ELEANOR, WHO WAS ALLOWED to move about England with more freedom since her return from Normandy—although never without an escort of armed guards—received word of Geoffrey’s death while she was staying at Berkhamsted. Heartsick but, strangely, not surprised, she felt as if her confrontation with him in Poitiers had almost prepared her for this tragic outcome. With two of her sons gone to early graves, their golden promise wasted in bickering, jealousy, and rage, it often seemed as though a dark angel had spread its wings over the House of Anjou.
In the months that followed Geoffrey’s death and into the following year of 1187 the news that passed across the Channel was not encouraging. Henry and Philip continued to argue over the disposal of the Vexin and, when Constance of Brittany bore a son in March, over the wardship of the boy. As overlord of Brittany, Philip claimed the infant, while Henry insisted that his first grandson in the male line was an Angevin, and belonged to him.
Philip’s response was to lay siege to one of Henry’s castles in Touraine. Concerned, but not alarmed, Eleanor did not think that Philip had grown sufficiently powerful to pose a major threat to Henry. Not yet. Nor, from all she had seen and heard while on the Continent, were Henry’s vassals ready to exchange the Plantagenet yoke for a French one. Still, they chafed under his stern rule, even in England, according to the chancellor, who had paid her a visit when she returned to Salisbury.
“My father’s subjects, mainly in London it is true, openly accuse him of crippling taxes and stringent measures. In recent years, they say, the king has grown heavy-handed and ready to enforce the law at any cost.”
“Londoners are fiercely independent and go their own way,” Eleanor replied. Although where London led the rest of England often followed, and what began with accusations might end in action.
“Why can’t the English see that they enjoy peace and prosperity only because my father is able to enforce order here?” Chancellor Geoffrey sighed.
“Is the king aware of the rising tensions in London?”
“If so I doubt he takes it seriously.”
How long had it been since Henry was in direct touch with his subjects? Eleanor wondered. There had been a time when he mingled freely with them to observe firsthand the state of his realm. But he had ruled virtually unopposed for thirty-seven years; by this point he might well take his people for granted. This was always a mistake, and one she had never made with the unpredictable Aquitainians.
Shortly after Philip’s attempt to invade Henry’s lands, Eleanor heard that Richard had called out the knight service of Aquitaine and that both he and John rode with their father against the French king. Henry’s vassals did not turn against him, and in June, Philip realized he had overreached himself and sought a truce for the next two years. The Vexin remained in Angevin hands and Geoffrey’s posthumous son, called Arthur—after the Breton hero—remained for the time being in Henry’s wardship.
In mid-August, still at Salisbury, Eleanor received an ebullient letter from her daughter Marie. She wrote that William Marshal, having received a wound in the thigh, had left Outremer and was returning home. Eleanor offered a prayer of thanks to the Holy Mother for keeping William safe from harm.
“During the peace negotiations amongst King Henry, Richard, and Philip in Paris,” Marie wrote, “my brother began to cultivate a friendship with Richard such as he had had with Geoffrey. Philip has told Richard that he deserves all the credit for bringing peace between himself and King Henry. He praises Richard at every opportunity and the change in sour Richard is remarkable.”
Eleanor blinked. Sweet Marie, what was this? With growing disquiet she read on: “When Duke Henry and Prince John returned to Normandy in June, Richard remained. He is still here at the Cité Palace and accompanies Philip everywhere. I am delighted they have become so close, especially since Philip was so distraught over Geoffrey’s untimely death.”
Although Marie was too naïve to understand her brother’s motives, it was obvious to Eleanor where Philip intended to strike next. Unable to vanquish his opponent by force of arms alone, the wily French king knew that Henry was most vulnerable through his sons. To be flattered and made much of would be a new experience for Richard, who, though feared and respected, was generally disliked. Her son would be dangerously susceptible especially if Philip had divined—or been told by Geoffrey—where Richard’s weakness lay.
She flung the letter aside, rose to her feet, and began to pace the chamber in agitation. What could she do? Henry was not in England, so she could not confide her fears to him, and in any case he had little or no influence over Richard.
“Call for the scribe,” Eleanor said to Amaria. Perhaps if she wrote a tactfully worded letter to Richard himself, warning him not to trust Philip, he would listen.
By late autumn all personal concerns retreated to the background as shattering news spread throughout Christendom: the Saracen infidel, Saladin, with a great army at his back, had stormed Galilee. Every Christian warrior in the Holy Land soon rallied to the defense of Outremer and, although they fought like lions, were soundly defeated. Some were slaughtered, others taken prisoner and held for ransom. It was feared that Jerusalem, among the last of the Christian footholds, would be the next to fall unless aid came speedily.
During the following months and on into the New Year of 1188, an urgent stream of information passed across the Channel to England, and through the good offices of Geoffrey the chancellor, Eleanor was made privy to the latest news. Thus she knew when William Marshal finally joined Henry in Anjou and that Richard, who had never responded to her letter, was back in Aquitaine raising money for the Crusade by any means available. To Eleanor’s amazement her son had sold the right to self-government to every prosperous town in the duchy and freed his numerous prisoners when they vowed to make the pilgrimage with him. Even the most contentious vassals who had been amongst Richard’s bitter enemies, such as the Lusignans, rode to take service with the duke of Aquitaine. For the first time since he became duke it appeared as if Richard might be able to unite the duchy under his banner.
In April, Eleanor heard that both Philip and Henry had taken the cross and that the general passage to leave for the Holy Land was planned for midsummer, although this struck her as overly optimistic. She had accompanied Louis of France on the Second Crusade and knew that no one could be ready in that short a time. The pope declared that the truce established between the French and the Angevins must stand until both rulers had returned from the Crusade; anyone who broke it would be excommunicated. She could hardly believe Henry would actually go to Outremer and wondered how he would slide out of it.
Midsummer came and went, and, as Eleanor had anticipated, Henry and Philip were still on the Continent. In August of the year 1188, word came to Salisbury that both monarchs were due to meet under the elm at Gisors to settle the still-unresolved matter of the Vexin before leaving for the Holy Land. Then a letter arrived from Geoffrey the chancellor, who had recently left England to attend his father at the conference. Richard, wrote the chancellor, whom everyone thought to be mustering his troops for Outremer, had made an unexpected appearance at Gisors. Stunned, Eleanor laid the missive in her lap and took a sip of ruby wine from the silver goblet lying on the table in front of her. Richard at Gisors when his heart was set on fighting the infidel? Why? Was he there on behalf of his father? Or—as an ally of the French king?
It was early evening; the chamber at Salisbury was filled with the soft chatter of Amaria and several attendant women sewing on a square of tapestry. Eleanor drew the seven-branched silver candleholder closer to her and forced herself to continue reading. After a moment she let out a tiny scream as she staggered to her feet, gripped the table for support, and let the letter fall from her hands.
“Madam, Madam, what is it? What has happened?” Amaria, followed by two other women rushed to her side.
For a moment Eleanor could not speak. Amaria handed her the goblet but Eleanor shook her head. Slowly she regained her composure and sank back down onto the wooden armchair.
“I did not mean to frighten you but—” Her voice grew thick with emotion and she could not go on. “I have just read that the negotiations at Gisors became heated and rancorous. Philip accused my husband of acting in bad faith and Henry retaliated in kind. They were seated under the elm tree when, without warning, the Franks apparently rushed at the Angevin entourage with drawn swords and an altercation ensued.” She bent to pick up the square of parchment from the floor and began to read it aloud: “‘King Henry and his men took refuge in a nearby castle and refused to parley further.’” She could hear the unsteadiness in her voice and cleared her throat. “‘King Philip was enraged, declared the colloquy at an end and—and during the night ordered the elm tree to be cut down and used for firewood.’”
“What does this mean, madam?”
Shocked beyond measure she could barely bring herself to explain. “It is the equivalent of a declaration of war between France and the House of Anjou.”
What Eleanor was unable to question, and even afraid to think, was that if war erupted between France and England, on whose side would she find Richard?
At the insistence of Rome, Henry wearily agreed to attend another meeting with Philip in November. He had made this concession only out of deference to the Holy Father, who was desperate for peace so that all sworn crusaders could leave for Outremer. The conference was to be held in the Vexin but not at Gisors.
“This will be a waste of time and I should never have agreed,” Henry told Geoffrey the chancellor, who, along with William Marshal, John, and an entourage of knights and bishops rode with him to the meeting place. “I am badly needed in England now to ensure that the new tax I levied is being properly assessed and my troops fully mustered to embark for Outremer.”
In another weak moment he had also promised Rome he would tithe his English subjects and call out the knight service of England to aid the crusade. A tax was always unpopular, but this one had elicited widespread demonstrations of protest followed by uprisings and attacks against the royal assessors.
“Philip doesn’t want peace,” Henry continued. “He made that clear when he cut down the elm.”
“What does he want, Father?” John asked.
“My head on a pike would suit Philip well enough, followed by possession of all Angevin lands on the Continent.” Henry pulled on the reins, and his black destrier swerved to avoid a deep rut in the road.
“He will never get either, my lord king,” said William Marshal, riding next to John. “Not while I have breath in my body.”
Henry glanced affectionately at the faithful knight, who, having fulfilled his vow to Harry to go to the Holy Land, had returned from Jerusalem with only a minor wound long since healed, God be thanked. “Your loyalty is much appreciated, William, but pray God it does not come to that.” But Henry knew he could not predict what it would come to.
It was a day of brooding gray skies and damp mist with a bank of dark clouds on the horizon threatening rain. As Henry rode through the Vexin, a land stained with blood since time out of mind, he remembered the raw wound of the tree stump at Gisors and felt a wave of rage rise up to clog his throat. That ancient elm, with half its roots in Normandy and half in the soil of France, had been the meeting place for French kings and Norman dukes since the Viking, Rollo, was proclaimed the first duke of Normandy more than two hundred years earlier. He would never forgive Philip for destroying it.
“Will Richard be at this conference too?” John asked, distracting Henry from his reflections.
“He has no reason to be.”
But then Richard had had no reason to be at the last colloquy—except to support Philip of France. He had arrived with a hundred of his own knights—always anticipating a battle he never traveled with fewer—but he had not taken part in the attack on Henry’s men, and neither had his knights desecrated the elm, and Henry was puzzled as to why Richard had come. Still, he assumed he and his son were still on reasonably good terms and had contented himself with asking when Richard would leave for the Holy Land.
“I will not leave unless you go with me or before me,” Richard had replied. “Lest you try to take Aquitaine in my absence.”
“Since I am also its duke, what need have I to take what I already possess?”
Richard had turned red and seemed at a loss for words. Henry, taken aback at this hostile, almost childish attitude, could not imagine what had provoked it. They had parted on a chilly note and he had neither seen nor heard from the boy since.
They arrived at the meeting place in time to see a distant procession riding along the curve of the Epte River from the direction of Paris. One hour later Philip rode up on a gray charger flanked by the count of Flanders, the archbishop of Rheims, and—God’s eyes! Richard. This time it was all too evident that he was part of the French king’s entourage.
While Henry was trying to conceal his dismay, Philip, who did not dismount, opened the talk without preamble. “For there to be peace between us,” he began in a harsh voice, “I have now decided that I must have the wardship of young Duke Arthur of Brittany and, since my sister remains unmarried, the immediate return of the Vexin.”
“I am here only at the Holy Father’s request, not to quibble over terms,” Henry said. “I will overlook your presumption, my lord king, and put it down to your youth and inexperience.”
“These demands must be met,” Philip said in an angry voice, his face flushing.
“Must they indeed?” Ignoring Philip, Henry addressed himself to Richard, who was clad in full mail astride his Flemish mare. “My son, why are you in the company of our enemy?”
Richard looked unnaturally pale. “Not my enemy but my ally and my overlord. I am here for the same reason as Philip: because my demands have not been met.”
“What demands?” Henry’s eyes narrowed.
“You have heard them often enough. I must be married at once to the princess Alais of France and given immediate possession of Anjou, Maine, and Touraine. In Normandy and England I must be publicly proclaimed as your heir.”
There was a murmur of surprise from the Norman contingent. Henry stared at his son in disbelief. This was the first he had heard of turning over his Angevin holdings to Richard. “I thought we had come to an agreement. It is understood that you will be my heir—”
“By whom is it understood?” Richard suddenly shouted. “It is the public recognition I want, which has yet to be granted!”
“So far as the princess Alais is concerned,” Henry continued, avoiding a direct response, “I encouraged you to marry her.” He paused, fixing Richard with an unblinking gaze. “I feel sure you will recall the circumstances.” Henry was almost certain that Richard had not told Philip of his refusal to marry his sister.
Richard’s face turned from alabaster to crimson. “But after our—discussion, is it not true that you told the king of France that John was available to marry his sister? And that my brother would not come empty-handed to the marriage because you could dispose of your domains as you saw fit? I would not have believed this of you!”
Aghast and dumbfounded, Henry felt as if his limbs were rooted to the ground, cursing himself for a witless ass. How could he have forgotten those careless words, uttered merely to forestall Philip from taking any immediate action to recover the Vexin?
After a long moment he said, “What is said in the midst of formal negotiations has no real significance, I assure you, and means nothing. I would never have acted upon—”
“Ever since my eldest brother died,” Richard interjected, his eyes burning with indignation, “there have been rumors afloat that you intended to transfer my patrimonial rights to this green stripling”—he pointed an angry finger at John—“who had to be shipped out of Ireland because he was unfit to rule even such a backward bog. In asking for recognition and possession now I am only taking reasonable precautions against any attempt at—at further treachery on your part.”
Henry was suddenly alerted to the faintest note of hesitation in Richard’s voice, as if everything he said had been rehearsed beforehand. He felt his spleen rising.
“Give me a single instance, one example, of any treachery toward you on my part.” The moment he spoke Henry remembered sending Harry and Geoffrey to Limoges “to curb Richard’s pride.” But was that really treachery? Indeed, it had been an act of self-preservation.
Henry saw Richard start to turn his head toward Philip then catch himself. The French king sat silently astride his horse his gaze flicking back and forth between them. But the gleam of malevolent triumph in his eyes was unmistakable. Sweet Jesu! Philip was behind this ridiculous outburst and manipulating Richard like a puppet master.
Fighting for composure, Henry took a deep breath. “I would talk to you alone. Away from the others.” He trotted a short distance away and waited by a tall oak.
From the corner of his eye Henry saw Richard hesitate then reluctantly spur his mount forward. Philip’s gaze followed him.
“You are behaving unreasonably, my son, and without just cause. What lies has the deceitful French king told you?” Henry tried to keep his voice even. “I thought we had settled matters between us.”
“I did not realize then that you would attempt to displace me, fool that I was.” Henry could see a muscle twitching in Richard’s jaw.
“I have never attempted to displace you.” Henry sighed in frustration. “Philip is using you, my son, as he did your brother, Geoffrey, for his own ends. Do not be misled—”
“Philip respects me. He also has high praise for my abilities. I am a stranger to such niceties from you.” There was a slight catch in his voice. “Now, will you accede to my demands?”
“You can marry Alais whenever you wish. For the rest, all in good time.” Henry gave him a considering look. “Bear in mind that at this moment the Christian world is in turmoil. Is it wise to make sweeping changes throughout the Angevin realm?”
Richard gave a mocking laugh. “Ever the same tale. Wait, Richard. Not now, Richard. When the moment is propitious, Richard.” He suddenly wheeled his mount around then trotted back to Henry’s side. “I will brook no more excuses, my lord.”
His attitude nettled Henry, who had been half prepared to make some compromises. “Even your mother dislikes and distrusts Philip. Think of her—”
“I do. All the time.” Richard pointed his finger at him, stabbing the air viciously again and again. “Do you? Did you think of her when you openly proclaimed your liaison with that wanton from the Welsh border? Or when you seduced a French princess against all the rules of honor and chivalry?” His voice rose. “Did you think of my mother when you imprisoned her for supporting the rights of her sons against the tyranny of their father?”
He pulled on the reins as if he were about to leave. Henry tried to ignore the pressure building up against his temples and the drumming of his heart against his ribs.
“Abandon this headstrong course, Richard, and return to the fold. In time you will have all that I possess.” Henry forced himself to hold out his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I have lost two sons already. As God is my witness, I do not want to lose another. Come, would you break my heart?”
Richard stared at him, his lips drawn back, his eyes as unrelenting as iron. “God’s teeth, why not? You broke mine long ago. Now we are quits.”
Their eyes met and locked. Henry felt himself losing control as the familiar red mist of rage took possession of his body and senses.
“You will regret this! I swear by all that is holy, I will not accede to even one of your demands. You shall have nothing that is mine, not one hide of land, do you hear? Nothing! Ungrateful lout, before I’m through you will weep tears of blood.” The words became garbled and incoherent. Richard’s face held a look of horror before it splintered into a hundred fragments. Had he called out? Henry could not be sure as he swayed precariously in the saddle then knew no more.
When Henry awoke he did not know where he was. The ground felt damp and hard beneath him, and someone had covered his body with a cloak. Memory slowly returned. Richard and Philip . . . He lifted his head, but they were gone. A short distance away he saw the tall figure of William Marshal motionless against the darkling sky. Henry’s head fell back. Not a single star lit the heavens. Everything was still; so quiet; there was not even the rustle of a breeze or the sigh of a church bell to break the lonely silence of the night.