Devil's Brood (68 page)

H
ENRY WALKED TO THE HEARTH
and thrust a parchment into the fire, wrinkling his nose as an acrid smell of burning sheepskin filled the chamber. When he’d been unable to dictate the letter to his scribe, he’d dismissed the man and tried to write it himself, to no avail. The words just would not come. How could he tell Eleanor that the curse of Cain had afflicted their two eldest sons? He wanted to believe that he’d be able to patch up a peace between Hal and Richard, but for once his innate optimism and boundless self-confidence were guttering like candles in the wind. The survival of his empire had been predicated upon the premise of family solidarity. He’d envisioned Hal as ruling over a loose federation, ably supported by his brothers in Aquitaine and Brittany. He’d expected that they would be allies, never enemies.

No, he could not burden Eleanor with such knowledge. At least he could take action, do what he could to mend the breach. She could only grieve and blame herself—just as he was blaming himself. As suspicious as he still was of her influence over their sons, he knew this was not her doing; she would never have deliberately tried to set Hal and Richard at odds. Better that she not know. He’d reluctantly sent Tilda an oblique warning, for she and Heinrich had settled in at Domfront Castle in Normandy, and they’d likely hear of the confrontation at Angers. With luck, though, the Channel might keep gossip and rumor from reaching Eleanor’s ears, at least until he’d been able to repair these fraying brotherly bonds.

He was watching the parchment burn when Willem and Geoff were escorted into the solar, and some of his edginess eased in their familiar presence. Thank God Almighty that there were still a few men whom he could trust. They were discussing his plans for the Mirebeau council when Hal joined them, and he entered enthusiastically into the conversation, criticizing the various Limousin barons as if these same men had not been his conspirators only a few months past. Henry watched his performance without comment, wondering how this stranger had gained possession of his son’s body. He refused to believe that Hal had always been this shallow and self-centered, could only assume that he’d somehow missed the warning signs that Hal was losing his way. He refused, too, to look too far into the future. A man who’d always been one for long-range planning, now he took one day at a time. Today he must reconcile his sons and then reconcile Richard and his barons. Tomorrow…tomorrow he would figure out how to keep Hal from heeding the seductive whispers of the serpent and taking another taste of the forbidden fruit.

They were interrupted briefly when a servant entered and murmured a few words for Henry’s ear alone. His gaze fastening upon his son, he knew Hal would soon be seeking entertainment elsewhere, and he gave the man a low-voiced directive with that in mind. As he’d predicted, it was not long before Hal lost interest and found an excuse to depart, but it gave Henry no satisfaction that he was now able to read the younger man so accurately. He wished that, like Eleanor, he could have remained in blissful ignorance of his eldest son’s failings, both as a man and as a king.

Once Hal had gone, Henry moved over to warm himself by the fire before telling Geoff and Willem that his best agent had arrived and was about to be ushered up to the solar. “I told Matthew to wait until my son went back to the great hall,” he said, and shook his head when they offered to leave. “No, there is no need to go. You’ve met him already, Willem, and it is time that you did, too, Geoff.”

A memory stirred for Willem. “I remember. The young man who was spying upon the French king for you. His name was…Luc, no?”

“Well, that is the name he was using,” Henry said, with a faint smile. “He has not been at the French court for well over a twelvemonth, though. His mother was born in the Limousin, and after she was widowed, she chose to return to her family in Limoges. She took ill last year, and Luc hastened to Limoges to look after her until she recovered. He’d intended to return to Philippe’s service, but when he discovered that one of his cousins was a household knight of Viscount Aimar’s, he thought that might be a better place to fish than Paris and arranged to be taken on, too.”

Henry smiled again. “I suspect he was finding life rather dull at Philippe’s court, whereas the Limousin was bound to be a fertile ground for intrigue and rebellion, which is mother’s milk to him. I am surprised that he did not discover Hal’s plotting, for he misses little and my son plays at conspiracy as if it were a game of camp-ball. I can only assume that Aimar was more careful.”

Geoff looked away lest his father see his anger, for he knew his was an expressive face. He did not have a forgiving nature, as he’d be the first to admit, and he’d never forgiven his half brothers or the queen for their betrayal. He was an admirer of Richard’s battle skills and he thought that Geoffrey was showing a deft touch in his dealings with the Breton lords, but he had no use whatsoever for Hal, was one of the few at court who was utterly immune to the young king’s charm.

When Luc was escorted into the chamber, Willem had to remind himself that nigh on nine years had passed, for the younger man seemed to have kept time at bay; he looked much as he had when Willem had last seen him, on the road to Rouen. He still put Willem in mind of a wolf masquerading as a domestic dog, sleek and supple and dangerous.

Stepping forward, Luc knelt at the king’s feet. Henry’s welcoming smile faded as he got his first look at Luc’s face. His agent was so somber that he knew at once something was very wrong. Gesturing for Luc to rise, he braced himself for yet more bad news. “What have you come to tell me?”

“What I wish could have been done by someone else, my liege,” Luc said in a low voice, and when his dark eyes locked with Henry’s grey ones, the older man was chilled by what he saw in them—pity. “My lord king, there is no easy way to say it. Your son has betrayed you.”

Henry’s relief was so great that he laughed aloud. “You need not tread so carefully, Luc. I already know of my son’s scheming with the Viscount of Limoges and the others. The young king made a full and public confession at my Caen Christmas Court.”

Luc sighed and then shook his head. “You do not understand, my liege. I am not speaking of the young king, but of your other son, the Duke of Brittany.”

Henry was incredulous and, then, enraged. “That is a lie!”

Luc faced his anger without flinching. “My lord king, do you truly believe I would give you such grief if I were not sure? I ask you only to hear me out.”

Henry was regretting his flare of temper. Luc had earned better than that. He was mistaken—obviously—but he was not lying. “Speak, then,” he said. “I will listen.”

“The lord duke arrived in Limoges last week,” Luc began, and Henry could not help interrupting.

“I know that, Luc. I sent Geoffrey to Limoges, instructing him to persuade Aimar and the other barons to meet me next month at Mirebeau. So there is nothing suspicious about his presence there.”

“I know his peace mission was the public reason given for his arrival in Limoges. But what troubled me from the first was that Aimar and the others welcomed Lord Geoffrey more like an ally than a mediator. I had no proof, nothing to go on but my instincts. They’ve served me well in the past, though, and so I kept my eyes open and my ears pricked. The duke is a cautious man, not one to boast of his shifting alliances, but I got lucky. I happened to overhear him instructing a courier, and so I trailed inconspicuously after them into the stables. He gave the man a sealed letter, told him that it must be delivered to Lord Raoul de Fougères without delay and warned him of the urgency of his undertaking.”

“I do not find it strange that he’d be sending a message to one of his Breton barons,” Henry said, but he was now sounding more defensive than defiant, for he, too, put a great deal of trust in Luc’s instincts.

“It could well have been utterly innocent,” Luc admitted. “I knew only that I wanted to get my hands upon that letter, and so when the courier rode out, I followed him. I did not expect to get a chance to steal it until that evening, but the fool stopped in a Limoges tavern on his way out of town, and put away enough wine to need to relieve himself in an alley nearby. I slipped in behind him and clouted him ere he even knew I was there.”

Luc would normally have digressed from his account at this point, explaining there was a spot behind the ear that could render a man unconscious ere he hit the ground, for Henry was interested in esoteric facts like that. Now, though, he knew better, for the king’s color was taking on a waxen hue. “I took his purse and ring, too, to make it look like a robbery, and I am sure that was how he explained it to the lord duke when he eventually woke up, doubtless conjuring up three or four brigands against whom he’d struggled fiercely.”

When Henry said nothing, Luc reached into his tunic and withdrew a rolled parchment. “You’ll recognize the lord duke’s seal, sire. He tells Raoul de Fougères to dispatch the routiers they’d hired, saying war is imminent and he expects Lord Richard to take the offensive and strike first, so the sooner the routiers can reach the Limousin, the better.”

Henry was still silent, but when Luc held out the letter, he took it. Glancing down at the elegant, slanting handwriting, he recognized it at once as his son’s. Keeping his gaze upon that damning document, he said huskily, “You’ll be well rewarded for this service, Luc, but that can wait. For now, you’ll be wanting a meal. Tell my steward to see that you’re fed and then to find you a bed, and a wench, if you want one.”

“Thank you, sire,” Luc murmured, and backed out of the solar. Geoff and Willem had sat frozen, finding it almost as hard as Henry to credit the spy’s revelation. They exchanged troubled glances, neither knowing what to say. But as the door closed behind Luc, Henry raised his head.

“Find my son, Willem,” he said. “Fetch him here straightaway.”

“
S
O YOU CLAIM YOU KNEW NOTHING
of Geoffrey’s treachery?” Henry’s eyes bore into Hal’s, and there was such icy accusation in his voice that his eldest felt heat rising in his face.

“Jesu, of course I did not!” Hal insisted, with all the indignation he could muster. “Had I suspected Geoffrey was so vulnerable to Aimar’s blandishments, I’d have come to you in private and argued against sending him to Limoges.”

“How can I doubt you when you’ve always been so devoted to my interests?” Henry said, with sarcasm that cracked like a whip.

“Papa, I understand that your nerves are on the raw after getting such news. But it is not fair to blame me for what Geoffrey has done. We’re not even that close. If he’d been planning this beforehand—and I doubt that he was—he’d hardly have confided in me, not when he was planning to usurp my place in the rebel plot. It is true that you addressed my grievance by taking Clairvaux from Richard.” Hal paused and then smiled wryly. “But in all honesty, any peace between Richard and me is likely to last as long as a whore’s chastity vow. Sooner or later, he’ll start lusting after Angevin lands again. When he does, I’d like to be able to rally his barons to my side, and what better way to do that than to put forward my own claim to Aquitaine?”

There was a certain wayward logic in Hal’s argument, something persuasive in his candid admission that he’d not ruled out making another try for Aquitaine if circumstances warranted it. Seeing Henry’s hesitation, Hal swiftly pressed his advantage. “So why would I want to see Geoffrey as the new Duke of Aquitaine? If Geoffrey held both Brittany and Aquitaine, that would give him far too much power for my comfort. I trust Geoffrey more than Richard, but then I’d trust the Saracen chieftain Saladin more than Richard.”

Henry turned to the table, poured a cup of wine, and let the liquid trickle down his throat. But he knew that all the wine in the world would not wash away the foul taste in his mouth. Sitting down in the closest chair, he looked from Geoff to Willem, then back to Hal. “Why do you think this was not premeditated?”

“Because I know how persuasive Aimar can be, Papa. If he seduced women the way he seduces allies, he’d have sired enough bastards to populate an entire city. In fairness to Aimar, he has just cause for loathing life under Richard’s reign. It shows you how desperate they are that they turned to Geoffrey now that I am no longer available. And in fairness to Geoffrey, I daresay they bedazzled him with their promises; Aimar is good at that. He’d never expected more than Brittany, and that comes with a price—having to put up with Constance. How many younger sons would not have been tempted by the riches of Aquitaine?”

“You make a curious defense of your brother, Hal, by pleading his weakness and greed.”

“Who amongst us is without sin, Papa? As far as I am concerned, much of the blame rests with Richard, for Geoffrey would not have gotten himself entangled with Aimar if Richard had not pushed them into rebellion.” Hal was surprised to see how much his father seemed to have aged in a matter of hours, and he found himself wanting to offer some genuine consolation. Moving to Henry’s side, he knelt by him so their eyes were level and said earnestly, “You ought not to take this too much to heart, Papa. You are not the target here—Richard is. I hope you’ll bear that in mind and, for once, let him reap what he has sown.”

Henry looked into Hal’s eyes, saw sincerity and sympathy and an utter inability to understand that Geoffrey’s double-dealing was putting their entire empire at risk. “I am glad we had this talk,” he said wearily. “I want you to tell my council and court that Geoffrey has gone over to the rebels. They’ll have to know…”

“I will do it now,” Hal promised, getting lightly to his feet and letting his hand drop to Henry’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Glancing toward the other men, he said, “Willem, Geoff? Do you want to come with me?” Again, that rueful smile surfaced. “I know how tattered my credibility is in some eyes, and none would doubt either of you.”