When Christ and his Saints Slept eoa-1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I think you’d better tell me what this is all about, lad,” he said, and grabbed for Henry’s wine cup, just in time to keep it from being dumped in his lap. “Why are you suddenly willing to give up the Vexin?”

  “For Aquitaine,” Henry said, and grinned. “For Eleanor and Aquitaine. I’d say that is a fair trade, Papa, more than fair.”

  “You…and Eleanor?” Geoffrey was stunned, but not disbelieving; his son was too euphoric to doubt. “Are you saying what I think you are, lad?”

  Henry nodded vigorously. “As of this afternoon, I have a wife…or I will have as soon as she gets shed of Louis. Once she does, we shall wed. So you see why I need to make peace with Louis. I want nothing to distract him from the urgent matter of getting his marriage annulled.”

  “Holy Mother of God…” Geoffrey shook his head slowly. “I thought I’d taken your measure, Harry, but clearly I’ve been undervaluing you!”

  “No, Papa. As much as I’d like to claim credit for this, the idea was Eleanor’s. She is a remarkable woman, and if she were mine, I would never let her go. But Louis will, and once he does, the English crown will be ours for the taking. Can you imagine how Stephen will react when he hears?”

  Henry laughed again, swung off the bed, and went to get another flagon from the table. “So…what say you, Papa? Will you set Berlai free for me?”

  “Of course I will. Although you’ll owe me for this, lad, and you may be sure I’ll remind you frequently of that. Now pour me some more of this swill and let’s talk. I agree that Stephen will likely have a seizure when word of this gets out, for the day you wed Eleanor, you’ll cast a shadow across half of Europe…and all of France. That is why you must think about how Louis will react, too. He is your liege lord as well as Eleanor’s, and if you marry the woman without his consent-which he’d never give-you’ll be making a mortal enemy.”

  “He’ll not like it any,” Henry admitted, “but he’ll get over it.”

  “No, Harry, I think not. He does love her, you see. And if she divorces him because they are fourth cousins or whatever, and then marries you, also a fourth cousin…well, believe me when I say a wound like that will never heal. Trust me on this, for I know more about hating than you. He’ll be cursing you both with his dying breath.”

  “Mayhap you are right,” Henry agreed, “but what of it? Surely you are not suggesting that I do not marry her?”

  Geoffrey’s smile was wry. “No, I am not-and you’d not heed me even if I did. You cannot turn down an opportunity like this, for marriage to Eleanor could make you master of Europe one day. Normandy and Aquitaine and England and Anjou and Maine-Christ Jesus, Harry, Caesar might well envy you! And if you were mad enough to spurn Eleanor’s offer, you’d have to worry then about the man she might marry in your stead. I just want you to understand that she’ll be bringing you the undying enmity of the French king as her marriage portion. It is still, as you said, a fair trade, but you need to bear that clearly in mind, for this marriage will turn Christendom upside down and that is no lie.”

  “I understand that, Papa, truly I do. But can I not have one day just to be happy about it?”

  Henry’s smile was coaxing, and so contagious that Geoffrey had to smile back. “Fair enough, lad.” Reaching out, he clinked his wine cup against Henry’s in a mock salute. “To you and your bride-to-be. I think I can safely predict that your life together will never be dull. What of your mother? Do you plan to tell Maude?”

  He’d caught Henry off balance. “I’d rather not,” he confessed, “for the fewer people who know, the better. But I suppose I should, for Mama would not soon forgive me if I did not.”

  “No, she would not. But you need not worry about her keeping your secret. Whatever she may say to you about this marriage in private, she’d never breathe a word to the world at large.”

  Henry lowered his wine cup. “You think she will not approve?”

  Geoffrey’s mouth twitched. “The empress will counsel you to wed Eleanor as soon as she is free to do so. But I suspect that the mother will find it deplorable that her beloved son must settle for damaged goods.”

  He saw Henry’s head come up at that, and held up a hand to stave off his protest. “You do not like that, do you? Well, you’d best get used to hearing it, Harry, for you will be marrying a woman whose honour is frayed around the edges, or so men think.”

  “Spiteful gossip and slander,” Henry said scornfully, and Geoffrey shrugged.

  “Gossip is still something we all have to live with, lad. If you can ignore it, more power to you. Look, Harry, I am not saying I believe the stories. I told you honestly on the road to Paris that I do not know if the rumors about Eleanor are true. Nor will I lie to you now just because it would be what you want to hear. Eleanor might well be as pure and chaste as the Blessed Lady Mary. Or she may indeed have strayed. But-”

  “If she did, Louis gave her cause!”

  “I am not arguing with you, lad. You need not defend her to me. But I will give you some advice, and I hope you heed me. Let it lie. Decide now that whatever may or may not have happened in her past is between Eleanor and her confessor, and do not pry. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Henry said, after a long pause. “But I still say rumors prove nothing. Accusing a woman of wantonness is the easiest way to discredit her, for some of the mud is always sure to stick.”

  “You are right. But God help you, for you are also sounding like a man smitten,” Geoffrey joked. “There is another matter we ought to talk about, though. You were eighteen last March, and if memory serves me, Eleanor turned twenty-nine this summer. Are you comfortable with so great an age difference?”

  Henry shrugged. “Ten years, five months-not so vast a gap. If my memory serves, Mama is eleven and a half years older than you!”

  “Yes, and we’ve had twenty-three years of wedded bliss and marital joy,” Geoffrey said, with a tight smile, too much rancor for humor.

  Henry was quiet for a moment, not wanting to hurt his father by pointing out the obvious, that Maude had never wanted to marry Geoffrey, whereas he was very sure, indeed, that Eleanor wanted to marry him. “It does not trouble me, Papa, truly not,” he assured his father. “She is still young enough to bear children and that is what counts. I have no doubt that she’ll give me sons. She has been unfairly blamed for failing to bear Louis an heir, for you said yourself that he shied away from their marriage bed. Believe me, that is not a problem she’ll ever have with me!”

  “No, with you, I’d say the problem will be getting you out of her bed, not into it!”

  “Papa…I am sensing some misgivings on your part. Are you just playing the Devil’s advocate or do you truly have qualms about this marriage?”

  Geoffrey did not respond as Henry hoped, with a hearty denial. Staring down into the dregs of his wine cup, he said, “Not qualms, lad, not exactly. I want you to be King of England, and your prospects will be greatly enhanced by marriage to Eleanor. I am pleased for you, God’s Truth. I just wish you were not so taken with the woman herself.”

  “Why ever not? I think it is my great, good fortune that I shall have a wife I find so desirable. Not only is she beautiful, but she is clever and witty and educated, bred to be a queen. How lucky can I get?”

  “I am going to give you some more advice, Harry, that I do not expect you to take. Save your passion for your concubines, your respect for your wife. The best marriages are those based upon detached goodwill or benign indifference. But unfortunately for you, the one emotion you will never feel for Eleanor of Aquitaine is indifference.”

  “Jesu, I would hope not! Papa, I know you mean well. But miserable marriages are not passed down from father to son like hair color or height. It is no secret that you and Mama made mistakes. But why should I not learn from them rather than repeat them?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Geoffrey conceded. “I hope you do, lad. God knows, I hope you do.”

  This was not a conversation Henry had expected to have with h
is father; he’d thought Maude would be the one to harbor doubts. He was both amused and irked that Geoffrey should be so protective, for his wariness reflected poorly upon Eleanor.

  “Papa, you need not worry about this marriage. I have always known that one day I would rule over England. I have never doubted that. And I am just as sure now that Eleanor is the woman meant to rule with me. I know in my heart that it is so, I swear I do.”

  “I’d say the body part you’re heeding at the moment is not your heart,” Geoffrey drawled and then laughed abruptly. “Do not mind me, Harry. I am right proud of you, and who knows, mayhap even a little envious! Congratulations, lad, you’ve captured a queen.”

  And in that moment, the full wonder of it hit Henry, too. “Yes,” he said jubilantly, “I did!” Laughing, he raised his wine cup high. “To Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, Queen of France, and-one day-Queen of England.”

  48

  Le Mans, France

  September 1151

  The sudden concessions by the Angevins astonished the French court. Such a dramatic volte-face was bound to stir up speculation, but the French king accepted it as Divine Intervention. So did Abbot Bernard, who felt grimly gratified that he’d been able to instill the Fear of God in so great a sinner as the arrogant Count of Anjou. Giraud Berlai did not care what had motivated Geoffrey’s change of heart; he was just hysterically happy not to be going back to the Angers dungeon. And so the contentious peace talks came to an unexpected and gainful end. Geoffrey was restored to the Church once Berlai was set free. Henry did homage to the French king for his duchy, while Eustace’s spies looked on glumly, and Eleanor watched with a secret smile.

  Henry and Geoffrey then rode west into Maine. Upon reaching Le Mans, they parted company, Henry remaining in the city while Geoffrey pushed on for Tours and then Angers. They had much to do and less than a fortnight in which to get it done, for a summons must be sent out to the barons of Anjou and Maine and Normandy, bidding them to appear at Lisieux on September 14th. Henry could now direct all his energies and efforts toward recovering his mother’s stolen crown. The time was ripe to plan a full-scale invasion of England.

  Henry was a light sleeper and awakened as footsteps approached his bed. The chamber was still filled with night-shadows, but the figure bending over him was holding a candle, revealing a face that was youthful, troubled, and familiar. “Ivo?”

  The squire jumped and splashed hot wax onto Henry’s pillow. “I am so sorry, my lord! I thought you still slept.”

  “I was-until you woke me up.” With an effort, Henry stifled his irritation; Ivo’s tongue-tied shyness could be a trial, but he was a good lad. “You must have a reason for hovering by my bed in the middle of the night,” he prompted. “So…what is it?”

  “It is nigh on toward dawn,” Ivo mumbled, and Henry’s patience started to unravel. Ivo fidgeted, splattering some wax upon himself this time, and Henry began to realize that there was more to the boy’s reticence than his usual bashful diffidence.

  “Ivo, what are you so loath to tell me? What is wrong?”

  The boy continued to squirm. When he finally met Henry’s eyes, Henry was chilled by what he saw in them-anguished pity. “My lord, it is your father. He…has been taken sick.”

  Henry felt a rush of relief. Youth and optimism usually went hand in hand, but Ivo was an exception, so anxiety-ridden that he not only expected the worst, he actively courted it, invariably turning a cough into consumption, a scratch into a festering wound, a growling dog into a rabid wolf. “I saw my father just three days ago, Ivo, and he was fine. Now what is this all about?”

  “A man has ridden in, my lord, insisting that we let him speak to you straightaway. He says you must come back with him to Chateau-du-Loir, that Lord Geoffrey wants to see you ere…” The boy faltered, gulped, and fell miserably silent.

  “This is crazy! Why is my father at Chateau-du-Loir? That is barely twenty miles from here and he left Le Mans on Tuesday-”

  “He got no farther than Chateau-du-Loir, for he fell ill that same night.” The voice came from the doorway, and as the man stepped forward, Henry recognized one of his father’s household knights. “The lad is telling you true, my lord Henry. The count is in a bad way, and asking for you.”

  “This makes no sense. How could he fall sick so fast?” Swinging out of bed, Henry grabbed for whatever clothes he could find. “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice muffled within the folds of his tunic. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We reached the castle in late afternoon, and it was so hot that he decided to take a swim in the river. But that night he was stricken with chills and fever, and he did not feel well enough the next morning to continue on to Tours. None of us thought his ailment was serious, my lord, he least of all. But he got worse yesterday, bad enough to send for a doctor, and then, to fetch you.” His eyes were hollow, his fatigue showing plainly, and something far more frightening to Henry-despair. “I rode all night…”

  By now Henry was half dressed, reaching for the boots Ivo was holding out. “What does the doctor say?”

  The man looked away. “He is dying, my lord.”

  Henry stared at him. “I do not believe you,” he said roughly. “I do not believe you!”

  As they galloped south, Henry was oblivious to the dust and late-summer heat, equally unmindful of the curious stares of other travelers and the commiserating glances of his companions. His thoughts were racing ahead, toward the man lying at Chateau-du-Loir. Geoffrey had just celebrated his thirty-eighth birthday during their stay in Paris. He was in robust health. How could he be dying?

  Henry set such a breakneck pace that his escort was hard pressed to keep up, and by the time Chateau-du-Loir came into view, their horses were well lathered and the men soaked in sweat. There was no challenge; the drawbridge was already lowering to admit them. As they rode into the inner bailey, two men hastened out to intercept them. Henry knew them both: Thomas de Loches, his father’s chaplain and chancellor, and Jocelyn de Tours, his seneschal and longtime friend. Familiar faces, but contorted and ravaged now by grief.

  Henry’s stallion shied away as they approached, pawing at the dry, cracked earth, but Henry made no effort to rein the animal in. He sat frozen in the saddle, his hand clenched on the leather pommel, for as long as he did not dismount, they could not tell him that he was too late and his father was dead.

  Shock hits men in different ways. It muted the gregarious Jocelyn de Tours, but the normally taciturn Thomas de Loches was suddenly voluble, compelled to give Henry every detail of his father’s last three days, assuring him repeatedly that the doctor had done all he could. His words swirled about Henry like drifting leaves; every now and then he was able to catch one, but most floated down out of reach. His father had died within the hour. That was all he could think about as they entered the stairwell that led up to Geoffrey’s bedchamber-that he was just an hour too late.

  His steps flagged as they drew near the door. But the priest forged ahead, and he had no choice but to follow. The chamber was shuttered against the September sunlight; candles flickered wanly upon the table. Henry had yet to look toward his bed. “Was…was he shriven?”

  The priest seemed to take that as a personal reproach. “Of course he was! I heard his confession myself, absolved him of his earthly sins, and put the Body and Blood of Christ upon his tongue. He went to His Maker in a state of grace, you may be sure.”

  “Was he in his senses?”

  The chaplain nodded. “He knew he was dying, and his thoughts were for you. He made us all swear that we would acknowledge you as his lawful heir. To you, he bequeathed Anjou and Maine, and to his son Geoffrey, the castles of Chinon, Loudun, and Mirebeau. He urged you not to rule one province by the customs of another; each domain must be allowed its own identity, be it Normandy, Anjou, or England. When my lord Jocelyn praised him for bringing peace to Anjou and winning Normandy, he said…he said that you were his greatest success and his only regret was that he’d not liv
e to see you crowned as King of England.”

  Jocelyn de Tours smiled sadly. “Actually, he called it ‘that godforsaken isle,’ for he never did have much regard for England or the English, did he? But that was only one of his regrets. He also said-”

  “Nothing of importance,” the priest cut in hastily. “My lord Henry…have you any questions?”

  Henry shook his head, his mouth too dry for speech. But when they would have withdrawn, he reached out and caught Jocelyn’s sleeve. Neither spoke for several moments, the Angevin baron offering Henry what he most needed just then: silent sympathy. Jocelyn watched Henry glance toward the bed and then away, the muscles in his throat tightening convulsively. “What else, Jocelyn? What did the chaplain not want me to hear?”

  “Thomas speaks fluent French and Latin and Provencal, but bless him, humor remains an alien tongue. He was not trying to keep anything from you, Harry. He just thought it unseemly that Geoffrey should be joking on his deathbed. But that is what I’d rather remember, and I suspect you will, too, lad. What vexed him the most about dying, he said, was the wretched timing of it, that the sainted Bernard should now get to claim the credit!”

  Jocelyn was smiling through tears. When he looked into Henry’s face, he clasped the youth’s shoulder in a gesture of wordless and futile comfort, then retreated quickly.

  Henry did not move until the door closed. Approaching the bed with a leaden step, he stood staring down at his father’s body. The doctor had done his work well, and Geoffrey’s features were composed, his hands folded peacefully on his chest, a rosary loosely entwined around his fingers. His skin had a waxen cast, and his lips were pale, but his body had not yet begun to stiffen, and it was possible for Henry to imagine that he was merely asleep, that at any moment, he’d open an eye and wink.

  But it was no practical joke and only the Abbot Bernard would be laughing. Henry reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing back the hair falling across Geoffrey’s forehead. The skin still felt warm to the touch and he backed away. After a moment, he sank to his knees beside the bed. He did not pray, though. He wept.