“You are right. But God help you, for you are also sounding like a man smitten,” Geoffrey joked. “There is another matter we ought to talk about, though. You were eighteen last March, and if memory serves me, Eleanor turned twenty-nine this summer. Are you comfortable with so great an age difference?”
Henry shrugged. “Ten years, five months-not so vast a gap. If my memory serves, Mama is eleven and a half years older than you!”
“Yes, and we’ve had twenty-three years of wedded bliss and marital joy,” Geoffrey said, with a tight smile, too much rancor for humor.
Henry was quiet for a moment, not wanting to hurt his father by pointing out the obvious, that Maude had never wanted to marry Geoffrey, whereas he was very sure, indeed, that Eleanor wanted to marry him. “It does not trouble me, Papa, truly not,” he assured his father. “She is still young enough to bear children and that is what counts. I have no doubt that she’ll give me sons. She has been unfairly blamed for failing to bear Louis an heir, for you said yourself that he shied away from their marriage bed. Believe me, that is not a problem she’ll ever have with me!”
“No, with you, I’d say the problem will be getting you out of her bed, not into it!”
“Papa…I am sensing some misgivings on your part. Are you just playing the Devil’s advocate or do you truly have qualms about this marriage?”
Geoffrey did not respond as Henry hoped, with a hearty denial. Staring down into the dregs of his wine cup, he said, “Not qualms, lad, not exactly. I want you to be King of England, and your prospects will be greatly enhanced by marriage to Eleanor. I am pleased for you, God’s Truth. I just wish you were not so taken with the woman herself.”
“Why ever not? I think it is my great, good fortune that I shall have a wife I find so desirable. Not only is she beautiful, but she is clever and witty and educated, bred to be a queen. How lucky can I get?”
“I am going to give you some more advice, Harry, that I do not expect you to take. Save your passion for your concubines, your respect for your wife. The best marriages are those based upon detached goodwill or benign indifference. But unfortunately for you, the one emotion you will never feel for Eleanor of Aquitaine is indifference.”
“Jesu, I would hope not! Papa, I know you mean well. But miserable marriages are not passed down from father to son like hair color or height. It is no secret that you and Mama made mistakes. But why should I not learn from them rather than repeat them?”
“Why not, indeed?” Geoffrey conceded. “I hope you do, lad. God knows, I hope you do.”
This was not a conversation Henry had expected to have with his father; he’d thought Maude would be the one to harbor doubts. He was both amused and irked that Geoffrey should be so protective, for his wariness reflected poorly upon Eleanor.
“Papa, you need not worry about this marriage. I have always known that one day I would rule over England. I have never doubted that. And I am just as sure now that Eleanor is the woman meant to rule with me. I know in my heart that it is so, I swear I do.”
“I’d say the body part you’re heeding at the moment is not your heart,” Geoffrey drawled and then laughed abruptly. “Do not mind me, Harry. I am right proud of you, and who knows, mayhap even a little envious! Congratulations, lad, you’ve captured a queen.”
And in that moment, the full wonder of it hit Henry, too. “Yes,” he said jubilantly, “I did!” Laughing, he raised his wine cup high. “To Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, Queen of France, and-one day-Queen of England.”
48
Le Mans, France
September 1151
The sudden concessions by the Angevins astonished the French court. Such a dramatic volte-face was bound to stir up speculation, but the French king accepted it as Divine Intervention. So did Abbot Bernard, who felt grimly gratified that he’d been able to instill the Fear of God in so great a sinner as the arrogant Count of Anjou. Giraud Berlai did not care what had motivated Geoffrey’s change of heart; he was just hysterically happy not to be going back to the Angers dungeon. And so the contentious peace talks came to an unexpected and gainful end. Geoffrey was restored to the Church once Berlai was set free. Henry did homage to the French king for his duchy, while Eustace’s spies looked on glumly, and Eleanor watched with a secret smile.
Henry and Geoffrey then rode west into Maine. Upon reaching Le Mans, they parted company, Henry remaining in the city while Geoffrey pushed on for Tours and then Angers. They had much to do and less than a fortnight in which to get it done, for a summons must be sent out to the barons of Anjou and Maine and Normandy, bidding them to appear at Lisieux on September 14th. Henry could now direct all his energies and efforts toward recovering his mother’s stolen crown. The time was ripe to plan a full-scale invasion of England.
Henry was a light sleeper and awakened as footsteps approached his bed. The chamber was still filled with night-shadows, but the figure bending over him was holding a candle, revealing a face that was youthful, troubled, and familiar. “Ivo?”
The squire jumped and splashed hot wax onto Henry’s pillow. “I am so sorry, my lord! I thought you still slept.”
“I was-until you woke me up.” With an effort, Henry stifled his irritation; Ivo’s tongue-tied shyness could be a trial, but he was a good lad. “You must have a reason for hovering by my bed in the middle of the night,” he prompted. “So…what is it?”
“It is nigh on toward dawn,” Ivo mumbled, and Henry’s patience started to unravel. Ivo fidgeted, splattering some wax upon himself this time, and Henry began to realize that there was more to the boy’s reticence than his usual bashful diffidence.
“Ivo, what are you so loath to tell me? What is wrong?”
The boy continued to squirm. When he finally met Henry’s eyes, Henry was chilled by what he saw in them- anguished pity. “My lord, it is your father. He…has been taken sick.”
Henry felt a rush of relief. Youth and optimism usually went hand in hand, but Ivo was an exception, so anxiety-ridden that he not only expected the worst, he actively courted it, invariably turning a cough into consumption, a scratch into a festering wound, a growling dog into a rabid wolf. “I saw my father just three days ago, Ivo, and he was fine. Now what is this all about?”
“A man has ridden in, my lord, insisting that we let him speak to you straightaway. He says you must come back with him to Chateau-du-Loir, that Lord Geoffrey wants to see you ere…” The boy faltered, gulped, and fell miserably silent.
“This is crazy! Why is my father at Chateau-du-Loir? That is barely twenty miles from here and he left Le Mans on Tuesday-”
“He got no farther than Chateau-du-Loir, for he fell ill that same night.” The voice came from the doorway, and as the man stepped forward, Henry recognized one of his father’s household knights. “The lad is telling you true, my lord Henry. The count is in a bad way, and asking for you.”
“This makes no sense. How could he fall sick so fast?” Swinging out of bed, Henry grabbed for whatever clothes he could find. “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice muffled within the folds of his tunic. “Tell me what happened.”
“We reached the castle in late afternoon, and it was so hot that he decided to take a swim in the river. But that night he was stricken with chills and fever, and he did not feel well enough the next morning to continue on to Tours. None of us thought his ailment was serious, my lord, he least of all. But he got worse yesterday, bad enough to send for a doctor, and then, to fetch you.” His eyes were hollow, his fatigue showing plainly, and something far more frightening to Henry-despair. “I rode all night…”
By now Henry was half dressed, reaching for the boots Ivo was holding out. “What does the doctor say?”
The man looked away. “He is dying, my lord.”
Henry stared at him. “I do not believe you,” he said roughly. “I do not believe you!”
As they galloped south, Henry was oblivious to the dust and late-summer heat, equally unmindful of the
