curious stares of other travelers and the commiserating glances of his companions. His thoughts were racing ahead, toward the man lying at Chateau-du-Loir. Geoffrey had just celebrated his thirty-eighth birthday during their stay in Paris. He was in robust health. How could he be dying?
Henry set such a breakneck pace that his escort was hard pressed to keep up, and by the time Chateau-du- Loir came into view, their horses were well lathered and the men soaked in sweat. There was no challenge; the drawbridge was already lowering to admit them. As they rode into the inner bailey, two men hastened out to intercept them. Henry knew them both: Thomas de Loches, his father’s chaplain and chancellor, and Jocelyn de Tours, his seneschal and longtime friend. Familiar faces, but contorted and ravaged now by grief.
Henry’s stallion shied away as they approached, pawing at the dry, cracked earth, but Henry made no effort to rein the animal in. He sat frozen in the saddle, his hand clenched on the leather pommel, for as long as he did not dismount, they could not tell him that he was too late and his father was dead.
Shock hits men in different ways. It muted the gregarious Jocelyn de Tours, but the normally taciturn Thomas de Loches was suddenly voluble, compelled to give Henry every detail of his father’s last three days, assuring him repeatedly that the doctor had done all he could. His words swirled about Henry like drifting leaves; every now and then he was able to catch one, but most floated down out of reach. His father had died within the hour. That was all he could think about as they entered the stairwell that led up to Geoffrey’s bedchamber-that he was just an hour too late.
His steps flagged as they drew near the door. But the priest forged ahead, and he had no choice but to follow. The chamber was shuttered against the September sunlight; candles flickered wanly upon the table. Henry had yet to look toward his bed. “Was…was he shriven?”
The priest seemed to take that as a personal reproach. “Of course he was! I heard his confession myself, absolved him of his earthly sins, and put the Body and Blood of Christ upon his tongue. He went to His Maker in a state of grace, you may be sure.”
“Was he in his senses?”
The chaplain nodded. “He knew he was dying, and his thoughts were for you. He made us all swear that we would acknowledge you as his lawful heir. To you, he bequeathed Anjou and Maine, and to his son Geoffrey, the castles of Chinon, Loudun, and Mirebeau. He urged you not to rule one province by the customs of another; each domain must be allowed its own identity, be it Normandy, Anjou, or England. When my lord Jocelyn praised him for bringing peace to Anjou and winning Normandy, he said…he said that you were his greatest success and his only regret was that he’d not live to see you crowned as King of England.”
Jocelyn de Tours smiled sadly. “Actually, he called it ‘that godforsaken isle,’ for he never did have much regard for England or the English, did he? But that was only one of his regrets. He also said-”
“Nothing of importance,” the priest cut in hastily. “My lord Henry…have you any questions?”
Henry shook his head, his mouth too dry for speech. But when they would have withdrawn, he reached out and caught Jocelyn’s sleeve. Neither spoke for several moments, the Angevin baron offering Henry what he most needed just then: silent sympathy. Jocelyn watched Henry glance toward the bed and then away, the muscles in his throat tightening convulsively. “What else, Jocelyn? What did the chaplain not want me to hear?”
“Thomas speaks fluent French and Latin and Provencal, but bless him, humor remains an alien tongue. He was not trying to keep anything from you, Harry. He just thought it unseemly that Geoffrey should be joking on his deathbed. But that is what I’d rather remember, and I suspect you will, too, lad. What vexed him the most about dying, he said, was the wretched timing of it, that the sainted Bernard should now get to claim the credit!”
Jocelyn was smiling through tears. When he looked into Henry’s face, he clasped the youth’s shoulder in a gesture of wordless and futile comfort, then retreated quickly.
Henry did not move until the door closed. Approaching the bed with a leaden step, he stood staring down at his father’s body. The doctor had done his work well, and Geoffrey’s features were composed, his hands folded peacefully on his chest, a rosary loosely entwined around his fingers. His skin had a waxen cast, and his lips were pale, but his body had not yet begun to stiffen, and it was possible for Henry to imagine that he was merely asleep, that at any moment, he’d open an eye and wink.
But it was no practical joke and only the Abbot Bernard would be laughing. Henry reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing back the hair falling across Geoffrey’s forehead. The skin still felt warm to the touch and he backed away. After a moment, he sank to his knees beside the bed. He did not pray, though. He wept.
Geoffrey le Bel was buried, at his request, in the cathedral church of St Julien in his mother’s city of Le Mans, where he’d long ago wed the Empress Maude and where his eldest son had been born. After the funeral, Henry had no time to mourn. Riding for Angers, he claimed his legacy, accepting the homage of his Angevin vassals as the new Count of Anjou and Maine.
A brisk October wind was sweeping through the priory of Notre-Dame-du-Pre, sending clouds scudding across the twilit sky and stripping the trees bare in a foretaste of winter. Heedless of the chill, Maude was standing in the doorway, wrapping her arms around herself to stop from shivering as she watched her sons dismounting in the priory garth.
It took a while for them to get their men settled, their horses led off to the priory stables. Eventually, though, Maude was able to usher them inside, toward the hearth.
“Are you hungry? I can send to the kitchen for food…” Her offer was met with shrugs and silence. They looked exhausted, numbed and overwhelmed by the magnitude of their loss, all the more devastating because it had been as sudden as an amputation. The sight of their grieving tore at Maude’s heart. She would have given anything to be able to stanch their bleeding, but she did not know how. The ground she’d gained in these past three years was strewn again with pitfalls and snares, and Maude, the bravest of the brave, now found herself so afraid of making a misstep that she dared not move at all.
“Tell me about the funeral,” she said at last. “Did it go as planned?”
Henry nodded, slumping down in a chair close to the hearth. She’d rarely seen him look so listless, drained of his usual exuberance and energy. Maude knew he’d been accustomed since early youth to shouldering a man’s responsibilities. But she felt that burying his father was one burden too many. She’d have spared him that if she could, but she’d not been consulted. He’d taken it all upon himself, and she could see the cost now in the distance reflected in his eyes.
Will’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he was blinking so rapidly that he felt the need for a mumbled complaint about the smoky hearth. “It was a fine funeral, Mama,” he said and flushed when his voice cracked; he was fifteen now and had hoped that he’d outgrown that particular indignity. “We buried Papa in front of the High Altar, and Harry ordered a splendid tomb. Papa’s chancellor chose the epitaph, though. ‘By your sword, O Prince, the crowd of robbers is put to flight, peace flourishes, and churches enjoy tranquillity.’”
Will cast an oblique glance toward his eldest brother, then confided. “Harry says that if the fever had not killed Papa, he’d have died laughing at that epitaph. But I like it. What about you, Mama? What do you think?”
Maude hesitated, groping for a tactful response. But Geoff forestalled her. He’d yet to take off his mantle, and had been stalking about the chamber, giving off almost as much heat as the hearth. “Why ask her, Will?” he jeered. “The only epitaph she’d have favored would have been one that said, ‘Hallelujah-dead at last!’”
Maude gasped, for this resentful seventeen-year-old youth had the power to wound her as none of her enemies ever could. Will looked stricken, and Henry dangerously dispassionate, a sure sign that his temper was about to erupt. Their disapproval only made Geoff all the more defiant. “I am just saying what the whole world knows,” he insisted. “You hated Papa, and never made any secret of it. You can pretend now that you were not glad to hear he’d died, but what fool would believe-”
“Shut your mouth, Geoff!”
“You keep out of this, Harry! You may be Mama’s pet, but I take no orders from you!”
“Yes,” Henry said icily, “you do,” and Geoff discovered that running headlong into reality hurt far worse than any of the bruises and scrapes of boyhood mishaps. He could not remember a time when he’d not been jealous of his elder brother. It had gnawed away at him, that Harry was the heir, the firstborn, the favored one, that someday he would inherit it all-the lands, the titles, the power. Someday. Far in the future. Not now. Harry was not supposed to have it so soon. It was not fair. None of it was fair. Papa was dead, and he’d not even gotten to say farewell. Mama would now play the grieving widow. And Harry…his vexing, insufferable, boastful brother Harry was now his liege lord. It had happened in Angers. He’d gone from rival to vassal as he’d watched Harry being invested as Count of Anjou and Maine. But it was not until tonight that he had fully understood all the implications of that ceremony, and the realization was more bitter than he could bear.
