IN SEPTEMBER OF THE year 1180, King Louis VII of France finally died at the Cistercian abbey of Saint-Port. Alais, who was still in Paris, hoped that with her father’s death her fortunes would improve. But by the end of 1181 she was still at the French court, no better off than when she had arrived. Her marriage to Richard, which she had come to accept as the only course left open to her, was no closer to becoming a reality as he had not returned to Paris except to make a brief appearance at Louis’s funeral. Since he was constantly embroiled in the conflicts besetting Aquitaine, Alais had no idea when she would see him again. Her brother Philip was still trying to maintain his tenuous hold on the crown against the insidious attacks of his mother, Adela. No one spared a thought for her or her future, Alais thought resentfully. At least her father had cared what became of her.
In January of the new year, 1182, Alais impulsively decided to send a secret message to Henry, whom she had neither seen nor heard from since she left England. She missed him, which was certainly true, was there any way he could contrive to get her back to England?
A month later Henry responded. To her dismay, he urged her to remain in Paris, continue to support her brother, and keep him informed of events as best she could. At this time, he wrote, it suited England’s policy to back Philip rather than the queen dowager Adela and her family. He made no mention of Richard or the marriage but advised caution and patience. The letter was entirely political in nature with no hint of intimacy. Still, Henry’s response was a good sign, as was the fact he had decided to back her brother, despite the fact that he did not like Philip. A dislike Alais was now beginning to understand. Philip, whom she had genuinely cared for as a child, was, at sixteen, turning out to be cold, charmless, and calculating. Alais also sensed that he possessed a ruthless streak, one that would bode ill for those who crossed him, just as Bertran de Born had predicted. Still, to outwit his she-devil of a mother, Philip would need every weapon at his command.
The continuing power struggle between them took a turn in Philip’s favor when he purloined his dead father’s Great Seal and with that masterstroke assumed sole control of the kingdom. Soon reports reached the Cité Palace that the queen dowager and her party had rallied their own supporters and were bent on turning Philip’s vassals against him. Alais was delighted when Count Geoffrey of Brittany and the young king helped Philip in the field against his mother’s forces, supported as well by men and arms from Normandy sent by Henry. Even Richard sent what troops he could spare. After a short battle, from which Philip emerged victorious, his mother and her entourage left Paris; Alais prayed that this time the hated Adela was finally defeated.
Shortly thereafter, Bertran de Born, long absent from the French court, made a brief visit to the Cité Palace in September. As usual, his appearance caused tongues to wag and the very air to throb with speculation and intrigue. He spent all his time closeted with Harry, and Alais did not see him alone. A fortnight later he was gone.
Recalling Bertran’s earlier threats to set Harry against Richard, Alais felt certain that something was afoot. She decided to ask Marguerite directly. Her sister was incapable of dissembling for long and Alais was confident she could worm the facts out of her.
“Are your husband and Bertran involved in some kind of—of conspiracy together? Against Richard?”
Marguerite blushed and would not look Alais in the eye. “A conspiracy? I would not put it so harshly. Harry and Messire de Born have long been appalled at Richard’s vicious tactics in Aquitaine.” Marguerite signed herself. “It is a disgrace that a knight of noble blood should conduct himself in such unseemly fashion.”
“What exactly is Richard doing that you find so offensive?”
Marguerite’s huge blue eyes blinked several times and she chewed at her lip. “Well—Well, ah, let me see. Richard has sworn to protect widows and orphans and all he does is make more of them. I know he is your betrothed, sister, but he allows his soldiers to run wild and pillage and commit—other crimes, too foul to mention.” Her lower lip began to tremble.
Sweet Marie, how could anyone be such a goose? Bertran had no doubt fed Harry and Marguerite some horrifying tale designed to outrage their easily beguiled sensibilities. Richard’s iron control over his soldiers was a byword on the Continent.
“What does William Marshal say to these accusations against Richard?” Alais could not imagine William allowing his charge to become embroiled in Bertran’s schemes.
Marguerite looked disconcerted. “William is no longer in Paris. He and Harry recently exchanged heated words and William left just before Bertran de Born did.”
“They quarreled? What about?”
“Harry will not tell me. But he has been upset with William for a long time. In truth, sister, my husband has been acting very strangely of late, and I am worried.” Her eyes filled with tears.
Alais could guess what the quarrel was about: Prodded by the troubadour, Harry had probably accused William once too often of improper attentions to his wife. Innocent of any wrongdoing, and no longer able to support this stain upon his honor, the proud knight had quit his master’s service. Alais, knowing who the true culprit was, felt tempted to tell her sister the whole story, but of course she could not afford to get involved.
In mid-October, King Henry announced his intention to hold his Christmas crown-wearing at Caen. It was to be a sumptuous court, everyone said, the most splendid ever seen in Normandy. All nobles and prelates in Henry’s domains were invited to attend and renew their homage; all local baronial courts were forbidden. At almost the same time—Alais did not believe it was pure coincidence—Bertran de Born finally let loose his own bolt by announcing that Richard had erected a fortress on land that was nominally under Harry’s control. It lay on the border between their two provinces of Poitou and Anjou and, Alais felt certain, would have gone unnoticed but for the troubadour. From his castle at Hautefort, Bertran wrote a blistering sirvente with the obvious purpose of inflaming Harry’s wrath against his brother. Soon the sirvente was being sung from the Midi to Normandy. By mid-November, it was acting like a clarion call to arms, rallying many chevaliers who resented Richard for reasons of their own, to Harry’s side. Bertran had finally found a way to set brother against brother. With William Marshal gone there was no one to make the young king listen to reason.
What would happen at the Christmas court, Alais wondered, when Richard and Harry met face-to-face? If the conflict escalated, which brother would Count Geoffrey of Brittany support? Which son would King Henry favor? In Paris there were malicious comments and secret wagers on who would side with whom. Initially Alais had eagerly looked forward to the Christmas court and seeing Henry. But when she left for Caen in mid-December she felt as though she were going to witness some blood sport, like a bear baiting. All because of that wretched sirvente! The meddling troubadour had certainly picked the ripe moment. It would serve Bertran de Born right if someone were to strangle him with his own lute string.
For the last two years, Henry had deemed it prudent to make only brief unheralded visits to the Continent, always careful to avoid French soil. He had even stayed away from Louis’s obsequies lest his presence arouse speculation. Since the French monarch’s death he had waited to see if any hint of scandal would break, but there was not even a whisper, and he allowed himself to hope that any knowledge of his adultery had died with Louis. With a sense of relief, Henry looked forward to this Christmas court. He was anxious to reunite with his sons, particularly Harry, who had refused to return to England.
When William Marshal arrived at Caen well before the Christmas festivities, and recounted his tale of Harry’s absurd accusations, Henry was aghast. “How could he believe this of you, William? Has he lost his wits?”
“Thank you for your confidence, Your Grace.” William crossed himself before continuing. “Although I have no proof, I have long suspected this is the work of Bertran de Born, who has a most pernicious influence on the young king and on many who deplore what is happening in Aquitaine. His recent sirvente stirs the hearts of the discontented, spurring them to action. He has done this before, as you are aware, my lord king, claiming he is a patriot of Aquitaine. Harry affects to despise his brother’s behavior in the duchy and since he is also jealous of Richard’s success, he is like a tinderbox that de Born can easily set alight.”
“I have heard this latest sirvente,” Henry said, trying to conceal his shock at the unwelcome news of Harry’s jealousy, although Eleanor, he recalled, had also mentioned this.
“I know you are aware that Duke Richard is highly unpopular in both Aquitaine and Poitou,” continued William. “De Born’s sirvente names the young king as liberator of the duchy if he will accept the challenge.”
“Harry? Do others agree?” Stupefied, Henry stared at William.
“Many, Your Grace. In the three years since he has been on the Continent the young king has established quite a following among hot-headed noble youths.” William paused. “His ah—inexperience as an administrator is not apparent in the present circumstances, only his skill at arms, his generosity of heart, and his popularity. Furthermore, rumor has it that Limoges, which is now in rebellion against Duke Richard, will open its gates to Harry.”
With a sense that events were moving rapidly out of his control, Henry could hardly credit what William was saying. Was it possible that one mischief-making troubadour could create so much havoc between his sons?
Henry felt a rush of blood suffuse his face. “If that insolent songbird dares to preen his feathers in my presence, I’ll pluck them out one by one!” He smote his fist into an open palm. “God’s eyes! I will make Harry see reason. Not only where you are concerned but also in regard to Richard. There shall be peace between them.”
A sennight later the Christmas festivities began with hundreds of guests arriving to keep the holiday cheer with their overlord. Among the first to make an appearance was Henry’s eldest daughter, Matilda; her husband, the duke of Saxony; and their two young sons. His only grandchildren, Henry thought, dandling a boy on each knee. Matilda had grown into a lovely woman, bright and gracious, thought Henry, pleased to see her. He kissed her warmly, struck by how much she now resembled his late mother, the empress Maud. He was also pleased, albeit differently, to see his future daughter-in-law when she arrived. Magnificent in a plum-colored cloak over shimmering cloth of gold and ebony, Alais was a feast for the eye. She approached him in the great hall with an undulating walk that drew every man’s eye to her voluptuous body. When she knelt in homage before him, her dark eyes looked up at Henry in an open invitation that conjured up passionate memories and sent a surge of desire into his loins.
Certainly he had not been celibate during the past three years, but his occasional bedmates had been as exciting as placid sheep. Absence had sharpened both his appetite and appreciation—but not dulled his wits, please God, Henry thought ruefully. He had no intention of repeating his folly. In truth, he would urge Richard to take Alais back to Aquitaine. A marriage with a princess of France, the promise of heirs, might do much to calm the unhappy Aquitainians and reconcile them to Richard’s stern rule. At least for the time being.
Henry had spared no expense in preparing the castle at Caen with colorful new hangings and refurbishing all the chambers. He had ordered the finest wines from Gascony and Spain, and sent to Rouen for his mother’s ornate silver saltcellars and jeweled goblets. The tables groaned with freshly caught game and wildfowl; green mistletoe and scarlet holly berries decorated the hall. Even Eleanor would have been proud of him. Henry gave a wistful sigh. By God’s splendor, what wouldn’t he give to have her skillful charm and gift for diplomacy beside him. And although he was braced for trouble, the reality turned out to be far worse than he had anticipated.
From the moment Harry entered the castle with his brother Count Geoffrey and their entourage, Henry could sense he was going to cause trouble. He was friendly and warm to his sister Matilda and his younger brother, John, even greeting with affection his misbegotten half-brother, Geoffrey, the former bishop of Lincoln, whom Henry had recently removed from his See and made chancellor of England. But all this was overshadowed by Harry’s bristling hostility toward Richard. Every so often he sent venomous looks in the direction of his brother and the vassals and troubadours who had arrived in his train. To make matters worse, Harry ignored William Marshal’s presence with a lofty insolence that made Henry want to shake him until his teeth rattled, and Richard refused to greet the newly appointed chancellor, turning his back on his half brother without a reply. Henry was stunned that Richard would still harbor the same crippling jealousy that tormented him as a child. Regardless of provocation, though, Henry promised himself that he would view everything his son—sons, he amended—did with a merciful eye and do all in his power not to lose his temper.
On the twenty-eighth day of December, the Feast of Childermas, matters came to a head. Henry sat in the center of the high table; Richard on one side of him, Harry on the other. There had been three days of feasting and merriment, a mellow atmosphere prevailed among the guests, and it was time to attempt the role of peacemaker.
“It is our desire to settle any dispute between you and Richard—” Henry began in an affable voice, directing his remark to Harry.
“There is only one way this dispute can be settled, my lord,” Harry interjected angrily. “Richard has had the impudence to build a castle on the wrong side of the border, my side. He must give up this stronghold forthwith or else answer for the consequences. No other course is acceptable.”
Richard, who had been gnawing on a leg of wildfowl, carefully laid it down on his trencher. “Do you threaten me, brother?”
“Not if you tear down the castle.” Harry took a long draught from his goblet and held it out for a squire to refill.
“The mock king of England who trims his sails to each passing wind is hardly in a position to give orders to the conquering hero of Aquitaine.” With a contemptuous smile, Richard dipped his fingers into a silver bowl of water proffered by a kneeling squire then wiped them off on a white cloth draped over the squire’s wrist.
Harry’s handsome face turned a dull red. “Is that how you see yourself? When your subjects make no secret of how bitterly they detest your vicious rule? There is a revolt against you in Limoges yet again, and it is spreading like wildfire. Every province in Aquitaine will soon rise in opposition, and who can blame them?”
Everyone present knew that Harry spoke the truth, and Henry watched this by-play with a sinking feeling in his belly. He also noted that Harry was downing his wine with a sense of urgency, as if steeling himself.
Richard shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can deal with the Poitevins, the Limousins, any who rebel! I have been doing so for the past six years while you have been amusing yourself in tournaments.” His smile turned to a scornful laugh. “Mock battles for a mock king who is a stranger to Mars. You are a laughingstock, brother, and the butt of jests.”
“Will you let him demean the king of England?” Harry spat out the words as he glowered at Henry.
“I cannot see that Richard deserves all this spleen, my son,” said Henry, still determined to keep peace between them. “After all, the castle sits on borderland that, it might be argued, could belong either to Poitou or Anjou.”
“Indeed,” said Richard shooting Henry a glance of surprised gratitude. “I thought I was building on Poitevin soil.”
“Do you really think I am fool enough to swallow that tale?” Harry thrust out his jaw.
Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw Count Geoffrey whisper something in Harry’s ear, something that caused a murderous expression to cross his face. Harry banged his goblet down on the table. Wine splashed over the rim onto the snowy cloth, staining it the color of blood.
“You heard my brother Richard call me a mock king, and he is right!” He stabbed an accusing finger at Henry. “When am I going to receive real power to match my titles? If I am a laughingstock, the butt of jests, and unworthy of respect, Sire, my father, who is to blame?”
There was a sudden silence at the high table while Henry, stunned by this unexpected attack, felt everyone’s eyes turn toward him. “You have all the power of a king, my son,” he began carefully. “You want for nothing—”
Harry jumped to his feet, his face the color of alabaster, his eyes glittering like bits of ice. “Unless you actually give me real power to rule, I will renounce all the empty titles you have bestowed upon me.” Almost incoherent with rage, wounded pride, and too much wine, he shouted wildly, “I will take the cross and go on crusade to the Holy Land and never return!”
There was a shocked gasp among the guests at the table and Henry crossed himself. Heavenly Father, give me strength to deal with this, he prayed. Rising heavily to his feet, he put his hands on his son’s trembling shoulders.
“Finish the feast, my son. I promise to improve your circumstances before this court adjourns.” Henry lowered his voice. “Come, everyone is watching you; behave in a dignified manner, as the king you claim to be.”
Slowly, his body shaking, Harry sat down and Henry resumed his seat. He had no idea what he could do to appease the boy, but giving him more power was the last thing he intended. While he tried desperately to think of a solution, Henry decided to divert his son’s attention once he had calmed down. After a moment the hall resumed its festive atmosphere; laughter rose and fell, minstrels sang sweetly, and the air was thick with the scent of wine and wood smoke rising from the Yule log.
“I believe William Marshal wishes to clear up his quarrel with you, my son,” Henry said, observing that Harry appeared to be more in control. He signaled to William, who was seated at one of the trestle tables directly below the dais.
Slowly William rose and bowed to Harry. “My lord king, I wish to be given the opportunity to disprove the accusation against me of undue familiarity with Queen Marguerite. I offer personal combat with any of my accusers.”
Harry, whose color and manner had returned to normal, laughed shortly. “Since you wield the finest lance on the Continent, no one would defeat you even if you are justly accused.”
“Then I offer to fight three champion knights of your choosing on three successive days. If one defeats me I will admit to being guilty.”
There was a sharp indrawn breath from everyone at the high table. With a frown, Henry tried to catch William’s eye. Why offer such generous odds when he was not guilty of any misconduct? He was shocked when his son shook his head. A tense silence fell over the table as everyone glanced at William. He said nothing for a moment.
“I offer that immediately before the joust begins a finger should be cut from my right hand and I will take the field with the wound still bleeding.”
A horrified exclamation echoed throughout the hall. Henry leapt to his feet. “God’s eyes! This has gone far enough. What is the matter with you, my son? Obviously William is innocent.”
Harry, now backed into a corner, stubbornly shook his head. “I refuse to accept.”
Henry curled his hands into fists lest he strangle his fool of a son then and there.
“Then I will leave your service forever.” William was pale, his mouth working. “Give me a writ of safe-conduct through your lands so that whatever jousts I enter no lord will think me apostate.”
When the young king seemed to hesitate, Henry said, “I will give you one.”
“No. He is my man. I will give him the writ.” Flushed, Harry could not meet William’s gaze. “I will see it is drawn up by vespers.”
His head held high, his back rigid with pride, William gave Henry a curt nod and strode quickly from the hall. Ashamed of his son’s shabby treatment of this loyal knight, Henry sat down and picked up his wine goblet.
John, marshal of England and William’s older brother, rose from his seat. His face taut with outrage he addressed the young king. “It is a blot upon the honor of knighthood itself that my brother William is denied the opportunity to clear his name and forced to leave the court under a cloud.” His hand fell to his sword.
Henry gave a slight shake of his head. William was Harry’s man and it would not help the situation for the marshal to take action. Even Henry dared not interfere. To make matters worse Henry noticed that Marguerite was openly weeping. God’s eyes! He saw his son put a comforting arm around her shoulder. To Henry’s surprise, she pushed his arm away with a violent gesture.
“Do not touch me,” he heard her hiss. “You have made a public spectacle of me, humiliated me in front of all these noble guests. William Marshal has never paid me undue attention but always behaved with complete propriety and respect.” Her usually placid face was rosy with indignation and her tearful blue eyes gazed at her husband with scorn. “But if he had been overly attentive, to imagine that I, a daughter of France and queen of England, would stoop so low as to take notice of a mere knight is a stain upon my honor that I will never, never forgive.” She gave him a withering glance and quite literally turned her back on him.
It was an exchange no one missed. It was obvious that Harry, crimson with mortification, knew full well that he had made a disastrous mistake, but pride would never allow him to recall William Marshal. Henry’s heart bled for his dolt of a son. Could matters get any more wretched?
By Epiphany, the court greatly diminished in numbers, had moved from Caen to Angers. Here in this ancient mellow city, his ancestral home, Henry hoped tensions would ease and a degree of harmony might be attained. Although the matter of the disputed castle had not been resolved, it was, at least for the moment, laid aside. William Marshal had gone, God keep him safe. Showing unexpected spirit, Marguerite, who was no longer on speaking terms with her husband and had forbidden him her bed, refused to accompany Harry to Angers and insisted on remaining in Normandy, demanding that her sister stay with her. Under these straitened circumstances, Henry felt it inappropriate to order Richard to take Alais back to Aquitaine.
By the time the court settled in, a possible solution occurred to Henry. Several days after they had arrived at Angers castle, Henry called Harry, Richard, and Count Geoffrey into one of the small stone chambers that led off the great hall. His justiciar, Richard de Lucy; his bastard son Geoffrey, chancellor of England; and Prince John were present as witnesses, as were several clerks ready with wax tablets and styli to record what transpired. Henry sat in a wooden armchair draped with scarlet cloth embroidered with the three gold lions of Anjou. He requested Harry pay homage to him as heir of England and Normandy, Anjou, and Maine. Then he asked Richard and Geoffrey to do homage to him as well. Both complied, though neither Aquitaine nor Brittany were held of the English crown. But that was not the point, and all three boys knew it. Since John had no land of his own and would not be made king of Ireland until the following year, he was not required to do homage.
“One day, my sons,” said Henry, “your eldest brother, the young king, will be head of the House of Anjou.” He stepped down from the chair and motioned to Harry to seat himself. When he had done so, Henry turned to Richard and Geoffrey. “It is incumbent upon you to do homage to him.”
With a facile smile Count Geoffrey complied as Henry had expected he would.
“I have done homage to you, my lord king, because that is my duty as a son,” said Richard in a belligerent voice, “and you are also duke of Aquitaine. But why should I do homage to Harry?” He sent his brother a disdainful glance. “Aquitaine is held through my mother. I was crowned duke with her consent and four years ago she formally ceded the duchy to me in an official writ. I have already done homage for it to two kings of France. I am not my brother’s vassal.”
Harry’s face flushed with anger. Before he could open his mouth to protest, Henry held up his hand. “No one disputes your seizin, Richard. In truth, it was I who persuaded your mother to cede you the duchy.” Richard’s eyes widened. “Let me remind you that there are small portions of land in both England and Normandy which you hold through me. It is only right that you do homage for them to your brother.” He sent Richard a meaningful glance meant to convey Humor me in this affair. “In addition, it is a matter of principle that the elder brother may expect compliance from his younger brothers.”
Richard hesitated. This appeared to increase the young king’s displeasure, but Henry could see that his words had made an impression. After a moment Richard awkwardly knelt before his elder brother; he slowly stretched out his hands. Henry watched with a benign smile on his face, which quickly turned to disbelief when the young king would not grasp Richard’s hands between his own.
“I refuse to have so reluctant a vassal as my man.” His voice was edged with hostility, and Henry could see resentment flickering in his son’s green-gold eyes. “Nor do I recognize Richard’s moral right even to hold Aquitaine. I will do all in my power to liberate the duchy from his oppression.”
Richard leapt to his feet. The two boys exchanged glances of such bitter hatred that Henry expected one of them to draw his sword and he moved to step between them. Richard spoke first in a voice of steel. “Brother mine, you have seen the last of me. No land to which I hold seizin shall ever be yours in any capacity. And look to yourself if ever you set foot across my borders.”
“My sons, do not act in such haste—” Henry began.
White as death, Richard turned on him in a cold fury. “This is the last time I ever do anything you ask. For all I know you arranged this whole matter merely to humiliate me.”
Taken aback, Henry signed himself. “As God is my witness, I acted in good faith, hoping to achieve some fraternal concord amongst the three of you.”
Richard turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
“Richard, I speak the truth! I ask you not to leave.” Feeling as if the whole world had gone mad, Henry ran after him and tugged at his son’s dark blue mantle. Richard started to open the door. “I ask you—Richard! I command you not to leave this chamber!”
Richard tore his mantle from Henry’s grasp, then walked briskly out of the chamber without a backward glance.
“Richard! Richard!” Stunned by this blatant gesture of defiance, Henry followed him through the open door. “If you do not return I will have the guards seize you! Richard!” Just one shout and the boy would be instantly surrounded. But he seemed to have lost the power of speech.
“Shall I go after him, Father?” It was Count Geoffrey’s voice.
Henry passed trembling fingers across a forehead beaded with sweat. He hesitated. Finally he shook his head and walked slowly back into the chamber. Neither then nor afterward, when it was too late, was he able to understand why he had let Richard go.
The bitter disappointment and intense anger he had suppressed throughout the Christmas court began to stir in Henry’s belly like a serpent uncoiling itself. After all he had done to appease, placate and make peace between the three boys, this was an outcome not to be borne! The sheer arrogance of Richard’s behavior took his breath away. And although it was the young king who was clearly at fault from first to last, it was Richard who became the object of Henry’s erupting fury. Heat suffused his neck and face, which must be turning scarlet as both Harry and Geoffrey were looking at him in consternation.
“I—I—I—” Obviously they thought one of his fits was coming on, but there was little danger of his losing control and falling on the floor. Rage blocked his throat and he could not get the words out.
The chancellor poured a goblet of wine from a pitcher on the table and, running over to Henry, thrust it into his hand. He drank the contents down at one gulp. After a moment he pointed a finger at Harry and Count Geoffrey. In a voice hoarse with passion, he finally croaked, “Richard has forfeited our good will and our protection. You, my sons, have my permission to curb your brother’s pride. He needs a lesson in humility.”
Harry, his face flushed with triumph, knelt on the floor. “Thank you, Father. We will bring Richard to heel, won’t we, brother?”
“With pleasure.”
“My lord king, this will not help matters,” said the chancellor. “Let our sweet Lord soften your heart.”
“I beg Your Grace to consider the consequences of this rash act,” cried Richard de Lucy. “You have long reproved your sons for battling among themselves. Now you have ordered them to destroy each other.”
Before Henry could reply, Count Geoffrey withdrew his sword from its scabbard. With a cold smile he swung his blade in an arc to include himself, his brothers Harry and John, and then Henry.
“We are Plantagenets, my lord de Lucy. The devil’s brood. It is our fate that by birth and ancestry none of us shall love one another. But that always brother shall make war on brother, son on father, each against all the others.”
His words fell like stones into the silence. No one protested, or made any attempt to contradict what Geoffrey had said. Indeed, how could anyone deny he spoke the truth?