailing until I landed at Southampton. It was good of you, Papa, to let the French king make this pilgrimage. When I think of all he did to turn your sons against you, I would not have been so generous.”
“Not all of my sons, Geoff-not you,” Henry said fondly. But as he studied the young man, he felt a prickle of unease. “You may not be bearing sad tidings about Philippe, lad, but you’ve come to tell me something I’d rather not hear.”
Geoff blinked. “How did you guess? Can you read my mind?”
“No, but I can read your face. What is it, Geoff?”
“My news is indeed sad, Papa. On August 9, the Bishop of Worcester died at Tours.”
Henry sucked in his breath. “Roger? God in Heaven…” He turned aside as he fought to get his emotions under control, and then sat down heavily upon the closest seat, which happened to be the archbishop’s tomb. Geoff took an anxious step forward, remembering that St Thomas had punished a young boy for falling asleep against his shrine. But he decided then that the martyr was willing to allow his father liberties that he’d deny to other men, and came forward, dropping his hand to Henry’s shoulder in a mute gesture of comfort.
“Tell me,” Henry said huskily, “how he died.”
“The Archbishop of Tours was accompanying Roger to Rome for the Lateran Council, but he fell ill in Paris and had to turn back,” Geoff said dutifully, for he’d been rehearsing this speech since he left Tours. “Upon his return from Rome, Roger journeyed to Tours to see how the archbishop was faring. He became ill himself soon after his arrival and died at the abbey of Marmoutier not long afterward. He was buried with great honors in the abbey church of St Martin.”
“One of the world’s bright lights has gone out,” Henry said, after a long silence. “My cousin was a good man and a brave one. He alone dared to tell me that I was not blameless for Thomas’s murder, for he was never intimidated by my temper or my rank.”
“I remember your telling me of the time you and he quarreled on the road over Thomas and over Hal’s coronation. You said that when you shouted at him, he shouted right back, and when some of your courtiers sought to curry favor with you by denouncing him, you flew into a rage, saying ‘Do you think, you villains, that if I say what I please to my cousin, you and the rest can insult him?’ And you and Roger then rode off in perfect harmony.”
Henry nodded. “I remember that day well. I remember, too, another time that we quarreled because of Thomas. He’d excommunicated my chancellor, Geoffrey Ridel, and of course that meant other Christians could not consort with him. When Roger encountered Ridel during Mass, he turned around and walked out. I was angry that he was heeding Thomas and not me. I lost my temper, Geoff, and ordered him from my domains. Another man would have tried to make peace, to beg my pardon. Roger said his foot was already in the stirrup and stalked off. I soon calmed down and sent a messenger to recall him. But damned if he would come! It took three messages ere he’d deign to return and I had to make sure that Geoffrey Ridel did not come into his presence for the remainder of his stay.”
Henry smiled sadly. “I often thought that it was a pity he’d not been my uncle Robert’s eldest son instead of his youngest, for he’d have made a far better Earl of Gloucester than that boneheaded William. But then, that would have been a great loss to the Church.”
Henry had dropped his head into his hands. When he looked up, Geoff saw that his eyes were wet. “Did I ever tell you my favorite story about my cousin, lad? Roger was on his way to see me when he came upon two wretches being held outside under armed guard. He always had a cat’s curiosity and stopped to see what was happening. He was told that these men had gotten drunk in an Eastcheap tavern and uttered words insulting to the king. They had sobered up by now and were scared out of their wits. Roger told them to deny nothing, to admit what they’d said and plead for mercy.”
Geoff had never heard this story, and he said, “What happened then?”
Henry grinned. “They were brought before me and freely confessed that they’d called me ‘evil tempered’ and a ‘miser’ who wanted to tax Londoners of their last drop of blood. Whilst I was considering this, one of them added, ‘And that was nothing to what we would have said if the wine had not run out.’ Of course I laughed, and then sent them on their way. Roger later denied that he’d put words in their mouth, but that sounded so like him that I never believed it.”
Geoff grinned, too. “That does sound like Cousin Roger,” he said, chiming in with a story of his own about the bishop’s dagger-sharp humor, and they stayed for a time in the cathedral crypt, mourning Roger the way he would have wanted-laughing through tears.
Philippe recovered from his illness and was crowned at Rheims by his uncle the Archbishop on All Saints’ Day. Henry’s three oldest sons attended the coronation. Hal carried the crown for his young brother-in-law and then held it steady for Philippe during the ceremony once he realized it was too heavy for the boy. But Louis could not attend. He’d suffered a stroke soon after his return to France, one which left him unable to speak and partially paralyzed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
April 1180
Reading, England
Upon learning that Geoffrey would be returning to England that spring, Ranulf and Rhiannon decided to make the long journey from Wales, for they’d not seen Morgan in more than a year. Since Henry published his itinerary a month in advance, they knew he’d be at Reading, and arrived at the Cluniac abbey of St Mary and St John the Evangelist on an overcast afternoon in early April.
Ranulf rose early the next morning, as was his habit, choosing to let his wife sleep in, for it had been an arduous trip for them both; he was sixty-one now and Rhiannon only a few years younger, and he knew the day would be coming when they’d not be able to chase after their son or the king like this. Upon his entry into the guest hall, he was delighted to be told that Hal and Geoffrey had arrived late the night before, after he and Rhiannon had retired, and instead of breaking his fast, he went in search of his son.
He had no luck until he found Will Marshal in affable conversation with Abbot Joseph. Morgan was with the king, they told him; he had offered to show his young kinsman their family tombs, for not only was the abbey’s founder, Henry’s grandfather of blessed memory, buried here, so was the son who’d died at age three, and more recently, the Earl of Cornwall. Ranulf headed for the gatehouse that connected the north and south garths, and entered the church. Not finding Henry and Morgan within, he lingered long enough to say a prayer at his brother Rainald’s tomb, thinking that the most burdensome aspect of aging was that a man had to bury so many of his friends and loved ones.
Exiting via a side door into the cloisters, he came upon his son and nephew. They were laughing together in one of the carrels, tossing a coin back and forth. At the sight of his father, Morgan hastened over to enfold Ranulf in a boisterous embrace; the latter was startled to realize that Morgan was now the taller of the two.
“The king has been telling me about the new silver p
enny,” Morgan exclaimed, with the enthusiasm that was a large part of his charm; he was invariably curious about all things, great and small. He showed his father the coin, with a short cross on one side and on the reverse, the king’s crowned head, under the inscription Henricus Rex. “This is one of the first to be struck, as they are not to be exchanged for the old coins until Martinmas. He says I can keep it, too, so I’ll have the only one in England for the next seven months!”
He paused, then, to glance questioningly back at Henry. “It seems like a lot of work and trouble, my lord. Why not just continue using the old coins?”
“Over time, they become debased, Morgan,” Henry explained. “Knaves file the edges off the coins and melt the clippings down to make counterfeit coins, so they are not worth as much. Sometimes, too, the moneyers who operate the mints cheat, mixing the silver with cheaper metals when they make the pennies. Coin clipping is a serious offense, and those caught pay dearly for it, but greed can entice men into all sorts of lunacy.”
Ranulf inspected the new penny; since no Welsh princes minted their own money, these coins would be circulating in Wales, too. “I appreciate your tutoring Morgan in money matters, Harry,” he joked, unable to resist teasing his son. “Judging from the way he spends, he needs all the lessons he can get.”
“All of today’s youth are money-mad,” Henry said cheerfully. “Compared to my lads, though, Morgan is as frugal as a Cistercian monk.”
Morgan smiled dutifully, for he knew he was expected to acknowledge adult humor, no matter how lame, and Ranulf felt a surge of pride in his son’s good manners. When he suggested that Morgan go to the guest house and greet his mother, the youth still remembered to excuse himself politely before he went dashing off to find Rhiannon.
“He is growing up so quickly,” Ranulf said, his the bittersweet satisfaction of a father recognizing that his son is fast approaching the borders of manhood.
“Be thankful for it, Uncle. Lads his age are vulnerable to so much-their own foolhardy impulses and, even worse, the calculating flattery of men eager to take advantage of their youth and inexperience.”
Ranulf assumed Henry was thinking of his own wayward sons, and made a sympathetic murmur of agreement, all the while hoping that Morgan would show better judgment than his royal cousins. But then Henry said that Philippe’s youthful mistakes were likely to haunt him well into his manhood if something was not done, and Ranulf realized that he was speaking of the fourteen-year-old French king, not Hal and his brothers.
“I did not know about the French unrest,” Ranulf said, “until we stopped in Chester to ask Maud to accompany us. The only news that had trickled into Wales was of Louis’s apoplectic seizure and Philippe’s lavish coronation.”
“I wish you could have persuaded Maud to come with you.”
“She took Roger’s loss very hard,” Ranulf said quietly, and Henry nodded somberly, saying that they all had.
Ranulf still found it difficult to talk of Roger’s death, and nudged the conversation back to the subject of the French turmoil. “Maud told us that Philip of Flanders has been hovering over young Philippe like a hungry hawk, and Philippe has stopped listening to anyone else, including his mother and his uncles. Is it truly as bad as that?”
“Worse,” Henry said, and as they began to stroll along the cloisters walkway, he told Ranulf about the troubles at the French court. “Philippe is ruling as if his father were already dead, with the ever-helpful Philip there as guide and tutor. His first act was to dismiss all of Louis’s councilors and replace them with men of his choosing-or Philip’s, depending upon whom you believe. The lad is now in Flanders with Philip, waiting until Lent is over so that he may marry Isabelle of Hainault, Philip’s ten-year-old niece.”
Ranulf whistled. “How did Adele and her brothers react to that?”
“About as well as you’d expect. Adele was so disquieted that she began to fortify her dower lands. When Philippe heard that, he gave orders to seize her lands, and she felt threatened enough to flee to her brother Thibault in Blois.”
“Jesu,” Ranulf whispered. How could a family tear itself apart like this? Had the French learned nothing from Harry’s feuding with his sons? “Poor Louis…”
“Wait until you hear the rest, Ranulf. Hal and Geoffrey brought with them a truly amazing letter, from the French queen Adele and her brothers, the Archbishop of Rheims and the Counts of Blois and Sancerre, entreating me to come to their aid.”
Ranulf was dumbfounded. The houses of Blois and Anjou had been enemies even before Stephen of Blois had stolen the English crown from Henry’s mother. That they should now be seeking to ally with England’s king against their own son, nephew, and sovereign seemed utterly incomprehensible to him.
Henry read his thoughts easily enough, and smiled grimly. “I know, Uncle. The world has gone mad. I realized that as I stood in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral and listened to the French king beg me to intercede with Thomas. After that, I did not think anything would surprise me. But I was wrong.”
Ranulf shook his head slowly. “What will you do, Harry?”
“Damned if I know.”
Abbot Joseph had turned over his private quarters to the king, and Henry and Geoffrey were seated in the abbot’s bedchamber, listening as Hal raged about the shameful way Louis was being treated.
“They even took away Louis’s chancery seal, Papa, so that he could not revoke any of Philippe’s acts! It is outrageous enough to dishonor an anointed king like that, but the man is Philippe’s father. How can he be such an ungrateful wretch?”
Henry was beginning to think that he was the only one still able to recognize or appreciate irony. But he noticed then that the corner of Geoffrey’s mouth was twitching, and it reassured him that at least one of his sons could see the madness of this moment. As their eyes met, Geoffrey smiled and shrugged, and to Henry, that rueful acknowledgment meant more than the formal public apologies he’d gotten from his sons at Michaelmas 1174.
“Marguerite is distraught,” Hal confided. “In truth, the blame does not lie as much with Philippe as it does with the Count of Flanders. He has the boy doing his bidding as if Philippe were one of his lackeys instead of the King of France. It is pitiful, like watching a fly caught in a spider’s web!”
Henry had rarely seen his son so irate, and he wondered how much of Hal’s indignation was on Marguerite’s behalf, for he did not think Hal was all that fond of his father-in-law. “You both have the advantage of me,” he said, “for you know Philippe better than I do. Tell me more about him. What sort of man is he likely to become?”
“An annoying one,” Geoffrey drawled, and Hal grinned.
“Geoff’s assessment is not kind,” he said, “but accurate. Of course, in fairness to Philippe, he is young yet, so there is still hope. If I did not know he was fourteen, though, I’d swear he was forty, for he is so very serious and earnest about everything. And he can be a bit of a prig. Not only does he not curse, he has actually forbidden swearing in public, and anyone who does must pay a fine of twenty sous! He is the only person I’ve ever met-male or female-who is uneasy around horses. He has shown no interest whatsoever in tournaments or music or jongleurs, which baffles me exceedingly. And he does not seem affectionate by nature, at least not with his sisters. For certes, he has never shown much warmth to Marguerite, and Marie thinks he is a horse’s arse.”
Henry had never met Eleanor’s eldest daughter, but he decided he’d like her. “You are not painting a very appealing picture of the lad, Hal.”
“I suppose I am not,” Hal conceded. “He does have his good qualities. He is clever enough and well mannered and pious, and he does not seem to hold grudges. But he is also very naive. Putting his trust in Philip proves that, and so does the nonsense he believes about the Jews. Do you know what he told me, Papa? That the Jews meet secretly in caves beneath Paris where they sacrifice Christian children!”
Henry blinked. It had been his experience that only the uneducated
believed the stories of ritual murder periodically raised against the Jews. “I’d heard that he had the Paris synagogues raided and seized all their property. Is that why he did it?”
“Part of the reason,” Geoffrey commented. “He also has a good eye for profit, and he told me he plans to cancel all the debts that Christians owe to Jewish moneylenders, whilst reserving to the Crown one-fifth of the amount. He assured me, though, that he will be calculating the sum on the debt principal only, not wanting to benefit by usury.”
“You are making him sound like a hypocrite,” Hal protested, “and in this I do believe he is sincere, that he well and truly hates the Jews. His father always protected them, even protesting to the Holy Father when the last Lateran Council forbade Jews to hire Christian servants. Philippe is very critical of Louis’s leniency, and he does not look kindly upon your policy toward the Jews either, Papa. He told me he disapproved greatly of your decision to allow English Jews to be buried in other towns than London.”
“I daresay I can live with Philippe’s disapproval,” Henry said. “The Jews often serve as bankers of the Crown, and Louis understood that. Philippe will learn that lesson the hard-”
“Be that as it may,” Hal interrupted, “you must find a way to free Philippe from Philip’s baneful influence, Papa. I promised Marguerite that we’d do what we could for her father.” He’d moved to the open window and, catching sight of several of his knights crossing the garth, he found a reason to excuse himself, and was soon striding out into the sunlight, calling to Will Marshal and Peter Fitz Guy.
Henry was pleased when Geoffrey remained, for he wanted to get his younger son’s views of the French crisis. “You did not say that much,” he observed, and Geoffrey smiled, saying that few men could compete with Hal or Richard in laying claim to a conversation.
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