A SENNIGHT LATER, HENRY rose at cockcrow in order to get an early start for Poitou. Outside the castle, night was fading, the last stars glimmering overhead, and it was so cold his breath formed puffs of smoke on the frosty air. He rather liked this predawn hour when the world still slept and the unborn day was ripe with possibility.
His boot heels rang loudly on the cobblestones as he made his way to the stable yard, where the dim shapes of carts, litters, sumpter horses saddled with leather bags, and a banneret of knights were already visible.
“All in order?” he asked the captain of his escort.
“All in order, my lord duke.”
With a sense of anticipation, Henry whistled a tavern song as he retraced his steps across the courtyard and into the castle. The knowledge that he would soon be on the open road stirred his blood like a call to arms. It was always that way at the start of a journey.
An hour later the long procession rumbled out of Argentan and wound its way along the route leading to Poitiers. It was still cold, but a pale sun warmed Henry’s back as his party skirted forests barren of leaves, and lumbered past fortified walls, thatch-roofed cots, and timber manor houses. He had been born in in Le Mans and spent most of his youth and later years in Normandy and Anjou, thus he could have ridden this route from Argentan to Poitou blindfolded. He recited to himself the litany of place names they would pass: Domfront, Alençon, Belesme, Mons, La Flèche . . .
By God’s grace, the weather held. There were few travelers on the road: a party of pilgrims headed for St. James of Compostela in Spain, farmers driving panniered mules to market, and several couriers in foreign livery. Henry decided not to stop at any major town or castle until after dark, and to leave well before dawn lest he be overwhelmed by a swarm of litigants who would descend like locusts if they knew of his presence there. At the moment he could not afford the time to settle local issues or mediate personal quarrels.
The procession had crossed the border into Anjou when Henry dropped back to join his sons, who were riding beside their mother’s litter.
“We will soon be at Le Mans,” Henry said to his eldest son. “We can stop for a bit and you can show it to Marguerite if you like.”
Harry smiled at his eleven-year-old French wife, who sat beside Eleanor in the litter. Marguerite, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed like her father, King Louis of France, modestly bent her head. In four years’ time, or whenever Marguerite started her courses, the marriage would be consummated. This reminded him that his daughter-in-law had recently returned from a visit to Paris.
“How is your family, my child?” Henry asked.
“Everyone is well, thank you, Your Grace,” she replied. “My little sister, Alais, is quite grown-up now. My father thrives, God be praised, although I hardly saw him as he seemed to be spending all his time with Thomas Becket—Oh!” Her delicate face froze into a mask of dismay.
Henry frowned. The news did not surprise him, for he knew well enough that Louis had taken Thomas under his protection, but it continued to nettle him.
“My half brother, Philip, is still quite small for three years of age,” Marguerite babbled on, “and remains sickly, but the physicians think he will get better as he gets older. All of France rejoices in the prince’s improved health.”
“As do the English, of course,” added Harry.
Henry’s lips curled. “England has little reason to rejoice.”
Harry looked baffled. “Why not?”
“When Louis goes to his doom, Philip will rule in his stead. If Philip did not exist, my son, you, as Marguerite’s husband, would one day be king of France as well as England, and overlord of Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine. Your writ would run through an empire larger than the imperial German emperor’s.”
Both Harry and Marguerite looked shocked.
Henry frowned. “Marguerite, forgive me if I speak bluntly, my dear, but you are now the wife of a future English king and Norman duke. It is to the Plantagenets, not the Capets, that you must give your allegiance.” Sooner or later she would have to accept this.
Marguerite’s eyes filled with tears and she turned to Eleanor, who patted her hand.
“This does not mean you must stop loving your brother or your father, sweeting. I know you can never think of them as enemies, but they should not command your first loyalty. Hush now. There is naught for you to cry about.”
Henry started to speak but Eleanor gave a little shake of her head, and he held his tongue. She was right. The child had absorbed all she could.
“She cries a lot,” said Richard in disgust. “Why shouldn’t Marguerite think of King Louis as a potential enemy? He is one. And Philip, too, when he becomes king of France.”
“Why would Marguerite’s brother ever be my enemy?” Harry knitted his brows.
Henry stared at him. God’s eyes! Was the boy a fool?
“Don’t be such a blockhead, brother,” said Richard. “Philip will be king of France. France and Normandy have been foes since time out of mind.”
“Philip will be your future overlord for all your possessions on the Continent, as Louis is now mine. You will hold your lands of him.”
“But as Philip is Marguerite’s brother and my brother-in-law, I will not mind. I feel sure we can be friends.”
“Listen to me, Harry,” said Henry, trying not to sound impatient, “when Philip was born, the French called him the hammer of the English. Think what that implies.”
“The hammer of the English? I didn’t know they called him that.” Richard glowered. “The French prince will never be the ‘hammer’ of me!”
For a split second Henry’s eyes met Richard’s in a rare exchange of understanding. At least this son was aware of the possible implications that lay in store. Henry could not help but recall how different from Harry he had been at the same age: eager to help his mother conquer England and keep the French out of Normandy. Harry was unduly softhearted and seemed to lack any spark of ambition, whereas Henry could not remember a time when he himself had not been consumed by it. Still, the boy was only thirteen, early days yet. He must not expect too much.
Eleanor could hardly wait until her party reached the county of Poitou. Despite her time spent nearby in Angers, she had not seen her native duchy in six years. They arrived the second day of February, and she felt her spirits rise the moment they came in sight of the walled city of Poitiers, its rust-colored roofs and soaring spires touched with fire in the light of the afternoon sun.
“Why are the gates closed?” asked Richard, riding beside the litter.
Eleanor shaded her eyes from the glare. Sweet Saint Radegonde! She had been expecting old friends and townspeople to greet her, but facing her through the closed gates was a contingent of troops, swords drawn and maces raised. There were even more peering down from atop the thick stone walls. In the countless times she had been to Poitiers, Eleanor could not recall the gates being closed until well after dark, or seen more than a routine number of guards on duty.
“What does this mean?” she asked Ralph de Faye, her heart heavy with foreboding. “Why did no one tell me?”
Her uncle, who rode on the other side of the litter, had joined their party in Chinon, which lay on the border between Anjou and Poitou. At Eleanor’s urging, he had been reluctantly persuaded to accompany her to Poitiers. He was a weak support but better than no support at all. Henry had agreed to his presence, providing de Faye did not meddle in the affairs of the duchy.
“I tried to tell you, niece, when we were last in Angers together. The situation in Poitou was bad then, and has grown even worse. The Plantagenet tyrant has every reason to fear the assassin’s knife, or an unexpected ambush. Those who want your husband dead defy number. These troops are needed, believe me.”
“I forbid you to call Henry a tyrant, uncle. That is most unfair.”
“Is it? If you behave like a tyrant, how is one to know you’re not?”
The herald blew his horn to announce the king’s arrival. To Eleanor’s relief, the gates slowly opened and the procession, Henry at its head, marched into Poitiers. Inside the city, the streets were virtually empty of people, and those few she did see scurried away at sight of the large party and its escort of mailed Norman knights. Tension, thick as a Channel fog, clogged the air. Stunned, Eleanor could not help but recall the last time she came home for a visit, when she had been greeted with joy and acclaim. This current state of affairs must be Henry’s doing, she thought bitterly. Who else could have turned the light-hearted capital of Poitou into this grim fortress?
Even in the Maubergeonne Tower, that elegant addition to the ducal palace that her grandfather had built for his mistress, the atmosphere was chill and fearful. In the great hall, servants were closemouthed, the steward on edge; the few nobles present, whom Eleanor once counted as friends, were barely civil. No doubt this suppressed hostility was primarily directed at Henry, but she seemed to be included as well. Such an attitude was a far cry from the pleasure-loving palace she had known since childhood.
“I doubt you were expecting such a hostile atmosphere,” Henry said as they sat down to a cold supper at the high table. “I should have warned you that Poitiers was virtually an armed camp, but I thought it best to let you see for yourself.”
Eleanor, making an effort to control the extent of her distress, willed herself to behave in a diplomatic manner. “To be told ‘The lands south of the Loire are in open rebellion,’ is not the same as encountering it firsthand.” She picked at an unappetizing leg of cold fowl on her trencher. Even the food reflected the drastic change. “I have never felt such enmity from my own people.”
Earl Patrick of Salisbury gave a discreet cough. “We hope to remedy the situation here, madam, by crushing the ringleaders, and thus striking a blow at the heart of the insurgency. We’ll certainly be able to restore order after that, eh, nephew?”
“Yes, my lord.” Young William Marshal, seated beside his uncle, kept his eyes carefully lowered as befitted a young knight on his first official mission.
“I thought I was in Poitiers to help remedy the situation?” Eleanor raised her brows.
Lord Patrick flushed. “You are, madam, indeed you are.”
Henry broke off a piece of wheaten bread. “I think we must face the facts, Nell. There will never be even a hope of peace unless we destroy the power the counts of Angoulême and the Lusignan family wield over the area.”
“Destroy their power?” Disbelieving, Eleanor looked from Henry to Lord Patrick. If they did not believe that she would have a salutary effect in the duchy, why had she been encouraged to come?
Henry chewed on his bread. “Give me an alternative.”
“Perhaps if I saw the barons myself. Talked to them. After all, I have known these people since I was a child.”
“We have attempted to negotiate more times than I care to remember. An agreement is reached, promises made, and as soon as my back is turned, the uprisings start anew.”
With a sense of despair Eleanor recalled that these same baronial families had been troublemakers in her grandfather’s day, and her father’s as well. They did need to be restrained, yet the thought of so much blood being shed . . .
“An example must be made.” Henry absently rolled a crust between his fingers. “When the instigators have been quelled, then diplomacy will be required and your presence welcomed.”
Lord Patrick nodded his agreement. “If the rebel barons negotiate directly with France, as they threaten to do, Louis will send French troops to aid them. The result may well lead to a full-scale war in Aquitaine, which could eventually involve Normandy and Anjou.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Eleanor picked up her goblet of wine and put it down again. The thought of French troops running amok in her beloved duchy was intolerable.
“I would rather you dealt with the rebels.” She gave Henry a troubled glance. “What measures will you take?”
“How can I say now what I will do then?” He avoided her gaze. “When I am in enemy territory, whatever needs doing will be done.” Henry suddenly rose from the high table and left the dais.
Eleanor jumped to her feet and followed him as he strode to the central fire and stared into the burning embers. “These are my people, Henry, I cannot stand idly by and watch them being annihilated.”
“Villainy can no longer go unpunished.” Henry turned to face her, grasping her icy hands in an iron grip. “Please understand, my dear, that I intend to give no quarter this time. It takes a wolf to catch a wolf.”
The words were ominous. “Meaning you might have to take harsh measures, of which I may not approve?”
“Of which even I may not approve.” His gaze met hers directly.
She was the first to look away. A moment later the steward came into the hall to announce that a courier had arrived from Louis of France. Henry abruptly dropped her hands and followed the steward out of the hall. Eleanor did not see him again that night, nor at the prime service the following morning.
After breaking her fast, she settled herself in the solar and began reading aloud Wace’s translation of the adventures of King Arthur. The children were grouped around her on cushions, listening spellbound to the tale of Gawain and the Green Knight, when Henry walked in. Face haggard, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, he held up a square of parchment.
“If you can spare a moment, I’d like to discuss the message I received last night from Louis of France.”
Eleanor closed the wood-and-leather-bound manuscript. “I will continue the reading later, children.”
“Let the boys stay. Perhaps they will learn something.”
Two maidservants took John, little Eleanor, and Joanna, and led them out of the solar. Marguerite followed.
Henry hooked his thumbs into his belt and walked up and down the chamber. “Louis of France has written to suggest that we meet in an effort to resolve our difficulties. He points out that one day we will share grandchildren together, and isn’t it time that the constant skirmishes between Normandy and France come to an end? I am seriously thinking about such a meeting, but not until I return from the business we discussed last night.”
“A month ago Louis was invading your borders.” Eleanor frowned. “Now he offers an olive branch? There must be another motive behind this offer.”
“Undoubtedly.” Henry stroked his chin. “Thomas is still at the abbey near Sens and, as you heard from Marguerite, a frequent guest at the Cité palace. He is sure to be present at any meeting between Louis and myself.”
“The pope has been urging you to reconcile with Thomas. If conditions seem favorable when you meet with Louis, perhaps you should take advantage of the opportunity?”
“Thomas has treated me with contempt, and excommunicated some of my most powerful bishops and councilors merely because they sided with me. He would have excommunicated me had he dared!” Henry’s face grew red as he smote his fist into an open palm.
“The pope rescinded those excommunications.”
“It is the principle of the thing! I am willing to sit down with Louis and explore the possibility of reconciliation, but how can I settle my differences with Thomas, whose crimes and treasonous acts against me defy number?”
“But is that totally true?” piped a tentative voice.
Eleanor turned her head to see Harry rise to his feet, his tawny brows drawn together.
“Really, my son,” she said quickly. “You know nothing of the matter and speak out of total ignorance. I suggest you listen and learn.”
“No, Nell, let the boy say his piece.” Henry tucked a thumb into his belt and rocked back and forth on the heels of his sable leather boots. “All right, young cockerel, what exactly isn’t true?”
Harry swallowed, his face flushed. Richard and Geoffrey glanced curiously from their father to their brother.
“Well, sire, I only meant that when Thomas was archbishop, I lived in his household for a while, as you well know. There are many things I do not understand, but neither is it true, madam”—he glanced at Eleanor—“that I—I speak from total ignorance.” He paused and bit the corner of his lip.
Eleanor stared at him in wonder. She had never heard the prince string so many words together at one time. Had she, had they all, underestimated him?
“Well, go on, go on.” Henry impatiently slapped the parchment against his thigh.
“What is not true,” the boy began hesitantly then stopped, obviously regretting having spoken. “What I mean to say is that Thomas should not have broken his sworn word to you. Nor should he have fled the land in defiance of your orders. But, in truth, I do not see what crimes and treasonous acts he was guilty of before that. I mean to say, did he not do only that which—which any archbishop would have done, which is to support his Church?”
Eleanor closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was a question that anyone who had tried to untangle the confused six-year sequence of events involving church and crown might well be tempted to ask, but folly for Harry to do so. She had forgotten how young her son had been when he was first put in Thomas’s care. As could have been predicted, the primate had made a strong impression upon the boy.
Henry pursed his lips. “Do you tell me that Thomas’s actions as archbishop were correct, and mine, as king, at fault?”
Harry opened his mouth then stopped short, obviously realizing that he had very neatly trapped himself.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Henry, of course, the boy did not mean anything of the kind.”
Henry held up a finger, motioning her to be silent while he stared at Harry like a stoat regarding a rabbit.
“As neither Thomas nor I can both be right, one of us must be wrong. It is obvious you think I am the culprit.”
“Henry, he did not say that!”
“God’s eyes, woman, hold your tongue!” Henry walked back and forth in front of Harry. “I cannot imagine a son of mine so misled, so misguided, that he winks at treason and condones treachery, ignoring the respect and loyalty owed a loving father. Who is also his liege-lord. Your mother is right. You do speak out of total ignorance. I am very displeased with you, boy.”
Bristling, Henry marched out of the chamber. “We will continue our discussion later,” he said to Eleanor over his shoulder.
Harry’s eyes filled with tears. “I did not to mean to offend him, madam. I just do not think that what he says about Thomas is altogether true. Is it?”
Eleanor rose from her stool with a sigh and held out her arms and he came to her. She kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him. “Nothing is ever so simple, Harry. Truth is sometimes a question of opinion. Something may be true from one viewpoint and false from another.” She brushed a lock of honey-brown hair from her son’s forehead. “But I am pleased to see that you are beginning to form thoughts of your own.”
Harry wiped his eyes. “Both Marguerite and I miss Thomas, madam.” The boy wrinkled his forehead. “Thomas’s only crime, it seems to me, was that he openly disagreed with Father and defied him.”
“You believe the king should be defied?” Richard looked at his brother in disbelief.
“No.” Harry paused, obviously confused. “I don’t think that.”
“I wonder if you even know what you think.” Richard gave him a contemptuous glance. “How can you be so witless?” He rose to his feet and kicked at the leg of his stool. “If I were king, I wouldn’t put up with any defiance.”
“Nor would I,” added little Geoffrey.
“But you’re not going to be king,” said Harry with a rare show of spirit. “Either of you. Who asked for your opinion?”
“All right, my sons,” Eleanor interjected. “Please let Harry finish.”
“Well, what I mean to say, is that Thomas was only defiant because he wouldn’t do what the king wanted but followed his own conscience.” Harry paused. “I have heard it said that Thomas fled the realm because he feared for his life.”
“That is a lie, brother, isn’t it, Maman? No one wanted to take Thomas’s life,” little Geoffrey retorted.
“But I have heard it said otherwise.”
“Heard it said does not mean it was so.” Richard made a rude noise through his teeth. “God’s teeth, what a king you will make!”
Harry shoved Richard in the chest; Richard lunged at his brother, and little Geoffrey grabbed Harry by the legs ready to topple him.
“Stop! Violence is no way to settle matters.” Eleanor stepped between Richard and Harry. “Your brothers are right, my son. Thomas did not flee in fear of his life. Who told you such a wild tale?”
“Lots of people said so.”
Eleanor doubted this but let it go. “Bear in mind that there is always more than one side to a quarrel. Nothing is ever totally black or white.”
Harry nodded and gave her one of his golden smiles, as if to reassure her he understood. But she sensed that he did not understand, and that his sympathies still lay with Thomas. Geoffrey and Richard were eyeing their brother in an almost hostile manner. Sweet Marie, was she imagining it, or did both her younger sons think themselves more suited to be monarch in Harry’s stead?
What a ridiculous fancy, Eleanor chided herself, surprised to find herself trembling. The explosive situation in Poitou and her resentment of Henry, as well as the feeling of being helpless to act in her own duchy had taken their toll on her reason. How could she think, even for a moment, that Richard and Geoffrey would ever oppose their older brother? She was tempted to tell Henry, out of an old habit to share everything with him, but of course she would do nothing of the kind. What was there to tell, really? She made an effort to banish the unwelcome incident. Yet there it lurked like an evil hobgoblin crouching in the shadowy corners of her mind.