Devil's Brood (97 page)

When Henry released her and stepped back, he was once more in control of himself. “I would ask you to come with me to the Holy Land,” he said lightly, “but it has been agreed that women are to be banned from the expedition, save only laundresses of good character.”

“My legacy, I daresay,” she said with a smile. “Apparently the stories of my pilgrimage with Louis have passed into legend.” He smiled, too, encouraging her to make one last attempt. “Harry, I am imploring you to give some thought to what I’ve said. There is still time to make things right with Richard.”

She’d half expected him to react in anger again. Instead, he took her hand in his, pressed his lips to her palm, wondering if their marriage might have been different if she’d given to him the utter, unconditional loyalty that she gave to Richard. “I hope Richard realizes how fortunate he is to have you as his advocate.”

She almost told him the truth, that her fears were not for Richard. Time was Richard’s ally, not his. But she knew he’d never forgive her if she admitted that she saw him now as the vulnerable one. So she said only, “I will pray for your safe voyage to Barfleur.”

H
ENRY SAILED IN A VIOLENT STORM,
but he found conditions no less turbulent upon his return to Normandy and the rest of the summer was taken up with skirmishing, raids, threats, and futile peace conferences. At one held near Gisors that August, it went so badly that Philippe angrily ordered the ancient elm tree be chopped down. A second meeting in October at Châtillon-sur-Indre was no more successful. It began promisingly, with the agreement that Philippe would return the gains he’d made in Berry and Richard would relinquish his conquests in Toulouse. But then Philippe demanded that Henry surrender his castle at Pacy as a “good faith pledge,” and the council broke up in acrimony.

Richard’s frustration grew by the day, for he could not depart for the Holy Land as long as this sporadic war raged between England and France. He received some unexpected support that autumn when the Count of Flanders, the Counts of Blois and Champagne, and other French lords balked at continuing to wage war against their fellow crusaders, and faced with the defection of a large part of his army, Philippe reluctantly agreed when Richard proposed another peace council at Bonsmoulins in November. Henry was willing, too, and Richard set the plans in motion. But he was determined to end this impasse one way or another, and he had a secret parley with the French king before they were to gather at Bonsmoulins.

R
ICHARD’S NEW CHANCELLOR,
Guillaume de Longchamp, was meeting his duke at the Cistercian abbey of La Trappe, not far from the conference site at Bonsmoulins. He was unpopular with Richard’s knights, partly because of their natural distrust of clerks and partly because of Longchamp’s physical flaws. The young men agreed that Longchamp was one of the ugliest individuals they’d ever seen: short and swarthy, with close-set black eyes, a flat nose, and a receding chin. Moreover, he was crippled, lame in both legs, and theirs was a world in which deformity was often seen as the outer manifestation of inner evil.

As the chancellor limped toward the abbey guest hall, he was aware of the hostile scrutiny of a handful of Richard’s knights. He knew what was said of him, that they referred to him behind his back as a “dwarf” and “elf” and “gargoyle.” He knew, too, that they resented him all the more because he was not meek and obsequious, because he refused to act like one of society’s misfits. He believed that his superior intellect mattered more than his physical defects and saw no reason why he must defer to these fortunate young men with handsome faces and healthy bodies and empty heads. He could hear their muttering as he was admitted into Richard’s presence without delay; it vexed them no end that he stood so high in the duke’s favor.

Richard smiled at the sight of him. “Come with me, Guillaume,” he directed. “We need to talk in private.”

As he followed Richard across the hall, Longchamp took satisfaction in the disgruntled expressions on the faces around him. Let them call him arrogant and presumptuous. Their enmity did not change the fact that he was the duke’s confidant, viewed as utterly trustworthy by a man who did not find it easy to trust.

Once they were alone in Richard’s chamber, he waved his chancellor toward a seat even though he remained on his feet. The only way that he ever indicated his awareness of Longchamp’s physical frailty was by this casual concern for the older man’s comfort, acknowledging Longchamp’s special needs without making a fuss about it. It was as close as Longchamp had come to acceptance in a life of rejection and he valued it almost as much as he did the chancellorship. His ambition had drawn him to Richard, after an earlier stint as a chancery clerk. But his fierce absolute loyalty was rooted in these small acts of unexpected kindness.

“How did your meeting with the French king go, my lord?” And when Richard said it had gone well, Longchamp felt secure enough to venture a small jest. “Has he forgiven you, then, for calling him a ‘vile recreant’ at Châtillon-sur-Indre?”

Richard grinned. “He’d have forgiven much worse, Guillaume. I made an interesting discovery at Mantes. Philippe is not only eager to ally himself with me. He is downright desperate to bring it about. He is a very clever lad, the French king. But he shares the same weakness that my father does—a tendency to undervalue his adversaries.”

“Will he support you at the Bonsmoulins conclave?”

“Yes, he will. We are going to demand that my father formally recognize me as his heir. I can no longer abide his infernal games-playing, need to have this settled ere I can depart for the Holy Land. If my foes think I may not become king, they’ll take advantage of my absence to stir up rebellions in Aquitaine and start courting my little brother’s favor in hopes of playing king-maker.”

“Do you truly think your lord father would dare to disinherit you in favor of John?”

Richard took his time in answering. “I am not sure, Guillaume. I do not doubt that he’d rather see John succeed him than me. Would he actually do it? If he thought he could get away with it, probably. He must know that I’d never accept it, though, and John’s reign would be the shortest in English history. Of course Philippe swears by all the saints that there is no doubt whatsoever, that he means to put John in my place even if it means war.”

Richard had been pacing as he talked. Stopping abruptly, he glanced toward his chancellor with an expression Longchamp could not easily read. “Philippe never misses an opportunity to sing that song. To hear him tell it, my father spends every waking moment scheming to rob me of my rightful heritage. But according to what I was told at Mantes, that is not exactly true. Apparently he found time to pay some nocturnal visits to my betrothed.”

Longchamp could not believe he’d heard correctly. “I…I am not sure I understand, my lord.”

“I think you do. Philip of Flanders was the one to break the news to me, but he was doing Philippe’s bidding. They claim that my father seduced Alys a few years back and this is the real reason why he is loath to allow our marriage. I suppose he thought I might balk at sharing her favors once we were wed.”

The chancellor was dumbfounded and suddenly fearful, feeling as if he were teetering upon the edge of a cliff where the slightest movement might send him plunging into a fatal fall. He’d not have thought the discord between the king and the duke could get any worse…until now. Adding a woman to the mix would do it, though. But how was he supposed to react to such news? What did Richard want him to say?

“My lord, I…” Should he express outrage? Horror at the king’s depravity? But what if Richard did not believe the story? What if he did want to marry the girl? He could find no clues in Richard’s face. If he erred, there would be no recovery. Oh, the duke might not dismiss him, but the wrong answer was bound to affect his prospects, to impair his credibility. He took several deep breaths to steady his nerves, and then made the only choice he could. Since he did not know the “right answer” to this deadly riddle, all he could do was speak the truth. “I have my doubts about that, my lord.”

Richard showed no reaction. “Why is that?”

Longchamp knotted his fingers together in his lap. “If I may speak candidly, my lord duke? From what I’ve heard said of the English king, he is a man given to sins of the flesh. He has violated his marriage vows time and time again. I would not find it easy to defend his sense of honor. But I have never heard him called a fool. And to have taken your betrothed, the sister of the French king, as his concubine would be an act beyond foolhardy. It would be quite mad.”

He could feel sweat trickling down his ribs, could taste it on his upper lip. He even imagined his thudding heartbeat must be audible to Richard in the endless silence that greeted his words. When he could endure it no longer, he said hoarsely, “If I have offended you, my lord…”

“You have not,” Richard said composedly. As their eyes met, Longchamp saw that he had guessed right, and he went limp with relief, understanding just how much had been at stake. Richard agreed with him, did not credit this malicious rumor. But more important, this had been a test, both of his judgment and of his willingness to speak honestly, to tell the duke what he really thought. And he had passed it, had proven himself worthy of the duke’s trust.

Richard sat down in a high-backed chair, stretching his long legs toward the warmth of the hearth. “Your logic is impeccable, Guillaume,” he said approvingly. “My father is, as you say, ‘given to sins of the flesh.’ But he has never been one for thinking with his cock. And Alys Capet is no Helen of Troy. Philippe ought to have known better.”

Longchamp had no interest whatsoever in the French princess; he neither liked nor trusted women. But he said now what he thought was expected of a man of God and shook his head disapprovingly. “It is indeed shameful that the French king would besmirch his own sister’s honor for political gain.”

“Shameful, indeed,” Richard echoed, so dryly that Longchamp realized the duke was not taken in by his sham indignation, knew it was feigned and did not care in the least. “It is not as if Philippe has ever been the soul of sentiment. And I do not think he has even seen Alys since she was handed over to my parents at the time of our betrothal, when he was all of four, five at the most. It would not surprise me, though, if my cousin Philip was the one to suggest the idea to Philippe. That is how Philip got control of his wife’s inheritance, after all, by accusing her of adultery.”

“We are dealing with some very unscrupulous men, my lord.”

“Yes, the gathering at Bonsmoulins ought to be a most interesting encounter. It is all such hypocrisy, Guillaume. Any peace between my father and Philippe would last as long as ice on a summer’s day, for there is not enough trust between them to fill a walnut shell. The both of them are born liars, but I will do whatever I must to patch up a peace, for without it, I dare not leave for the Holy Land. So I will let the French king think that he is using me. I will even overlook the fact that he clearly believes me to be as easily duped as my brother Hal. I’ll admit I was somewhat insulted at first by that. But then I realized what a convenient excuse he has given me for refusing to wed his sister. He wants that wedding, you see, for the same reason that my father does not want it: Hal’s sorry example. But I have no intention of taking Alys as my wife. I do not need her to hold on to the Vexin, and I can do better for England. The marriage would not turn Philippe into an ally. It could be revealed that he is really one of my father’s bastards and he’d still hate the Angevins.”

Richard debated telling his chancellor that he was thinking of a marital alliance with Navarre, which made a great deal of strategic sense, but he decided he’d shared enough of his secrets with the cleric this day. “So,” he concluded, “should Philippe ever attempt to compel me to honor the plight-troth with Alys, I would be quite indignant. How could he expect me, after all, to wed my father’s bedmate?”

“I think the English and French kings are going to find you are more than a match for either one of them,” Longchamp said admiringly. What a formidable team they were going to make. And since Richard’s future held the promise of a crown, mayhap he could dare to dream of a bishop’s miter.

Longchamp had learned that Richard’s moods were mercurial, and like his father, he was as changeable as the winds. He was not surprised now when Richard’s acerbic amusement gave way without warning to a far grimmer humor. “I am not going to let him win, Guillaume,” he said. “Not this time. I could not keep him from making my mother pay the price for our failed rebellion. Fifteen years she has been his prisoner, fifteen years! And she
is
his prisoner, for all that she no longer wants for a queen’s comforts. I have had to submit to his demands and subject myself to his whims and endure the indignity of having him brandish the crown before me as he would tease a dog with a bone. But no more. I will not let him rob me of my birthright, and I will not let him keep me from honoring my vow to defend the Holy Land. I do think he is behind that very opportune rebellion in my duchy, and I would not put it past him to be conniving with the Count of Toulouse, either. And if by chance, he did not, it is only because he did not think of it. No, a reckoning is long overdue, and we will have it at Bonsmoulins.”

T
HE PEACE CONFERENCE
at Bonsmoulins would prove to be one of the worst experiences of Henry’s life. His suspicions were immediately ignited when Richard and the French king arrived together, not believing for a moment Richard’s nonchalant claim that they’d just happened to meet on the way. Still brooding over the offer Richard had made at Châtillon-sur-Indre, declaring that he was willing to submit his dispute with the Count of Toulouse to the judgment of the French court if that would end the hostilities, Henry needed little to convince himself that they were secretly in league against him, for Eleanor’s charge had been right. He did not trust his eldest son.

The first day had gone well enough, with all parties maintaining civility. By the second day, tempers had begun to fray, and by the third day, negotiations had become so heated that Henry and Philippe’s knights were keeping their hands on their sword hilts. As was customary, they were meeting in an open field not far from Bonsmoulins Castle, and the blustery November weather only added to the general sense of discontent and distrust. But even Henry’s bleak expectations had not prepared him for what was to come.

The cold and the damp seemed to have penetrated to the very marrow of his bones and his bad leg was aching, but Henry would not show weakness by requesting a chair. His physical discomfort was just one more aggravation on a day of many. So far little progress had been made, despite the best efforts of the Norman and French bishops, who feared that their holy crusade might be doomed before it even began. And by mid-afternoon, Henry’s patience had run out.

“This is a waste of all our time,” he said curtly. “For three days we have been wrangling like barn cats, and what have we accomplished? We’ve agreed on a truce to last till St Hilary’s Day! Unless you have a new proposal to make, my lord king of the French, I suggest we put an end to this trumpery, resume once you are truly interested in reaching terms.”

“We can settle our differences here and now,” Philippe said coolly. “We have but two demands to make and are willing to overlook all our other grievances if you are prepared to concede on these two points.”

Henry’s eyes turned accusingly toward Richard. “Does he speak for you now?”

“In this, he does.” Before Philippe could continue, though, Richard stepped forward. “But first I would have a private word with you, my lord father.”

This was the first time that Richard had even acknowledged their blood bond, and Henry nodded his agreement. They walked away from the others, coming to a stop under a gnarled oak, stripped bare by the winter winds. “I want to caution you,” Richard said bluntly, “to think carefully ere you answer us. There is no room for compromise here, and more rides upon your response than you could ever know.”

Henry scowled. “Is this why you took me aside—to threaten me?”

Richard started to speak, stopped himself. “So be it,” he said, and turned on his heel, leaving his father to return on his own to the waiting circle.