hot, indeed.”
“Raymond was her kinsman, was he not?”
“Her uncle. Like many a younger son, he’d gone off to seek his fortune in the Holy Land, and by luck and guile and a fair measure of charm, he’d won himself a great heiress and the principality of Antioch. But when Eleanor sided openly with Raymond, Louis’s advisors claimed that proved she was not to be trusted.”
“I’d say it proved she had more common sense than Louis. If Antioch fell, Jerusalem’s fall would be a foregone conclusion. Was this when Eleanor declared her intent to end the marriage?”
Geoffrey nodded. “And she was shrewd enough to pick the one argument likely to shake Louis to the depths of his pious soul-that their marriage was a sin. Raymond had revealed to her, she contended, that she and Louis were fourth cousins and thus forbidden to wed without a papal dispensation. She then reminded Louis that after eleven years of this ‘sinful’ marriage, he still lacked a male heir. What greater proof could there be of God’s displeasure? Louis was distraught, for in his innocent, odd way, he truly loved his wife. He could not bear to lose her-and Aquitaine-but neither could he abide the fear that he’d offended the Almighty. As I said, Eleanor knew her man; her thrust had gone right to the heart.”
“What provoked him then, into dragging her away from Antioch by force?”
“He sought counsel and comfort from his chaplain and a Templar named Thierry Galeran, a eunuch who’d long chafed under Eleanor’s barbs. He seized his chance to repay her in kind, and he and Odo, the chaplain, convinced Louis that Eleanor’s real reason for seeking a divorce was arrantly sinful-because she’d taken Raymond as her lover.”
Henry was not easily startled, but now he almost dropped the reins, so hastily did he swing around in the saddle to stare at his father. “They accused her of bedding her own uncle? Jesus wept! Was it true?”
“I seriously doubt it,” Geoffrey conceded, with a trace of regret. “Sins are no more equal than men, and incest is a grievous transgression, indeed, far more damning than mere adultery. It is clear from his subsequent conduct that Louis did not really believe it, either, else he’d never have been able to reconcile with her and share her bed again. Be that as it may, he was hurt and jealous and angry, and he heeded his counselors, compelled Eleanor to accompany him to Jerusalem.
“What happened after that, lad, you doubtless know. Louis made a halfhearted assault upon Damascus, retreated after four days, and the glorious Second Crusade was over.”
“I’d say your decision not to take the cross was a wise one, Papa. And their troubles did not end in the Holy Land, did they? I heard they had a harrowing journey home.”
“That they did. Eleanor’s ship was captured by the Greeks, rescued in the nick of time by the King of Sicily’s fleet, then blown far off course toward the Barbary Coast, finally coming ashore at Palermo, where Eleanor was gravely ill for weeks, and where she got word of her uncle Raymond’s death, slain in a courageous, foolhardy clash with the Turks, his head cut off and sent as a gift to the Caliph of Baghdad.”
“And she blamed Louis for that, I daresay?”
“Wouldn’t you? But by then they’d reached Tusculum, where the Pope did his best to mend the rifts in their marriage, assuring them they had God’s Blessing upon their union and tucking them into bed together to make sure poor dim Louis got the point! When she became pregnant, Louis could not contain his joy, never doubting that the Almighty would at last reward him with a son.”
“It must have been a nasty shock when Eleanor gave birth to a second daughter. But I’d wager,” Henry added wryly, “that Louis blamed Eleanor and not God.”
“His counselors did, for certes. The talk in Paris is that a divorce is inevitable. Louis is still resisting-so far. But the marriage is being crushed under a double burden: his conscience and his need for a son. I’d not offer odds on its survival.”
Ahead lay the wooden stockade that protected the right bank of the River Seine. To Henry’s right, he could see a small chapel, surrounded by weathered tombstones; this open, marshy field was the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents, burial ground for Paris. He instinctively made the sign of the cross, but his thoughts were still focused upon the hapless French king and his beautiful, wayward queen.
“So Louis is well meaning and out of his depth-shades of Stephen-whilst Eleanor is willful and mayhap wanton. What else need I know?”
“That she is dangerous,” Geoffrey said and laughed. “Consider yourself warned, lad!”
Henry laughed, too. “You need not worry. I plan to be on my best behavior in Paris. I shall have to be, since you’re intent upon stirring up trouble enough for the both of us!”
The heart of Paris was a walled island in the middle of the River Seine, the Ile de la Cite. Its eastern half was given over to God, to the archbishop’s church and lodgings. The western half held the royal palace. In between lay a maze of narrow, crooked streets, by turns mud-clogged or dust-choked, for the ancient Roman paving stones had survived only in patches. These streets were deep in shadow even at midday, for the houses had overhanging upper stories that effectively blotted out the sun, and they were noisy from dawn till dusk, echoing with the strident cries of peddlers, the pleas of beggars, the boisterous tomfoolery of students, the arguments of tradesmen, the barking of dogs, and always, always the chiming of church bells, pealing out over the city in deafening waves of shimmering sound.
This was Henry’s first glimpse of Paris, and it would be a memory that time would not fade. For the rest of his life, he was to remember the August heat and the clamor and the foul smell of the river, the clouds of white doves circling above the steep tiled roofs as he and his father rode across the bridge known as the Grand Pont, toward the palace where the French king and his queen awaited them.
The Grand Pont was the finest stone bridge Henry had ever seen, almost twenty feet wide, lined on each side with cramped wooden stalls and booths, most occupied by money changers and goldsmiths. It was crowded with pilgrims and merchants and students, exchanging their coins for the French silver deniers. They moved aside for the Angevins and their entourage, and Henry heard his name and Geoffrey’s bandied behind them. It seemed all of Paris knew they were meeting with Louis. He just hoped that some good would come of it.
They were on the island now, passing through the gateway into the Cite Palace. A flight of broad stone stairs led up to the great hall. As they reined in, Geoffrey said that he’d heard of knights riding their horses up the steps and into the hall, and for a moment, their eyes met in a glance of mutual mischief. But the temptation was fleeting. Dismounting, they made a decorous entrance into the hall, not without a shared twinge of regret.
Once stilted greetings had been offered and introductions made on Henry’s behalf, he stepped aside, deferring to his father, for this was Geoffrey’s moment, and he was content to have it so. He welcomed this opportunity to study their adversaries, most of whom he was meeting for the first time.
Louis Capet, the Most Christian King of France, was in his thirty-first year, but he looked younger, tall and slender, with mild blue eyes and bright blond hair. Henry had heard he often wore a hair shirt, and he could not help speculating whether Louis was wearing one now, under his royal robes. He could think of far better uses for the flesh than mortifying it.
Louis’s disgruntled brother Robert, Count of Dreux, stood close at hand, glowering at Geoffrey. Rumor had it that he’d returned from the crusade so disgusted with his elder brother’s military leadership that he’d had it in mind to relieve Louis of the burden of kingship. But even if the rumors were true, nothing had come of his seditious ambitions. Mayhap incompetence was in their blood, Henry thought uncharitably, and turned his attention to a more interesting member of the royal family, Raoul de Peronne, Count of Vermandois, seneschal of France, Louis’s cousin and brother-in-law, for the Church had finally agreed to recognize his adulterous marriage to Eleanor’s sister.
Raoul was much older than Henry had expected, well past fifty. His silvered hair was still abundant, he covered the loss of an eye with a jaunty leather patch, and he had an easy self-confidence that many a younger man might have envied. But Henry could not get past the fact that Raoul must be nigh on thirty years older than Petronilla. He’d long thought their reckless affair was foolhardy. Now that he’d met Raoul, it seemed even more incomprehensible to him. A young heiress with a sister on the French throne, rich lands in Burgundy, and her own considerable charms did not need to settle for scandal and a married, aging lover-and yet she had.
Geoffrey liked to say that if marrying for lust was foolish, marrying for love was madness. For his age, Henry had a fair amount of experience with lust, none yet with love, but he saw no reason to doubt his father’s jaded assessment of matrimony. He wondered if the impetuous, passionate Petronilla was in the hall, for he was looking forward to meeting her. And he wondered, too, if she and Raoul still thought it had all been worth it.
Standing at the rear of the dais, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, was a man Henry had met at his
