Beloved Enemy (32 page)

Henry felt his cheeks grow hot. Louis has lost both Eleanor and the duchy in any case, he wanted to shout, but kept silent.

Geoffrey continued to stride back and forth in front of the doors. “Then there are the rumors of her behavior in Antioch. With her own uncle.”

Henry stiffened. “I’m surprised that you listen to rumor and gossip. Far better to ignore such unsavory tales, which have no truth to them.”

Geoffrey paused. “If one can be
sure
there is no truth. It is important to know that your sons are
your
sons.”

There was an underlying bitterness in Geoffrey’s voice that sent a warning chill down Henry’s spine. Deep within him stirred bleak memories of the endless conflict between his parents, his mother’s tears, some secret and intangible sorrow that ate into her heart like rust into iron. Why would such unhappy thoughts surface now?

“I cannot imagine what you mean by such caveats but my sons will be mine, never fear. I know how to please a woman far better than that prickless eunuch the queen is wed to now. I find your implications offensive, my lord. Eleanor is not the kind of woman to dishonor a crown.”

“You would be surprised at the kind of woman who is capable of—”

“Enough,” Henry said, his body beginning to tremble as he felt one of his demon rages coming on. “Enough, do you hear?”

“Yes, all right, enough on that score,” Geoffrey said after a quick look at Henry’s face. “Get hold of yourself. Do you want to look like a fool in front of all these lords?” After a moment’s pause he continued. “You asked for my advice, remember? Then, of course, Eleanor is eleven years older than you and—”

“What of it? My mother is eleven years older than you. By Christ, what are you trying to tell me?”

Geoffrey shrugged and turned away. “Nothing. Nothing! Suffice it to say that both your mother and Eleanor would have fared better had they been born men.”

It was the last thing Henry expected to hear. What in God’s name had gotten into the count? He wished now he had never sought to propitiate his father by asking for advice.

“I concede you have a point there,” Henry said, “but does it matter? Do you say these pinpricks weigh in the balance against England? I like women of spirit, having known little else, and she is female enough for me.”

Something about his father’s attitude indicated sour grapes, a desire to destroy that which he couldn’t have. Perhaps the count had not bedded Eleanor after all. Henry was surprised at the relief he felt.

“Just imagine, one day I will be duke of Normandy, duke of Aquitaine, count of Anjou and Maine—though not for a long time to come, I hope—and king of England. A veritable empire.”

“And a fearful responsibility. The lord who rules is also the lord who serves. Take care lest greed for power become your master.”

Henry stared at his father in amazement. “You sound like a canting cleric. What have we been about these many years except to win Normandy and England back from the usurper?”

“Had I those years to relive I might have gone about matters differently.” Geoffrey came to rest before the doors of the keep and stared unseeing into the flood of sunlight.

“Come, do you tell me that you would have been content with just Anjou and Maine? An accomplished warrior and ruler like yourself?”

“In my youth, no. I too sought the English crown, remember. But now? A county is not just field and stream, rock and meadow, you know. It is also flesh and blood, bone and sinew. The dreams and aspirations of your subjects, their rages and pain, their differences and similarities. As I say, a fearful responsibility. The larger the lands, the greater the burden.”

Henry, who had never heard his father speak thus, was unsettled. He felt as if he were suddenly talking to a total stranger. “What is it that makes you speak so?”

Geoffrey looked at him gravely. “Will all that land make you happy, I wonder?”

“Is this a serious question?”

With a sigh of resignation, Geoffrey shook his head. “Indeed, a foolish one. At your age I would have reacted the same. Never mind. You are your mother’s son, a true Norman. I wish you well, my boy.”

The steward called out to say the king would see them now.

“One last thing,” Geoffrey said quickly. “If you allow yourself to become truly, deeply involved with Eleanor, never again will you be a free man.”

Henry was about to ask why not but the conversation had grown uncomfortably, nay alarmingly, intimate, and he had no wish to continue with it.

“I see you don’t understand,” Geoffrey said. “Perhaps it’s just as well.”

Relieved, Henry followed his father into the hall. Within moments he had forced the matter out of his mind as he prepared to negotiate with Louis.

The homage ceremony was held two days later. Henry officially became duke of Normandy, a nominal vassal of the king of France. By this time the French court felt like a prison to him. Despite the mountains of richly spiced foods, the finest horses, troubadours, and jongleurs available, the lack of harmony in the household was painfully evident. Beneath the gay, courteous facade, hatred and tension seethed like a bubbling cauldron. It was a scene all too familiar to Henry and he wished himself well away. Even his encounters with Eleanor were disappointing, as he was unable to converse with her alone except in brief unsatisfactory snatches that left them both frustrated.

“I must return to Normandy,” he told her.

“I think you should, and with all speed. The next few months will be very trying here and the less you’re in evidence, the better for me. I will let you know my plans and when we should next meet.” She thought for a moment. “Probably in Poitou where it will be less dangerous.”

They were in Eleanor’s solar, surrounded by her women. The queen was back on her pedestal, and he could do no more than bow over her hand.

“A good journey, my lord,” she said, giving him a gracious smile.

Henry, who was filled with impatience at all this secrecy and intrigue, wondered if he would ever hear from her again. Their earlier conversation about marriage—God’s eyes, was that only five days ago?—had taken on the unreality of a dream. Disgruntled, he returned to his quarters, and told his father that they had accomplished their mission and must make ready to leave.

“I cannot wait to shake the dust of Paris from my boots.”

“Yes, the atmosphere grows more oppressive each day. I’ve already begun to pack,” said Geoffrey.

Since the homage ceremony his father had seemed curiously indifferent to what was happening in either Paris or Normandy, and his attentions to Eleanor had markedly diminished. Impeccably clad in his favorite green tunic under a surcoat banded with gold thread, he was helping his squire carefully fold clothes into four separate saddlebags. A gold medallion engraved with the lions of Anjou hung round his neck.

“I’ve noticed that mantles in Paris are even shorter now. We are behind the times in Normandy. You must tell your mother to arrange for all my mantles to be shortened, oh let us say, three inches?” Geoffrey picked up his silver mirror. Squinting, he held it out in front of him, turning his head this way and that, then brushed a spot of lint off one elegant shoulder.

“Why can’t you tell her yourself?”

“Ah—well, as to that, I’m not returning immediately to Rouen.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Come, Henry, I know that tone of irritated surprise.” Geoffrey took a last critical look and handed the mirror to his squire. “You are officially duke now, and recognized in Normandy as a competent warrior, a strong leader from whom men may receive justice. Soon you will have England, and, apparently, Aquitaine as well. My own lands need attention too. Don’t forget that.”

“Isn’t my brother managing Anjou to your satisfaction? I need you in Normandy.”

The count sighed. “Be fair. Young Geoffrey is not very experienced. The better part of my life has been spent in securing Normandy for you, so do not begrudge Geoffrey the benefit of my advice now. He too must learn to administrate.”

“Why does my brother need your advice in Anjou when the county will one day be mine? You should be giving such counsel to me, not him.”

Geoffrey flushed.
“Grace à Dieu,
but you see intrigue everywhere. That’s the French influence for you. Henry, Henry, are you determined to pick a quarrel with me?” He folded a mantle and gave it to his squire. “In truth, I’m weary of arguments, sick of rebellions and battles, bored with negotiations and treaties. After thirty-seven years of doing others’ bidding, I would spend the remainder of my days pleasing only myself for a change, and it pleases me at the moment to go to Angers.”

It sounded entirely reasonable, but not the whole tale, not by a long bow shot. He would swear to it. Over the years, Henry had learned that the smoothly charming Geoffrey rarely gave anything away. Often he had counseled him: “If needful, say what you mean, but you don’t always have to mean what you say.” That was why the count’s behavior had been, and continued to be, so extraordinary. With difficulty, Henry held his tongue. Nothing was to be gained by further antagonizing his father.

The next morning they left the île-de-la-Cité. Outside Paris the road forked. One way led to Normandy, the other to the Loire Valley, Blois, Le Mans, and Angers. The day was exceptionally dry and hot, the sun a blazing orb of gold in a burning blue sky. Not a leaf stirred; the ground looked parched.

“Well, my boy, here I must leave you,” said Geoffrey, reining in his dappled stallion. He appeared in much better spirits today. “I will return to Rouen in a month or two. Take care with your mother how you approach the subject of your marriage. She will not look kindly upon Eleanor.”

“So you said earlier. But I don’t see why not. Look at all there is to gain.”

Geoffrey gave him an arch smile. “You have much to learn. What says the old saw? ‘When the old cock crows, the young cock should listen.’ It sometimes takes women longer to realize what is at once obvious to men. At first all your mother will see is that a strong-minded woman is trying to possess what she considers her territory.”

Henry gave a mock shudder. “Yes, point taken. I just hope there is a marriage. I haven’t had a private word with Eleanor since the homage ceremony.”

“I shouldn’t worry. Your star is ascending, my son, and neither God nor man can stop it—only that which lies in your own nature. Now, don’t forget the mantles.”

“Three inches. Look, father, I—”

It was too late. With an airy wave of his hand, Geoffrey, followed by his squire and two grooms, wheeled his horse around and galloped down the road leading to Anjou. Henry watched his upright figure recede into the distance. His blue mantle rippled out behind him; a blue cap embroidered with three gold lions perched precariously on his head, the ever-present sprig of golden broom bobbing up and down. The count’s affection for the
planta genista
had caused him to adopt it as his, and now Henry’s, surname—Planta-genet. After a few moments he disappeared into a cloud of yellow dust, but the image stayed in Henry’s mind.

He had no premonition that he would never see his father alive again.

“C
OUNT GEOFFREY OF ANJOU
is dead, may God assoil him.”

Eleanor, playing in the rushes of the solar with her young daughters, Marie and Alix, glanced up. Louis, looking like the angel of death in somber black, stood in the doorway.

“What are you saying? He left here less than ten days ago.” Trust Louis to get the facts wrong. She turned impatiently back to the children.

“It’s true. As God is my witness. A messenger from his son, Geoffrey, in Angers has just brought the news. Not ten leagues from Le Mans the count became overheated and stopped to bathe in the tainted waters of the Loire,” Louis continued, an unmistakable note of relish in his voice. “That very night he developed a raging fever and two days later he died.” He signed himself. “What says Holy Writ? ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’ ”

Stunned, Eleanor slowly got to her feet. Geoffrey le Bel dead. It was unimaginable. After absorbing the initial shock, she wondered if word had reached Henry in Rouen. He would be grief-stricken, and she must send an immediate message of condolence. Eleanor strenuously hoped that Henry and Geoffrey had made up their differences before going their separate ways outside Paris. For a brief instant she experienced a surge of guilt, remembering that she had been the unwitting cause of conflict between father and son.

“This means that brash young upstart, Henry, is now count of Anjou as well as duke of Normandy,” Louis said, watching her. “Too much power to be concentrated in the hands of one so young and impetuous. We must pray that he does not gain England as well.”

“As I recall, Louis, you were only sixteen when the crown of France descended upon your inexperienced head.”

Blinking back an unexpected rush of tears, Eleanor wondered what Louis would do when he discovered that Aquitaine would increase that “upstart’s” domains still further. She signaled the nurse to take the children back to their quarters.

“Bernard of Clairvaux has told me that in his opinion you were far too fond of Count Geoffrey,” Louis said.

Eleanor did not answer, but Louis seemed compelled to talk about the Angevin, whom he had always resented yet whose charm had beguiled him. “The abbé predicted the count would come to a bad end, and also his son.”

“Is there anyone he doesn’t think will come to a bad end?”

The meddling monk of Clairvaux, who had replaced Abbé Suger as unofficial advisor, now had the king’s exclusive confidence. Eleanor knew Bernard distilled poison into Louis’s ears at every opportunity. Mostly against her and, to be fair, not all of it false. While it was certainly true that she had dallied with Count Geoffrey over the years, flirting with him and teasing, she had never granted him the one favor he most desired.

In the monk’s eyes, however, if she had sinned in her heart, the desire and the deed were virtually one and the same. Louis had told her that in his youth, Bernard had once cast a fleeting glance of admiration toward a girl. It had been winter and to make amends for this sin he had plunged himself into an icy pond for over an hour, where he almost expired before being rescued.