ONCE IT WAS MADE known that Eleanor had regained her official position as duchess and that Richard would be ruling in her name with limited authority, the rebellion and unrest began to subside. Henry made extensive excursions throughout the duchy and, worn out from his efforts but infinitely relieved, he congratulated himself on having had the foresight to bring Eleanor back to Aquitaine. In October, her mission accomplished and fearful that her subjects would attempt to keep her in Poitiers, Henry sent her to Normandy, accompanied by Richard and an armed guard—lest she forget she was still his captive.
Since Geoffrey had vanished the day after his attack on his brother and nothing further was heard from him, Henry assumed his son had gone to ground in Rennes, the capital of Brittany. Bitterly disappointed in this boy who had showed so much promise as a ruler, and no longer able to ignore Geoffrey’s long history of treacherous behavior, Henry resigned himself to the fact that he could never put any faith in him again, especially after Eleanor had told him of the boy’s vague threats. Heavy-hearted, he made arrangements to relieve Geoffrey as custos of Normandy.
In early December, Henry left Aquitaine. His dominions were relatively quiet for the first time in many years and he looked forward to a peaceful Christmas at Bayeaux in Normandy, surrounded by members of his family. Although both Richard and Eleanor were present, Henry made a point of avoiding their company. He felt awkward with his second son, who seemed equally uncomfortable in his presence.He was certain the boy’s characteristics that had perplexed him in the past were now clear, such as Richard’s odd behavior with Bertran de Born. In truth, Alais had once tried to tell him how matters stood but he had not wanted to believe her.
Eleanor, of course, had proved cooperative in Poitou, but he had seen very little of her there and still felt an estrangement between them. Although she had never accused him, and they had not discussed the matter, Henry was convinced that she blamed him for Harry’s death. And then, unaccountably, there was the realization that the Poitevins still loved their duchess after all these years, while he continued to be hated. The injustice of it rankled. Still, he did owe her something and, as a kind of gift to Eleanor, Henry invited Marie of Champagne to attend his Christmas court. Eleanor had not seen her for close on twelve years.
He met them in the hall at Bayeaux only a few moments after Marie’s arrival. Mother and daughter had their arms twined around each other’s waists. With their tall willowy figures, sparkling hazel eyes, and peach-colored skin they resembled two peas in a pod.
“Thank you, my lord duke,” Marie said with a tremulous smile. “This was a kind gesture.”
“I do nothing out of kindness, as your mother will be the first to tell you. I fully expect to be brought up to date on all the gossip and rumor making the rounds of the Cité Palace.” He paused before asking casually, “For instance, have you seen anything of your half-brother, Count Geoffrey, at the French court?”
Marie frowned. “Well, as you know, King Philip and his uncle, my husband, had a major falling out when his sister, Adela, was ousted from Paris. My husband is not received at the Cité Palace, but as Philip’s half sister I am still welcome. However, I do not attend the French court very often, so I am not privy to the current goings on.” She paused before continuing. “But during my last visit in early September, Count Geoffrey was in Paris and was constantly seen in Philip’s company. It was common knowledge by then that you, my lord duke, had quarreled with your son, and it was whispered that Philip had offered Geoffrey the office of seneschal of France if he would agree to hold Brittany from France alone and not as a vassal of Normandy.” She gave Eleanor an anxious look. “That is all I know, for I have not been back since. But I am not comfortable taking sides in this affair, since both Philip and Geoffrey are my brothers, and I love them equally.”
“Thank you, my dear, for being so candid,” said Eleanor. “Divided loyalties are something we can all understand.”
“Please do not let this spoil the Christmas festivities for you,” added Henry. He exchanged a brief glance with Eleanor and could see that, like him, she was neither surprised nor angered by this news. Such an offer would be like balm to Geoffrey’s wounded spirit, even if it meant breaking his oaths of fealty to his father. Clever as he was, the boy’s envy and bitterness would make him both blind and vulnerable, a useful tool in the hands of the calculating Philip.
Eleanor and Marie walked off, heads together like two sisters. Henry felt a pang of envy at the bond between them. Once he and Eleanor had been that close. Now, with the exception of his misbegotten son, Geoffrey the chancellor, he no longer felt close to anyone. Aware of an unaccustomed melancholy, he decided to use the Christmas court as an excuse to recall John from Ireland as his advisors had been urging him to do. Indeed, he had little choice, since the boy had behaved so badly some of the Irish chieftains had actually tried to assassinate him. John was too young, Henry concluded, still untried, and the burden of responsibility had overwhelmed him.
Richard was cool to John when he made his appearance at Bayeaux, while guests at the court seemed embarrassed by his presence. Henry, however, was pleased to see him and relieved to find that the boy did not give himself airs but conducted himself in a subdued and contrite manner. This still left the problem of what to do with him. How was his youngest son to be provided for?
In the New Year of 1186, when the court was over, he sent Eleanor back to England with instructions that her confinement should be eased but not ended. Shortly thereafter, Marie of Champagne made plans to return to Troyes.
Before she left, Henry said to her, “Should you hear anything of interest, I would be grateful if you passed it on.”
“If my conscience will permit it,” Marie replied, signing herself, and with that Henry knew he would have to be content.
In early February, an emissary arrived from King Philip of France with disquieting news: His widowed sister, Marguerite, who had been Harry’s wife, had an offer of marriage from the king of Hungary and he now must insist that King Henry return her dowry, the Vexin.
“The Vexin is now the dower of Alais Capet upon her marriage to my son,” Henry told the emissary in an outraged voice. He had already broached this to the French king in an official letter and Philip had given his cautious agreement. “Philip knows this as well as I do.”
“Indeed,” said the emissary smoothly. “But since my noble master sees no evidence of any marriage taking place between his sister and the duke of Aquitaine, as was agreed, the Vexin reverts to Marguerite.”
“The marriage will take place.”
The emissary bowed. “The most puissant and noble king of France says that if there is to be any further discussion of the matter, you must meet with him under the elm at Gisors. No later than April of this year.”
Since time out of mind this had been the traditional meeting place between the French and English kings; Henry did not see how he could refuse. Or even why he should refuse, once he thought about it. With the Vexin at stake, he was more than willing to let Alais go.
“I will be there.”
After dismissing the emissary and everyone else except for Richard, Henry decided to go right to the heart of the matter. “Where would you like the wedding to take place, my son? Paris or Poitou?”
“You don’t expect me to marry that slut?”
Startled at this vehement response, and not sure what to make of it, Henry rose from his chair and walked over to the central fire to warm his hands. “That is hardly the proper way to speak of your betrothed. Of course I expect you to marry her. We discussed this at Limoges, where, as I recall, you were most eager to do so. What has changed since then?”
Richard scowled. “For one thing, I do not like her. I never have. The feeling is mutual.”
“How you feel about one another is beside the point. You are marrying the sister of the king of France so we do not lose the Vexin!” Henry threw up his hands. “After all, she is a woman, made like any other—” He stopped, cursing himself for not thinking before he spoke.
“I was resigned to the marriage and willing to fulfill my obligations,” Richard continued as if Henry had not spoken, “but that was before I found out the truth. Nothing can induce me to take your leavings.”
Henry held himself rigid so he would not reveal his shock.
“I see you do not deny it.” Richard was obviously trying to keep his voice even and not betray any emotion, but Henry could detect the depth of his injured pride. For once this was a reaction he could understand.
Folly to admit the truth; folly to lie. He took a deep breath. “Of course I deny it! I am surprised you would listen to such a vicious rumor.” Henry rocked back and forth on his heels as he forced himself to regard his son with a steady gaze. “Where did you hear this ludicrous tale?” He suddenly blanched. “Not from your mother?”
“Certainly not, heaven forefend!” Richard crossed himself. “In truth, I have heard vague whispers over the years, but it was my brother Geoffrey who finally convinced me this was not just evil gossip. Before—before our falling out. He said he had it from John.”
Henry could see that this was exactly the sort of scandalous tidbit Geoffrey would delight in repeating to Richard, but he doubted that John was the source. From the pugnacious expression on Richard’s face, it was impossible to determine if he believed his lie about Alais.
“Am I to understand that due to Geoffrey’s venomous tongue you refuse to marry a princess of France and thereby lose the Vexin? You know it is vital to the defense of Normandy!” Henry could feel the blood mounting to his head. “As future duke you jeopardize your own interests.”
“Future duke? You have never officially stated I would inherit Normandy. Or Anjou. Not even England.”
“It has been implied. Understood. Did I not tell you so myself at Limoges?”
“What you say to me in private is not the same as a public acknowledgment. An official writ.” Richard held him with stony blue eyes.
“I told you I would never crown another son in my lifetime, if that is what you mean.”
“That is not what I mean, as you well know. An official announcement in all the domains I will inherit—”
“Yes, yes, all right.” Henry tore his gaze away from Richard. “Naturally, I have you in mind to succeed me. But I must be assured that—” He paused, fumbling for the words. “The lack of a male heir spells disaster for a realm.”
“God’s teeth, do you think I don’t know that? I have every intention of marrying. But Alais Capet?” He shook his head with finality.
Henry could see he was getting nowhere. Sooner or later he knew he must find a way to convince Richard to marry Alais, but for the moment he had pushed it as far as he dared. “Did Geoffrey say he would pass this foul gossip about me on to others?” By others he meant Philip of France.
“There are no limits to my brother’s perfidy. Well, you saw that for yourself—” Richard stopped, his cheeks suddenly stained with color.
“Indeed.” Their gaze met and in that brief instant Henry saw that Richard knew he had lied about Alais. Richard believed Geoffrey just as surely as Henry had believed Geoffrey’s accusations against his brother.
The question of Richard’s marriage to Alais was no longer the first order of importance when, two days later, Henry received word that the count of Toulouse had attacked a group of Aquitainian pilgrims and Richard was hastily dispatched to the borderlands to deal with the matter. Henry made his preparations for the upcoming conference in April with the king of France. Having been alerted to the fact that Philip was ready to conspire against him, he felt armed against any eventuality. More important, at the moment, was how to reconcile Philip to further delay of Alais’s marriage to Richard. In truth, Henry had thought of another alternative, one that could be offered as a temporary measure while he hammered away at Richard’s resistance. Henry also intended to find out, if he could, the full extent of Geoffrey’s involvement with France—and take the appropriate steps to put an end to his son’s scheming.
In April Henry journeyed to the Vexin, that much-disputed boundary between France and Normandy. Beneath the giant elm at Gisors twin thrones had been set up on a wooden platform, which was surrounded by a crowd of nobles, ecclesiastics, and knights. Henry emerged from his pavilion accompanied by Norman administrative officials and his son, John.
He took his seat, his gaze scanning the crowd in search of Geoffrey, but there was no sign of him. A trumpet blew, and Philip emerged from his tent clad in gray tunic and cloak. On his rather large head perched a gold crown engraved with the fleur-de-lis of France. At first sight it was difficult to believe this unprepossessing youth, his chin studded with pimples, was overlord of Normandy, Brittany, Anjou, and Aquitaine. Twenty-one years of age, he had a tense wiry body and his father’s pasty complexion, pale-blue eyes, and limp flaxen hair, but none of Louis’s humility. Philip’s cold suspicious manner, which had changed little since he was a boy, never failed to set Henry’s teeth on edge.
“I thought we had agreed, my lord king,” Henry began without preamble, once Philip was seated, “that the Vexin would be your sister Alais’s dowry. To give it now to Marguerite is a breach of good faith.”
“I s-s-see no sign of my sister’s marriage taking place.” Philip’s slight stutter came as a surprise to Henry. “France cannot suffer this s-s-slight any longer. I s-s-shall look for another offer for her hand, and meanwhile give the Vexin to Marguerite.”
Henry studied the youth carefully. He was less assured than he pretended to be as he tried to conceal the awe he felt for his formidable vassal. But Henry had observed too many men over the years not to recognize strength, purpose, and cunning when he saw them. With a frisson of alarm, he acknowledged, not for the first time, that here was a far more dangerous enemy than Louis had ever been.
“The marriage will take place, my lord king, as soon as Richard has settled this quarrel with the count of Toulouse.”
Philip’s lip curled. “Is Duke Richard s-s-still willing to marry my sister?” The stutter was less in evidence.
Henry took a moment to absorb this. If unsavory rumors had reached Philip’s ears, they could only have come from Geoffrey.
He allowed an expression of surprise to cross his face. “They are betrothed. Why wouldn’t he marry her?” He was taking the chance that Philip, regardless of what he had heard, would not dare speak of it openly.
The French king glowered but did not answer.
“Rest assured, they will be wed.” Henry gave him an artless smile. “However, in the unlikely event that the marriage does not take place—I say this for the sake of argument only—I would offer Prince John as a replacement for Richard.”
Philip’s lizardlike gaze flicked toward John, standing with the Norman officials below the platform. “Prince John? And what has he to offer a princess of France? All your domains are spoken for.”
“Naturally John would not come to the marriage empty-handed. Primogeniture is customary in England, but not law.”
Philip looked confused. Henry had forgotten that, unlike his father, the young French monarch, while possessed of a native intelligence, was not well educated and everything had to be explained to him in simple terms. It was even rumored, if such a tale could be credited, that he never learned to write or speak Latin.
“Let me put it this way,” Henry said. “The final disposition of my realm is not set in stone, my lord king. I can give what I please to whichever son I please.” Henry knew he was treading in murky waters, but what did it matter? After all, he had no intention of altering his plans for the succession, only of convincing Philip of his good faith and keeping the Vexin.
Philip gazed speculatively at John, then at Henry. He stroked his spotty chin, then slowly nodded. “I will hold you to that, my lord king. And find another dower to give Marguerite.”
“Thank you.” Henry let the silence lengthen between them before asking casually, “I have heard that my son Geoffrey has visited you, my lord king, and if, by chance, he is in Paris now I would like him to attend me.”
Philip’s eyes narrowed to pale slits. “Count Geoffrey is not in Paris, and I have not seen him.”
Philip was lying, and Henry sensed that the youth did not care whether he was believed or not. He had obviously regained confidence; even the stutter was gone. Henry decided not to push the issue, at least for the moment.
In early May, he returned to Normandy. May passed into June. Henry left Bayeaux and traveled to Rouen. His lands remained quiet, save for a few border skirmishes between Toulouse and Aquitaine, which could be safely left in Richard’s hands. Nothing else of importance needed his immediate attention so by early August he made plans to return to England. Two days before his departure, a courier arrived in Rouen from the countess of Champagne. Henry was crossing the cobbled square on his way to attend vespers at the cathedral of Notre Dame when he was handed a sealed parchment.
“My lady, who is currently in Paris, would not entrust this to anyone’s hands but yours, my lord duke,” said the courier, wiping the sweat from his brow. “She requested that you read it at once, then destroy it. No reply is expected.” The courier bowed, mounted his horse, and galloped away in the direction of the city gates.
Henry clutched the parchment all through evensong, and as soon as the service was over he hurried back to his chamber at the ducal palace and broke open the seal. The brief message said only that France and Brittany planned to attack Normandy. This would occur while Richard was still occupied in Aquitaine and could not readily come to his father’s aid. It was unsigned. Pensively, Henry walked over to the charcoal brazier, where a few embers still burned and laid the parchment on top of the coals. It would not catch fire but blacken and shrivel enough to be unreadable. Then he called for the constable of Rouen.
“Send some trustworthy men to both Paris and Rennes. Tell them to make inquiries about the whereabouts of Count Geoffrey and to uncover any information regarding a proposed attack on Normandy.”
A sennight later the constable reported back with the unwelcome news that there was indeed a plan to invade Normandy. “My spies in Rennes report Count Geoffrey left for the Île-de-France a fortnight ago, my lord. Two conroys are due to leave Brittany within ten days, where they will join with French troops who are preparing to muster outside Paris.”
God’s eyes! A conroy, composed of mounted knights and foot soldiers, was a lethal force. “When will they attack?”
“By early September at the latest. Oh, and my spies also report that the countess of Brittany is over two months gone with child.”
Henry was taken aback. Geoffrey and Constance already had a young daughter, but should this child turn out to be a boy, it would be his first grandson stemming from the male line of Plantagenets. Why had he not been informed of this vital news? Perhaps Geoffrey assumed his father would be dead before the child was born. With a grim smile Henry smote his fist into his palm.
“Good work. Muster three conroys of our own, plus a banneret of knights, and send them into Brittany. A siege of the castle at Rennes with the countess of Brittany inside it should keep the Breton troops busy. Too busy to attack Normandy. But nothing must happen to Constance of Brittany. Give plenty of warning that Norman troops are coming.”
“Do you go to Rennes, my lord?”
“No. I will go to Paris, ferret out my loving son, and drag him back to Normandy by the hair of his head, if need be.”
The constable bit his lip. “That might prove dangerous, my lord. Especially if there is war brewing between France and Normandy.”
“Some action must be taken to retrieve my son! Have you a better suggestion?”
“I will think of one, my lord.”
Two days later, the constable informed Henry that men from France had come to Rouen “crying the tourney,” as was the custom at this time of year, and inviting noble knights to attend and try their skill. It was to be held in Paris the following sennight.
“A tournament will provide an excellent opportunity for you to enter the city without being recognized, my lord. Count Geoffrey is an accomplished jouster, and since men from all over the Continent will be in Paris to compete, he is certain to participate in the lists.”
“An excellent suggestion. Once he is away from the Cité Palace I can approach my son with impunity. In direct confrontation, Geoffrey will not dare to defy me.” An arrow in the back or an assassin in the was were more his son’s style, Henry reflected bitterly.
On the eighteenth day of August, under clear-blue skies and little wind, Henry arrived in Paris as one of a group of Norman knights come to attend the tourney. He had deliberately chosen to arrive late so that the tournament would be reaching its climax, the mêlée. There was still a throng of people crowding the gates and they could not enter the city immediately. Mounted on a plain chestnut stallion, Henry sported no emblem of royalty and had his helm pulled well down over his head. The guards gave him only a cursory glance.
It was sweltering in the midday sun and under his helm and mail Henry could feel the sweat running in rivulets down his face and body. The stands surrounding the lists were filled with spectators, and two lines of mounted knights already faced each other across the open field. They had arrived just in time. Before dismounting, Henry glanced at the royal enclosure, where King Philip and members of the royal family, including the countess Marie, were seated. There was no sign of Geoffrey, which confirmed that he must be a contestant in the mêlée. This was the most dangerous part of the tourney, and although Henry strongly disapproved of the foolish waste of men and horses, he knew the mêlée prepared knights for battle as training alone could never do. Just then the trumpets sounded.
“Charge them in God’s name!” King Philip’s voice could barely be heard above the noise as he gave the official signal to open the mêlée.
The constable of France raised his hand and the two lines of knights charged forward, colliding head-on with the force of several thunderbolts. In the tangle of men and horses that followed, it was impossible to distinguish one knight from another except by the crest on a shield or a pennant flying from a lance. The air was filled with shouts and cries, the ground shook, and the sod flew as lances splintered, swords clashed, and horses reared.
“There, my lord.” One of his knights indicated a dashing figure astride a magnificent roan destrier.
Henry immediately recognized Geoffrey. His lance was couched under one arm; a cloak of scarlet silk embroidered with three gold lions flowed out behind him. Henry found himself caught up in the ease and elegance of his son’s gestures, the graceful way he and his mount moved as one; at the same time he wondered why Geoffrey sported the colors of the House of Anjou instead of Brittany. A great cloud of dust arose and Henry squinted as he tried to keep the scarlet cloak in sight. Then the color vanished. One moment horse and rider were there, the next, gone.
“Where is Count Geoffrey?” Henry craned his neck. “Did anyone see what happened?”
After a few moments, one of the knights pointed across the field. “There he is, my lord duke, lying on the ground. Apparently the count was knocked off his destrier.” The knight shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare. “I can’t quite make out . . . it looks as if there is an altercation going on.”
Suddenly, Henry could see three mounted men surrounding Geoffrey, who was struggling to a sitting position as he raised his fist in a threatening gesture. Most certainly there was an argument in progress, he realized, gripped by a growing sense of disquiet.
“By God’s face, it appears that—” Another knight, taller than the others, rose onto the toes of his boots. “It appears that the count is refusing to yield to those knights.”
“The arrogant fool! Of course Geoffrey must yield. He was unhorsed in a fair fight.”
Henry’s sense of disquiet turned abruptly to panic when out of the corner of his eye he saw King Philip hurriedly rise to his feet, run out of the enclosure, and confer with his constable.
“The king is trying to stop the mêlée,” someone cried.
“King Philip declares this to be a draw!” bellowed the constable of France in a voice of thunder. “The fighting will cease at once.”
Thank God. But the knights on the field seemed to be oblivious. Before his horrified eyes, Henry saw their horses moving toward Geoffrey. Cursing aloud, he kicked and clawed his way through the crowd in front of him but it was like trying to get through a wall of steel. On the field he saw a knight pull his sword from its scabbard, lift his arm, and bring the blade down with full force. Another knight followed, then another.
Someone started screaming, “No, no, no, no!” Until one of his knights shook him by the arm and warned him he would be recognized, Henry did not realize it was his own voice he heard.
“Merciful God, the horses are treading Count Geoffrey underfoot!” cried another knight, “Don’t look, my lord, I beg of you.”
Two knights forcibly blocked Henry’s view, refusing to move even though he tried to push and shove them out of the way. By the time he succeeded in dislodging them, there was a frantic blowing of trumpets; the constable of France was shouting and waving his sword, and at last the horses were pulled back. There was now a clear view of Geoffrey’s body covered in scarlet. A great cry arose as the crowd leapt to its feet. Henry could see Philip racing headlong onto the field. An instant later the French king gave a shriek of anguish then threw himself onto the prone body.
“We must leave, my lord,” said one of the knights in an urgent voice. “While we still can.”
Henry looked at him, uncomprehending. “Dead? Is my son dead?” The words came out in almost a whisper.
“No one could survive that assault.” The knight crossed himself.
“I must go to my son—” Henry began.
“There is nothing anyone can do for Count Geoffrey, my lord. He is in the hands of Our Heavenly Father. But your danger increases every moment you remain here.”
Dazed, Henry allowed himself to be dragged to his horse, bodily lifted onto the saddle, and led away. Shortly thereafter he was outside the city gates and galloping down the road leading to Normandy. An image of the figure in the scarlet cloak floated before Henry’s eyes. Even in death, Henry could not pretend that he had ever loved this untrustworthy son. Neither did he feel torn apart by grief as he had when Harry died. But Geoffrey was a Plantagenet, flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood; of all his children, this son alone had come the closest to sharing his vision of what a wise ruler could accomplish. To die such a senseless death out of false pride and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge defeat . . . Sweet Jesu, how he ached for him.
Four sons. Four legitimate sons had been granted him by Eleanor. Now only two were left. Who would be next?