The Young Lion (25 page)

She set out to indulge Geoffrey in every whim. She wrote to her sister-in-law, who replied that she was greatly distressed because Prince Eustace now employed a poisoner and that his uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, knew of it and had rebuked him: ‘God is not mocked. He sees everything.’
I am so afraid
, Constance wrote. She added that the boy was training to poison her husband’s rival to the throne, Henry of Normandy. Their own forces were preparing for an attack in September along the southern coast.

‘Can you find out more about the poisoner?’ Geoffrey asked when Eleanor reported to him. His hands and smile caressed her. His mind is elsewhere, Eleanor thought. It drove her mad with jealousy. It’s what I hate about men: they switch from their hearts to their heads, and –
poof!
– you turn into smoke. The more jealous she felt, the more deeply she was determined to rein in his heart.
‘It’s a dance macabre,’ she said one day. ‘We touch, we fly apart, but we’re caught in a gyre from which we can’t escape.’

Geoffrey was capable of long silences. At length he replied, ‘That is what love is. It’s why all people are so terrified of it. Perhaps in heaven it’s …’

‘What?’

‘Pure.’ He swept his blond hair from his forehead. ‘I’ve lain with hundreds of women. You’re the only one I’d die for.’

‘Don’t speak of dying. I’ll get my freedom and we’ll live!’

Eleanor redoubled her efforts in courting intimacies from Constance, and in seeking Louis’s plans.

The King was more than satisfied with the political situation he saw developing. ‘I’ve summoned the Anjevin boy to Paris for the final day of August,’ he told the Queen. ‘When he’s paid me homage for Normandy, he can sail off to be a pest across the Channel.’

‘You don’t think he’ll defeat Stephen and Eustace?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Not a chance. I’ve bribed the Count of Flanders to forbid any of his men to serve as mercenaries for young – he’s calling himself Plantagenet these days. Our beloved Estienne always called the father that. Remember? Estienne used to laugh at the broom flowers in his hat. Weed Hat, he’d say.’

Your name just means ‘cap’, she thought. ‘So the young Plantagenet won’t have sufficient forces?’ she asked.

‘He’ll be cut to shreds on the beaches. Won’t take a single castle. How sad I shall be!’

‘My King!’ Eleanor sighed.

Geoffrey and Henry laughed when they read her letter. Louis had bribed the Count of Flanders with the promise of a future prince or
princess for one of his children. But Henry had bribed him more convincingly by offering him a percentage of the English wool trade.

‘I think,’ Henry said, ‘we start a rumour that because Louis kept us hanging on a string so long, we’ve formed an understanding with the Danes. That’ll put the fear of the Almighty into Stephen and Eustace: an invasion by the Danes from the north-east and us along the south.’

But Henry was worried. With Stephen anticipating an invasion of the south coast, he had decided to sail west, and attack through Wales where he had good relations with the tribal leaders from his time spent fighting for King David. However, the opportunity for such a long voyage diminished as the year wore on and gales arose, threatening the loss of his army at sea.

At last the day of homage approached. Matilda, her younger children and the servants travelled in three coaches, setting out several days before the men. Geoffrey, Henry and Guillaume would ride to Paris. ‘May I come?’ Rachel asked.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ Henry said. ‘The palace guards will recognise you.’

The morning he and his father left the palace of Rouen, they rode down to collect Guillaume and bid farewell to their women.

Strawberries were still in season and Henry had loaded baskets of fragrant berries and pots of conserve onto one of the pack-horses. Rachel had risen early, washed and dried her hair and was wearing her loveliest blue gown. Taking a handful of strawberries, he dragged her to the bedchamber. ‘I won’t see you for ten days. It’s the last chance for the Princess of Antioch to lie with Sir Nobody. Next time you see your husband, he’ll be a duke.’

Guillaume, Geoffrey and Isabella drank a cup of wine and ate cake and strawberry conserve while they waited for Henry.

Inside her chamber Rachel was less than ardent.

‘What’s wrong?’ Henry asked.

She looked abashed. ‘I’m with child.’

From the dining chamber, through four stone walls, his cries of jubilation sounded round the house.

They drowned in kisses. ‘Because you’re fragile at this stage, I’ll just … look,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if it’s a boy or a girl.’

When he rejoined the others Guillaume whispered, ‘Henry, wash your face.’

Eleanor wore her most beautiful summer robe for the homage ceremony: it was of violet silk that so perfectly brought out the colour of her eyes palace staff who saw her every day stopped to gape. She had invented a new fashion of slashing the sleeves of her gowns to reveal their silk lining. Hers was orange-gold, matched to the citrines of her tiara. She had dressed to intimidate Matilda, who would be seated, she knew, in a front row of the audience hall. Eleanor wanted her enemy to see how beautiful she was. She had seen the Empress years earlier, when Geoffrey had first paid homage, and remembered then that she was tall and handsome and carried herself with pride. There are advantages to being born a princess, she had thought at the time.

As soon as she entered the hall to take her place beside Louis, she recognised Geoffrey’s wife. ‘More jewels than Cleopatra,’ she muttered to the King. The pearls around Matilda’s neck were the size of pebbles. Her tiara was a handspan in height, all sapphires, rubies, emeralds, diamonds and more pearls.

The Queen held an osprey fan with which she covered her mouth to add, ‘Stolen. From the Germans.’

She watched Geoffrey’s face from the safety of her fan. She hoped that, seeing her seated beside her husband, he felt as jealous as she did. She could tell nothing from the calm, reserved look
he wore. In fact, Geoffrey felt his heart had become an eggshell, cracked, life oozing out of it.

He wore dark green silk with a gold belt and gold boots. Eleanor flicked her attention to the son and for a moment was surprised. She remembered a ruffian with a dagger, smelling of horse dung. This was a young man of vibrant intensity. All the movements of his body and the glances from his eyes held an edge of excitement. When he doffed his hat to the King she liked his tangled halo of copper hair and ruddy complexion. Sanguine in temperament, she thought. A beautiful, taller, dark young man stood beside him. ‘Who’s that?’ she whispered behind the fan.

‘A bastard,’ Louis muttered.

The Catalan’s, Eleanor realised. She felt a surge of jealousy so intense she feared her face was turning green. The sight of Geoffrey’s sons stabbed her heart, her liver, her bowels. The way those men stood together, shoulder to shoulder, each of them prepared to die for the other: one could see it in their movements.

She looked at Matilda and the younger children gathered beside her. The girls were pretty and so was the youngest boy, but she did not like the look of the second son who was, as she had warned Geoffrey, passing information via a bishop to the new Seneschal in Paris.

Matilda has everything, she thought. And here am I, a prisoner. For a moment her eyes met her enemy’s; unexpectedly, she smiled. The Empress’s smile was slightly ironic: she knew the iron bars that held a queen who gives her realm no heir.

‘I’ll invite her and the younger children to tour the palace with me,’ Eleanor said to Louis. She beckoned a page whom she sent with the verbal invitation to Matilda. ‘Will you invite the new Duke hunting with you? It would demonstrate forgiveness.’

Louis sighed. ‘My conscience tells me I should. My bad angel tells me to accept his homage and dismiss him. Master Weed.
What happened to your Phoenician maid, by the way? She ran off with the father.’

‘She transferred her affections to the son,’ Eleanor said. ‘I hear they have a child.’

Louis snorted. ‘Coneys.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘And foxes. Coneys and foxes all in one coop. And under one hat!’ He allowed himself to laugh at his joke. He was thinking that on other people, a weed in your hat would look ridiculous, but the Anjevins carried it off. Even in dress they make their own rules. It niggled at him that the Old Duke, as in a few moments he would be, had trespassed into the Queen’s closet to seduce the Phoenician. Not to mention lying with his milking maids. ‘Where do they lodge?’ he asked.

‘I have no idea,’ Eleanor replied. She and Geoffrey had been unable to work out a safe place to meet in the Île de France. But an idea came to her. ‘Why don’t we hunt deer?’ she suggested to Louis. ‘It’s perfect weather.’ And a perfect way for Geoffrey and me to get lost together. She dared to look at him directly, but the look he returned puzzled her.

Louis was saying, ‘I’d prefer to hunt boar. You see more of a man’s character in a boar hunt.’

The ceremony had been arranged for immediately after breakfast. Knights and ladies from Normandy, Anjou, Maine and the Île de France filled the hall, most of them standing, while the senior nobles and clergy had seats.

The Bishop of St Denis approached at Louis’s nod. A page hastened to place a cushion at the King’s feet. Henry stepped forward, knelt on the cushion, bareheaded, his eyes lowered.

‘I vow homage to you, King Louis, my lord and liege,’ he said. ‘I shall defend your realm and your life with my own life. Your life is more valuable to God and to man than is mine. It is at your service.’

Louis was gratified the Anjevin had used the entire vow, acknowledging his greater worth in the eyes of God. Some vassals, particularly the ungovernable Bretons and some of Eleanor’s men in the south, omitted that part.

The Bishop blessed Henry, asked God to witness what had just been said, and sprinkled him with holy water.

Louis said, ‘Arise, Henry Duke of Normandy. Let us exchange the kiss of peace.’

As he stood, Henry felt a flow of affection for Louis. They kissed and looked more deeply into each other’s faces than they ever had before. He has soft eyes, like my Rachel, Henry thought. He has the courage of a lion, Louis thought. Both thought, we could be friends.

As he stepped back from the throne Henry knew his face was coloured with emotion. He was surprised to see the Queen had turned the colour of parchment.

While Henry and Louis had exchanged the kiss of peace Geoffrey had mouthed to her, ‘Adieu.’

‘What about a boar hunt before it grows too hot?’ Louis asked his new Duke of Normandy. ‘Your brother is welcome to join us.’ He added in a mutter, ‘And your father, of course.’

There was a brief consultation between the Anjevin men and Matilda. Henry returned to the throne. ‘Sire, my mother is honoured to accept Her Highness’s invitation and we greatly appreciate your invitation to hunt. But my father, brother and I need to ride to Le Mans today. We have urgent matters to attend to.’

Now the thing had been done, Louis relaxed. ‘And then across the Channel?’ He smiled.

‘Sire, you understand my ambitions too well, I fear.’

‘But do you understand my brother-in-law?’ Louis asked. He had been disgusted to hear from Eleanor that Prince Eustace now employed a poisoner, and that the boy was somewhere in France.

Henry made a sudden decision to drop pretence with the King. ‘I understand he desires to have me murdered. Possibly by poison,’ he replied.

‘Good,’ Louis said. ‘He does, and unless you’re careful, he will. It would be an unholy act and I am displeased by his intention.’

He rose. Eleanor, with a smile to hide her confusion, rose and followed the King into the reception hall behind the audience chamber where, in a few minutes, Matilda and her tribe of children would arrive.

Henry strolled through the throng of magnates, barons and ladies, greeted with waves of applause and adulation. He shook hands, slapped backs and blew kisses to some of the women. A group began singing, ‘A Young Lion steps forth …’ and soon the entire hall took up the song. He reached down to grasp Geoffrey’s hand and hold it aloft, so they walked side by side, Young Duke and Old Duke, the toast of Paris. He was surprised by how heavy Geoffrey’s palm felt.

‘Let’s dine in that tavern where I used to stay when I was visiting the Queen,’ Geoffrey said.

Henry and Guillaume rolled their eyes. ‘Papa, it’s full of ruffians,’ Henry said. ‘And we’re all dressed up –’

Guillaume gave him a kick.

‘– but it’s a good idea. Beautiful memories for you,’ Henry said.

Used to the food of Normandy, they considered Parisian fare execrable: oily, expensive and stale. But the tavern served simple, tasty workingmen’s food. They had a long ride ahead and the day was growing hotter by the minute, so they ate lightly. In an upstairs chamber they exchanged their silk tunics and gold boots for comfortable riding clothes. Henry couldn’t help noticing how
subdued Geoffrey seemed. He had spoken hardly a word since they left the palace. Outside the tavern, in its two-seater privy, he asked Guillaume, ‘What’s wrong with Papa?’

Guillaume shrugged. He too was puzzled.

An hour beyond Paris, close to Chartres, they rested on a grassy spot where the river narrowed and the water was fresh-flowing. The men, even in flimsy linen tunics, were drenched in perspiration. Their horses had sweated up.

‘We’ll all swim,’ Henry said. They and the squires, seven men in all, stripped naked and ran into the river. Geoffrey floated on his back, throwing water over his face with his big hands. Henry and the others raced each other from bank to bank. When they’d cooled down they took their mounts in to swim. Geoffrey shouted a curse. He had swum too close to one of the horses, which had caught his ankle with its shoe. When he led it ashore blood flowed over his foot.

‘Lord, let me clean and bandage that,’ a squire said.

Geoffrey looked at the gash. ‘It’s just a scratch,’ he said.

The squire persisted, ‘But, lord, in this hot weather …’

Geoffrey groaned with frustration but lay on the grass and allowed his ankle to be bandaged.

That night they stopped at a chateau a few miles from Le Mans to eat and rest. Both sons noticed their father limped when he dismounted. He often limped when he was tired. It came from an old wound to his foot from his earliest, and unsuccessful, attack on Normandy. Henry said, ‘We need a physician. And post-riders.’