When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “And she blamed Louis for that, I daresay?”

  “Wouldn’t you? But by then they’d reached Tusculum, where the Pope did his best to mend the rifts in their marriage, assuring them they had God’s Blessing upon their union and tucking them into bed together to make sure poor dim Louis got the point! When she became pregnant, Louis could not contain his joy, never doubting that the Almighty would at last reward him with a son.”

  “It must have been a nasty shock when Eleanor gave birth to a second daughter. But I’d wager,” Henry added wryly, “that Louis blamed Eleanor and not God.”

  “His counselors did, for certes. The talk in Paris is that a divorce is inevitable. Louis is still resisting-so far. But the marriage is being crushed under a double burden: his conscience and his need for a son. I’d not offer odds on its survival.”

  Ahead lay the wooden stockade that protected the right bank of the River Seine. To Henry’s right, he could see a small chapel, surrounded by weathered tombstones; this open, marshy field was the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents, burial ground for Paris. He instinctively made the sign of the cross, but his thoughts were still focused upon the hapless French king and his beautiful, wayward queen.

  “So Louis is well meaning and out of his depth-shades of Stephen-whilst Eleanor is willful and mayhap wanton. What else need I know?”

  “That she is dangerous,” Geoffrey said and laughed. “Consider yourself warned, lad!”

  Henry laughed, too. “You need not worry. I plan to be on my best behavior in Paris. I shall have to be, since you’re intent upon stirring up trouble enough for the both of us!”

  The heart of Paris was a walled island in the middle of the River Seine, the Ile de la Cite. Its eastern half was given over to God, to the archbishop’s church and lodgings. The western half held the royal palace. In between lay a maze of narrow, crooked streets, by turns mud-clogged or dust-choked, for the ancient Roman paving stones had survived only in patches. These streets were deep in shadow even at midday, for the houses had overhanging upper stories that effectively blotted out the sun, and they were noisy from dawn till dusk, echoing with the strident cries of peddlers, the pleas of beggars, the boisterous tomfoolery of students, the arguments of tradesmen, the barking of dogs, and always, always the chiming of church bells, pealing out over the city in deafening waves of shimmering sound.

  This was Henry’s first glimpse of Paris, and it would be a memory that time would not fade. For the rest of his life, he was to remember the August heat and the clamor and the foul smell of the river, the clouds of white doves circling above the steep tiled roofs as he and his father rode across the bridge known as the Grand Pont, toward the palace where the French king and his queen awaited them.

  The Grand Pont was the finest stone bridge Henry had ever seen, almost twenty feet wide, lined on each side with cramped wooden stalls and booths, most occupied by money changers and goldsmiths. It was crowded with pilgrims and merchants and students, exchanging their coins for the French silver deniers. They moved aside for the Angevins and their entourage, and Henry heard his name and Geoffrey’s bandied behind them. It seemed all of Paris knew they were meeting with Louis. He just hoped that some good would come of it.

  They were on the island now, passing through the gateway into the Cite Palace. A flight of broad stone stairs led up to the great hall. As they reined in, Geoffrey said that he’d heard of knights riding their horses up the steps and into the hall, and for a moment, their eyes met in a glance of mutual mischief. But the temptation was fleeting. Dismounting, they made a decorous entrance into the hall, not without a shared twinge of regret.

  Once stilted greetings had been offered and introductions made on Henry’s behalf, he stepped aside, deferring to his father, for this was Geoffrey’s moment, and he was content to have it so. He welcomed this opportunity to study their adversaries, most of whom he was meeting for the first time.

  Louis Capet, the Most Christian King of France, was in his thirty-first year, but he looked younger, tall and slender, with mild blue eyes and bright blond hair. Henry had heard he often wore a hair shirt, and he could not help speculating whether Louis was wearing one now, under his royal robes. He could think of far better uses for the flesh than mortifying it.

  Louis’s disgruntled brother Robert, Count of Dreux, stood close at hand, glowering at Geoffrey. Rumor had it that he’d returned from the crusade so disgusted with his elder brother’s military leadership that he’d had it in mind to relieve Louis of the burden of kingship. But even if the rumors were true, nothing had come of his seditious ambitions. Mayhap incompetence was in their blood, Henry thought uncharitably, and turned his attention to a more interesting member of the royal family, Raoul de Peronne, Count of Vermandois, seneschal of France, Louis’s cousin and brother-in-law, for the Church had finally agreed to recognize his adulterous marriage to Eleanor’s sister.

  Raoul was much older than Henry had expected, well past fifty. His silvered hair was still abundant, he covered the loss of an eye with a jaunty leather patch, and he had an easy self-confidence that many a younger man might have envied. But Henry could not get past the fact that Raoul must be nigh on thirty years older than Petronilla. He’d long thought their reckless affair was foolhardy. Now that he’d met Raoul, it seemed even more incomprehensible to him. A young heiress with a sister on the French throne, rich lands in Burgundy, and her own considerable charms did not need to settle for scandal and a married, aging lover-and yet she had.

  Geoffrey liked to say that if marrying for lust was foolish, marrying for love was madness. For his age, Henry had a fair amount of experience with lust, none yet with love, but he saw no reason to doubt his father’s jaded assessment of matrimony. He wondered if the impetuous, passionate Petronilla was in the hall, for he was looking forward to meeting her. And he wondered, too, if she and Raoul still thought it had all been worth it.

  Standing at the rear of the dais, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, was a man Henry had met at his father’s court, the Count of Meulan, Waleran Beaumont. Waleran’s luck had yet to change for the better. After being forced to choose between Stephen and Maude, he was now caught again between two feuding overlords, Geoffrey and Louis. His presence here at Paris showed that he’d cast his lot-however reluctantly-with the French king. He’d come to regret it, though. Henry meant to see to that.

  The stocky, balding man in the white surcoat and blood-red cross of the Knights Templars must be Thierry Galeran, the embittered eunuch whose enmity had done Eleanor such damage. Henry felt an involuntary flicker of pity, for his youthful imaginings could envision no greater loss than the one the Templar had suffered. Thierry Galeran was flanked by the Bishop of Lisieux and Odo de Deuil, formerly Louis’s chaplain, now the new abbot of Saint-Denis. But all of the men upon the dais, even the king, were overshadowed by an aged, gaunt figure clad in the unbleached white habit of the Cistercians, the most celebrated monk of their age, Bernard of Clairvaux.

  Bernard was sixty-one, but if Henry had not known that, he’d have added another decade to his age. His hair was snow-white, although his beard still held glints of auburn. Tall and stoop-shouldered, he was so thin that he seemed skeletal, for he’d ruined his health with the harsh privations he’d imposed upon himself in his continuing struggle to humble the body and elevate the soul. But illness had not weakened his intellect or diminished the power of his personality. His smoldering, deep-set eyes burned with combative zeal, with the mesmerizing force of one who knew with absolute certainty that he did God’s Work.

  It was Bernard and not Louis who seized the initiative, demanding to know if Geoffrey had brought Giraud Berlai to Paris, as agreed upon. Henry thought it ironic that the saintly abbot would be so concerned over the fate of a lawless baron like Berlai, for the man was no better than a brigand. He understood why, of course. It was all about power. Even princes of the Church were protective of their prerogatives. Especially princes of the Church, he amended, and then braced himsel
f for what was to come.

  “Indeed, I did,” Geoffrey said blandly, with a smile that should have warned them, but didn’t. Turning, he ordered one of his men to fetch Giraud Berlai into the hall, and then he winked at Henry, who camouflaged a smile. He did not fully understand why his father took such pleasure in baiting his enemies; he preferred a straight-as-an-arrow path to the target himself and thought feuding was a waste of time. But he tended to be tolerant of other men’s amusements and he made ready to watch Geoffrey’s sport.

  A collective gasp swept the chamber at sight of Berlai, for the man was weighed down with heavy shackles, filthy, and obviously frightened. He had been gagged, and when he was thrust to his knees before the dais, his eyes pleaded mutely for mercy. Berlai’s bravado was utterly gone, stripped away like his fine clothes, for it had taken only a few months in one of Geoffrey’s dungeons to break his spirit.

  Henry could see from the shocked faces that they’d not expected this, and yet they should have. His father made an unforgiving enemy, as his uncle Helie had learned. Five years in a Tours prison, his health so impaired by the captivity that he’d died soon after his release. Henry felt scant sympathy for Helie, though; he’d asked for what he’d gotten. He had even less pity for Berlai, who’d terrorized the Angevin borderlands with impunity, sure that the French king’s favor and his own formidable stronghold would keep him safe from retribution.

  As a provocation, Geoffrey’s action could hardly have been improved upon. Louis was infuriated to see his seneschal treated like a common felon, a man of low birth. Bernard was even more outraged, for he’d excommunicated Geoffrey for holding Berlai prisoner, and he saw Geoffrey’s deliberate defiance as an affront to the Almighty. There was a moment of utter silence, and then pandemonium. Voices rose furiously, accusing, threatening, demanding. And in the midst of the maelstrom, being indignantly assailed from all sides, Geoffrey glanced over at his son and grinned.

  Henry felt more like a witness than a participant, watching the turmoil with benign detachment, for this was his father’s hunt. Louis had begun to shout, his fair skin blotching with hot color. The white-maned Bernard was stabbing the air with a gnarled forefinger, looking for all the world like one of the Old Testament prophets, poised to hurl celestial thunderbolts. But if Geoffrey was impressed, he gave no indication of it. Henry took a step toward the dais, and it was then that he saw her.

  She’d come in unobtrusively through a side door, but she was wearing a spectacular shade of emerald silk, and the color caught his eye. He half turned, and then stopped, transfixed. She was a beautiful woman, slender and graceful, with chiseled cheekbones and fair, flawless skin, a sensual mouth, eyes as green as her gown. But he’d seen beautiful women before. He’d never seen one so vibrant, though, or so vividly compelling. She was watching the uproar as if it were a play put on for her benefit, those glowing green eyes sparkling with sunlight and curiosity and silent laughter, and when she glanced in Henry’s direction, she held his gaze, a look that was both challenging and enigmatic.

  Henry drew a deep, dazzled breath. He was utterly certain that this was Eleanor of Aquitaine, and no less sure that the French king must be one of God’s greatest fools.

  47

  Paris, France

  August 1151

  The French king was glaring at Geoffrey. “Giraud Berlai is my seneschal. How dare you drag him before me in chains?”

  Geoffrey’s response was one of injured innocence. “I think I’ve showed admirable restraint,” he protested. “I did not hang him, did I?”

  Geoffrey’s audience was not amused, Abbot Bernard least of all. “Your mockery is offensive to the Almighty.”

  “No, my lord abbot, it is offensive to you. Despite your insistence to the contrary, you are not the sole interpreter of the Almighty’s Will.”

  It had been many years since anyone had dared to challenge Bernard’s moral authority; most of his countrymen had long since elevated him to living sainthood. He seemed stunned by Geoffrey’s audacity, and Henry spoke up quickly before he could recover and retaliate.

  “My lord father has a legitimate grievance against Berlai. We’re here to talk about it. That is why you invited us to Paris, is it not, my lord abbot-to talk?”

  The abbot’s struggle to achieve true humility was an ongoing one; he battled his pride daily and, all too often, lost. He did not appreciate being reminded that his obligation was to act as peacemaker, and it was particularly galling that the reminder should have come from Henry, for he was convinced that these Angevins sprang from a depraved stock, doomed and damned. He did not lack for discipline, though. Stifling his resentment, he said coldly:

  “You are right, my lord duke. The purpose of this conference is to discuss our differences openly and freely, then seek a way to resolve them without further bloodshed.” Giving Henry a nod of austere approval, he turned the power of his accusing eyes back upon Henry’s father.

  “When you refused to release Giraud Berlai from your prison, I was then compelled to lay upon you the dread anathema of excommunication. I did this with the greatest reluctance, for I would not see any man denied God’s Grace. If you release Berlai now, I will at once absolve you of this sin of disobedience and restore you to the Church.”

  “I have no intention of releasing Berlai, my lord abbot. The man is a rebel and brigand, and I see it as no sin to punish him as he deserves. But if it is a sin, then I have no wish to be absolved of it. Since you claim to have God’s Ear day and night, you may tell Him that for me, that I seek no absolution for an act of simple justice.”

  When Geoffrey began to speak, Bernard stiffened, righteously indignant that his olive branch should not only have been spurned, but snapped in half. By the time Geoffrey was done, though, he was speechless with horror. So were the French king and most of the onlookers, for Geoffrey’s defiance sounded to them like the worst sort of blasphemy.

  Even Henry winced, wishing that his father could have been more judicious, less reckless in his refusal. He understood Geoffrey’s hostility toward Berlai, and felt that after a three-year siege, it was not unjustified. He understood, too, Geoffrey’s resentment at the posturing of the French king and Abbot Bernard, but posturing still seemed a poor reason for going to war. He’d fight the French king if he had to, but he’d rather be fighting Stephen, and he could only hope that his father would remember that-ere it was too late.

  If Geoffrey had an innate sense of the dramatic, so, too, did Bernard. Drawing himself up to his full and formidable height, he thrust out his arm as if he meant to impale Geoffrey upon it. “Be not deceived, for God is not mocked, and whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. You have prayed for damnation and the Lord God has heard you. Repent now, you impious, wicked man, whilst you still can. Heed me well, for I see your death if you do not, and within a month’s time.”

  Bernard’s prophetic trances were known throughout France, and this one sent a frisson of uneasy excitement shuddering across the hall. The French king paled noticeably, some of Geoffrey’s own men began to edge away from him, while others moved in for a better view, just in case the Lord chose to take His Vengeance here and now. Henry could not help admiring the abbot’s theatrical flair, but he was suspicious of the prophecy itself, for the timing was too convenient to be credible. Geoffrey looked even more skeptical; one of his eyebrows had shot upward in a familiar gesture of disbelief.

  “A month, you say? Could you be more specific, my lord abbot? If you can give me the exact date, that would make it easier for me to plan Berlai’s public hanging in the time I have left.”

  The abbot stared at the younger man and then slowly and deliberately made the sign of the cross. “It is true what men say, that the counts of Anjou come from the Devil’s seed. You blaspheme as easily as you breathe, mock all that is holy, you have no shame-”

  “And I am doomed, too; let’s not forget that. How good of you to speak up for the Lord like this. Whatever would He do without you?” The abbot suc
ked in an outraged breath, but Geoffrey gave him no chance to respond. “Well, then, if I have so little time left, I see no reason to waste any more of it here.” And without a warning, without another word, Geoffrey turned on his heel and stalked from the hall.

  Geoffrey’s abrupt exit created almost as much of a sensation as Abbot Bernard’s portentous prophecy. Henry was taken aback, too, for this hadn’t been in the script. Geoffrey’s nonplussed men were scrambling to follow, dragging out the wretched Berlai, while Henry’s own attendants looked to him for their cue. Feeling left in the lurch, he wasn’t sure if he should stalk out, too, stay and attempt to salvage the talks, or make a measured, dignified withdrawal. But as he observed the chaos that Geoffrey had set loose in the hall, he made an interesting discovery. The French king and his counselors were enraged and appalled, but they were also dismayed. So…they did want peace.

  That was useful to know. Assuming, of course, that his father was not already leaving Paris behind in the dust of this hellishly hot summer day. How much of his dramatic departure had been fueled by genuine anger…and how much for effect? But he had managed to get the last word in his clash with the sainted Bernard, and Henry thought even the Almighty would not have found that an easy feat.

  He was not surprised to find himself the focus of all eyes. The entire hall was waiting to see what he would do. By now he’d made up his mind, and he moved without haste toward the dais, where he bade farewell to the French king and the venerable Abbot of Clairvaux. He was courteous and composed and gave away nothing, not until his gaze fell again upon the woman in green silk. For just a moment, he hesitated, and then thought, Hellfire and furies, why not? Beckoning to his men, he turned and crossed the hall toward her.

  Up close, she was even more stunning, those magnificent cheekbones highlighted with subtle, sun-kissed warmth, emerald eyes enhanced by the longest lashes he’d ever seen. “Madame,” he said gravely, and kissed her hand with a courtly flourish. But then he added, for her ears alone, “If you are not the Queen of France, by God, you ought to be.”