THREE DAYS LATER ON a chill bright morning in early March, Henry, ready to leave Limoges, strode briskly into the courtyard accompanied by Eleanor.
“Where is Harry?” The boy was vociferously protesting this journey and no doubt assumed that if he did not make an appearance, Henry would leave him behind. “If he is still sulking somewhere I will drag him out by force.”
“He only takes his leave of Marguerite and will be here.” She gave him a reassuring smile, then asked, “Your mind is totally set, then, about giving Harry’s castles to John?”
This was the first time she had broached the subject since Harry’s outburst, and Henry had been expecting it. Beneath her polite tone, he detected an undercurrent of something he could not quite put his finger on.
“Did you think that because Harry made me look a fool I would change it?” He slapped the black gauntlets he held in one hand against his thigh. “Considering your objections to this match I find it hard to believe that you did not know what the boys were up to. Perhaps you even instigated it, you and that mischief-making troubadour—I saw him whispering in Harry’s ear.”
“Why do you assume I am in their confidence? Or that they need me to help them voice their opinions? I think it is time you understood that your sons are grown and can think for themselves.” Her hazel eyes were guileless as they met his gaze.
Henry felt a stir of impatience. “Why can’t they see, why can’t you see, how much the Plantagenets stand to gain by this union?”
Grooms led horses and carts from the stables into the courtyard. Fewterers followed with coupled hounds on long leads.
“All I can see is that my son stands to lose three strategic castles, and John, a child of seven, is the one who benefits.”
Why was she being so obstinate? There must be more to this business than indignation over three castles. Henry knew, he had always known, that Eleanor hadn’t forgiven him for Rosamund de Clifford. Still, it was a dangerous leap from the animosity of a jealous wife nursing her wounded feelings to a vengeful mother turning her sons against their father. As he looked at her still-beautiful face framed in its cream-colored headdress, her upright, elegant figure under the black ermine-lined cloak, he found it impossible to credit Eleanor with such blatant treachery. Not after all they had meant to each other. No. He simply could not make such a leap.
“I’ve explained the advantages of this match. Can’t you see it as a rare opportunity to extend our power even farther afield? It is what we have always wanted, Nell, with Joanna soon to be queen of Sicily. Our children will rule much of Europe. Louis won’t like that, will he?”
She smiled. “No. He certainly won’t.”
Henry listened carefully but could only detect the usual note of contempt in her voice when she referred to King Louis. Alais must have misunderstood the nature of the communication between Eleanor and the French monarch. Louis was the girl’s father, after all. Naturally, she would want to believe that he and her future mother-in-law were on good terms. A sigh of relief escaped him.
He squeezed Eleanor’s shoulder. “I had hoped that this future alliance with Count Humbert would be something we could all share in.”
For an instant, he sensed that he had truly reached her. He took his hand from her shoulder and grasped her hand; their fingers, of their own accord, laced together. The flow between their palms was as strong as an undertow. Something within her, some stern resolve, wavered and weakened, he could have sworn to it, before she gently withdrew her hand and stepped back. The moment was gone. Henry tried to convince himself that she would reconsider the matter and in time reach his own inescapable conclusions.
His black destrier and Harry’s bay stallion were brought into the courtyard. Shortly thereafter, Harry himself appeared, followed by William Marshal who was going to join them in Rouen within the sennight. Eleanor took Harry off to one side, well out of earshot, and spent a good deal of time talking to him in an earnest fashion before the boy finally mounted his stallion.
Henry lifted himself into the saddle and smiled down at Eleanor. “I hold the Easter court at Rouen this year so that my vassals in Normandy can pay their respects to both Harry and myself at the same time. I look forward to seeing you there.”
“I think you will find Harry is in a more amenable frame of mind and will not sulk throughout the journey.”
It was an odd response and Henry had the strong sense that something tormented her, as if she were waging an inner struggle with herself.
“Henry, I . . . Fare well on your journey.” She turned abruptly and hurried from the courtyard.
Should he go after her? He hesitated. After all, they would see each other in six weeks’ time. Whatever it was would keep until then.
Henry and his party moved north after leaving Limoges, following the winding curve of the Vienne. The good weather held, and while it was cold, the sun shone like a beacon in a blazing blue sky. Harry was surprisingly well behaved, as Eleanor had predicted. Nevertheless, his public defiance preyed on Henry’s mind. Granted, the boy had been angry about eventually losing his three castles, but, in truth, Harry had been dissatisfied and sullen ever since his crowning. He must spend more time with the boy, Henry resolved, and develop the patience to teach him what it was to be a king. Perhaps that would make a difference.
As they traveled north, Henry insisted the journey be broken to hawk at every convenient marsh or stream, and to hunt in the forests that skirted the road. Despite his eagerness to return to Normandy where urgent affairs needed his attention, he wanted to create a bond between Harry and himself. To that end, he made every effort to be affable and accommodating, although a lingering sense of prudence cautioned him to keep his son within eye range at all times. Henry even insisted the boy sleep in the same chamber as he did, despite Harry’s protests.
They crossed the border into Anjou and the following evening sighted Chinon, a maze of blue slate roofs, battlements and towers rising above the hill that looked down upon the town. One of Henry’s favorite castles, this ancient Angevin stronghold was situated square in the middle of his continental possessions, which stretched from Normandy in the north to the Pyrenees in the south. Although both Poitou and Aquitaine would never really accept him as their duke, only Eleanor as their duchess, he was officially their lord and master and Eleanor only the regent acting in his name—whether she chose to acknowledge it or not. No question he owned more land than any reigning king in Europe. The thought filled him with satisfaction. He looked forward to breaking his journey here. Harry was in unusually high spirits, a good sign.
“When we get to Normandy, there is an important council meeting we need to attend, which I feel sure you will find very informative,” said Henry at a late supper in the great circular hall of the castle, where torches flared in iron sconces and a fire blazed in the hearth. “After you have listened to all that is said, I promise to consult—Harry? Are you listening?”
“Yes, of course. I look forward to it.” The boy was behaving most oddly, moving pieces of stewed lampreys about on his trencher without eating any, his eyes roaming restlessly over the castle mesnie seated at the trestle tables below. He seemed to be looking for someone.
“To what do you look forward exactly?” Henry, washing his own lampreys down with a goblet of ruby-colored wine, observed his son with narrowed eyes.
“What?” Harry turned toward him. “Oh, well—to the events in Normandy, of course.” He noticed Henry’s goblet was empty and signaled a squire to refill it.
Henry raised his brows. “I am pleased you look forward to the council meeting.”
“Oh!” Harry turned pink. “I thought you just said . . . Perhaps I didn’t hear.” His gaze continued to dart around the hall, then suddenly stopped.
“Perhaps you didn’t listen.” Henry sipped from his goblet. “What ails you, my boy? You’re skittish as a colt. Who are you looking for?” He glanced at the tables below, recognizing many of the faces but certainly not all.
“No one.” Harry gave a high-pitched laugh. “Overtired myself hunting, is all.”
“You were certainly not up to your usual skill. I believe you missed every stag or doe we glimpsed in the forest. And you haven’t touched your food. Are you sure you’re not ill?” The boy shook his head, and Henry stifled a yawn. It had been a long day. He downed his goblet and again noticed that his son immediately beckoned a squire to fill it again. “You will have me in my cups at this rate.”
Harry smiled. “Well, my lord, an early night, then?”
Henry did not want another goblet of wine, but as it had been poured he idly drank it. “An early night will do us both good.” He rose from the high table and staggered out of the hall. Befuddled by too much wine, he was still aware that something preyed on his son’s mind.
As they walked down the passage, Henry put a hand on the boy’s arm. “It is important to me that we get on, my son. I hope you have enjoyed this journey as much as I have. As God is my witness, I do not mean to be harsh with you, but one day most of what I have will be yours, and you must be qualified to care for this legacy.”
“I-I understand,” Harry stammered.
They entered their chamber in silence. Henry, barely able to hold his balance, grasped his son’s shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. “God rest you, my boy. That last goblet really did for me. I am half asleep already.”
Harry swallowed and suddenly hugged him. “God rest you, Papa,” he whispered.
Touched, for his son had not called him Papa since he was a child, Henry watched the boy lay down on the trundle next to the canopied bed he would occupy. Harry did not even undress but covered himself with a fur-lined coverlet and appeared to fall immediately into sleep.
The moment Henry climbed into bed and closed his eyes he knew nothing until he was awakened the next morning by the sound of the bells ringing for prime. The trundle bed was empty. Harry was probably on his way to the chapel. Somewhat heavy-headed, and cursing his unwonted indulgence the night before, Henry splashed icy water on his face from a silver basin and slicked down his hair. When he entered the chapel to attend Mass, his son was nowhere to be seen. Uneasy, he left before the service was done and entered the great hall, shouting for the seneschal.
“Where is my son?” Henry asked the seneschal when he appeared.
“I have not seen him, my lord. But I shall make inquiries at once.”
Henry paced the hall, fearing the worst—although what that might be he had no idea. A servitor brought him a cup of ale and he drank it as he strode about the hall, warming himself from time to time at the central fire. A short while later the seneschal approached him.
“The young count of Anjou is gone, my lord. The drawbridge was ordered lowered some time before cockcrow and three riders rode across it, your son accompanied by his two companions.”
Henry felt as though he had been kicked in the belly. “What companions?”
“The two young knights who were here when you arrived yesterday, my lord. They were seated in the hall with the rest of the castle mesnie. Although strangers to me, they said they were in the service of the young count of Anjou, which was certainly the case.” He paused. “In truth, I thought it something of a coincidence since two couriers from Limoges, also claiming to be in your son’s service, stopped by Chinon only last sennight.”
Henry suddenly remembered Harry looking covertly around the hall. God’s eyes! These knights had been expected, which indicated that his son’s flight had not been a spur-of-the-moment decision.
With a feeling of panic he could not account for, Henry dispatched men in every direction. “Although I am sure he will have gone south,” he told the seneschal, “back to his mother and wife.”
Later one of the men returned. “The young count and his companions were observed fording the Loire, my lord, and then seen again riding north in the direction of Le Mans.”
North? Henry frowned. He had been so sure the boy would return to Poitou—Le Mans was on the way to Rouen but as that was where he and his son were already heading, Normandy could hardly be his destination.
He called for the constable of Chinon to attend him in the hall. “Saddle the horses, see to the saddlebags, tell my men we leave at once. Send couriers to every castellan between here and the Normandy border, and even across it, to detain my son should he show his face.”
An hour later, accompanied by a guard of Angevin knights, Henry was in the saddle racing toward Le Mans, the March wind blowing briskly in his face. When he reached Le Mans at vespers, Harry already had been there, picked up fresh horses, and left. Stopping only to attend evensong and wolf down a quick meal, Henry rode on through the night to Alençon. There, he learned that the young king had been seen in the vicinity, again picked up fresh horses, and ridden on. Exhausted, Henry had to stop and sleep. It was now humiliatingly obvious beyond all doubt that this escape had been cleverly arranged: the two knights joining Harry at Chinon, and fresh horses posted at intervals so that his son could maintain a clear lead over his pursuers. Who was responsible for this adroit strategy? Harry alone simply did not have the wits. Five moments alone with the boy and he would know everything.
Next evening at dusk, when Henry, ill with fatigue and worry, reached Argentan just across the Normandy border, it was the same tale. Fresh horses had been waiting and the boy had come and gone again, but this time by only a two-hour lead. By God’s grace, the gap was closing.
“The boy arrived here at dawn, so exhausted he could barely walk,” said the castellan of Argentan, “but since I had not received your orders then, I made no effort to detain him. He slept, obviously intending to spend the night, but he must have left his companions posted on the road. They appeared here, barely two hours ago, no doubt to warn him of your impending arrival. Your son was up, saddled, and the three of them gone in the blink of an eye. Your courier rode in only an hour ago. Too late.”
Henry, seated at the table in the great hall, rose to his feet. “We can catch him, I think, if I leave now.”
“He was heading east, my lord. Toward Mantes.”
Henry, so weary he could barely walk, took to the road again, riding through the night. At cockcrow, stiff with cold, his legs cramped, he reached Mantes. There was no sign of Harry.
“We must follow him up the Seine,” Henry told the captain of his Angevin guard.
“But this is King Louis’s frontier, my lord duke. If we continue we will be invading French territory. And as we are unprepared for such a venture—” He let his words trail off.
France? Sweet Jesu, of course! It had been obvious from the start where his son’s destination lay. Harry had fled to the safety of his father-in-law, who was obviously behind this imbroglio. How could he have been so blind? Henry cursed himself for a complete blockhead. Trembling with rage and mortification, he wanted only to fling himself on the ground, gnash his teeth, and tear at the earth.
In a daze and numb with cold, Henry rode straight through to Rouen and had to be carried from his horse into the ducal palace. He slept through the night and into the late hours of the following morning, awaking rested but still stiff and sore. After soaking in a tub of hot water fragrant with healing herbs, and breaking his fast with a warm wheaten loaf and wine, his head started to clear and he knew what he had to do.
Henry called together John, marshal of England, who had been awaiting his arrival, the constable of Rouen, the bishop of Rouen, and three clerks. Once they were assembled in the chamber used for council meetings, Henry seated himself in a wooden armchair draped with a scarlet cloth, then summed up what had happened. “It is my belief that Louis of France is behind Harry’s defection,” he said in conclusion. “My son has been suborned by his overlord.”
He could not tell them or anyone of the bitterness that gnawed at his heart: Just when he imagined that his authority had reached its peak, his empire on the verge of a new expansion, his son and heir had chosen to break into open rebellion.
“Then this must have been planned well beforehand, my lord duke,” said the constable of Rouen.
Henry considered for a moment then shook his head. “Impossible to plan well beforehand. Harry did not know he would be accompanying me back to Rouen, much less when we would depart, until at least five days before we left.”
“Ample time for the boy to send word to France before leaving Limoges.” John the Marshal, much more thoughtful than his father had been, stroked his chin. “And arrange to have companions and horses available.”
Henry remembered the seneschal at Chinon mentioning something about couriers from Limoges. In the heat of Harry’s escape it had slipped his mind.
“Such preparation requires accomplices, from Limoges to Mantes.” Bishop Routrou of Rouen frowned. Portly in black robes with a silver crucifix hanging from his neck, he tapped heavily ringed fingers on the oak table. “In truth, it now occurs to me there may be a great deal more to this matter than meets the eye. The young king’s flight to Paris could well have acted as a signal of sorts to many discontented vassals in Your Grace’s continental domains.”
The constable of Rouen looked skeptical. “Do you say, Bishop, that the time is ripe for action against Duke Henry? I hardly think—”
“No, it is a distinct possibility,” Henry interjected, “and cannot be rejected out of hand.” God’s splendor! Where were his wits? The business with Harry had caught him nodding. “Thank you, my lord bishop. I thought only of my son, not of immediate danger to my lands as well.” Henry rose to his feet. “We will prepare ourselves as though expecting an invasion of enemy forces, but take no offensive action until I have made an attempt at reconciliation.”
He turned to the clerks perched on high stools in the back of the chamber. “Note that couriers must be sent to my castellans in Anjou and Maine with orders to fortify all major castles. Notify the chamberlain of Normandy to do the same in Bayeaux and Caen. Inform my loyal vassals in Aquitaine to prepare themselves.” If there are any loyal vassals left, he added to himself. After a moment he said slowly, “The duchess Eleanor can deal with any difficulties in Poitou.”
Remembering Eleanor’s odd behavior when he left Limoges, Henry wondered if Eleanor could have played any part in Harry’s flight. Perhaps even Marguerite was culpable? She was Louis’s daughter, after all. He felt he was clutching at straws. “I will send for Queen Eleanor, Richard, and Count Geoffrey to attend the Easter court early. They will be much safer in Normandy.” Where I can keep an eye on them, he almost added.
“We should muster the full army now so it will be ready to march south, if the need arises,” said the constable of Rouen. “Suppose Brittany erupts as well?”
“Let me think.” The situation now so seemed so explosive, Henry knew he had to put his thoughts in order or he would be overwhelmed by all the grim possibilities. “I think we should first try to bribe the magnates there to remain true to us. The Bretons have never cared for me but my son Geoffrey, young as he is, is their count, after all.”
“Unless Count Geoffrey is also involved in this plot, heaven forefend.” The bishop of Rouen crossed himself. “Then the Bretons will follow his lead.”
God’s eyes! If both Harry and Geoffrey were aligned against him, Richard would most certainly be included. Had the whole world gone mad?
“England is another tinderbox,” added John the marshal. “When news of the young king’s defection reaches the rebellious nobles there, the trouble will escalate.”
Henry ran an agitated hand through his hair. “You must leave for England at once, Marshal. Warn the justiciars and sheriffs that they may expect an increase in the uprisings. Advise my sheriff, Ranulf de Glanville, to look to the defense of the northern shires. The earls of Leicester, Norfolk, and Chester are known to be in league against me, and if they take concerted action, the king of Scotland will most certainly send his Highlanders south to take advantage of the situation.”
While the clerks scribbled busily on their wax tablets, Henry prayed he would not have to expose all his possessions to a destructive civil war. First he must attempt to parley, request discussions, and negotiate for peace. But if all else failed . . .
“I doubt there are enough troops to cover every front, my lord,” said the constable of Rouen in an anxious voice. “I suggest we hire mercenaries, Brabantines, to aid us.”
Henry felt a chill course through him. In all the years of his reign he had never been forced to hire paid mercenaries except in very small numbers. The hated Brabantines, Flemings they called them in England, made the best soldiers and did as they were bid, but often behaved no better than animals. When he was a child in England a Fleming had almost killed him. Must he now resort to this? God’s eyes, it went against the grain.
Henry turned to Bishop Routrou. “Go now, Your Grace, to Paris. Request that Louis send my son back to me.” Suppose the boy refused to leave? Defied him once again? To have to beg Louis of France to return his own son! The thought was like gall and wormwood in his throat. “If Harry has ought to complain of, I shall do my best to put it right.” He could barely get the words out, aware that he harbored both a murderous rage and a deep hurt. “The matter is of the utmost urgency.”
“Indeed,” the bishop replied. “What says Holy Writ? ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.’ I leave at once.”
Four days later a cleric sent by the bishop of Rouen in Paris arrived at the ducal palace. With several close advisors present, Henry saw him in his council chamber, where the cleric recounted in painful detail what had transpired at the French court.
“When Bishop Routrou asked King Louis to send the young king back to his father, Louis asked, ‘Who sends me this message?’ The bishop answered it was the king of England. Louis then said, ‘But that is untrue, look, the king of England is here with me and he sends me no message through you. Perhaps you mean the former king of England? But he is king no more and everyone knows it. In full view of the world he made the kingdom over to his son.’”
According to the cleric everyone present had tittered, obviously amused at this unexpected sally from the usually serious French monarch.
The blood rushed to Henry’s head and he leapt from his chair. Once this tale became widespread, he knew he would become a laughingstock, the butt of jeers and jests. A red mist formed before his eyes and he began to pound the table with a clenched fist, aware of what was coming.
“I will never forgive Louis. Never! One day the French monarch, and whoever else is responsible, will pay for this.” The pressure in his head was so intense he felt it might burst. To relieve it he seized a stool and threw it across the chamber. “It is a debt I will collect personally,” he shrieked before falling to the floor as the seizure overcame him.