“You should, for I’ve known few men as shrewd or as astute as my father. It is not too much to say I owe him my kingship. It is true that my blood claim came from my mother, but if my father had not won Normandy at the point of a sword, I may not have been able to win the English crown. Because he did take Normandy and then turned it over to me, Stephen’s barons were forced to choose between their English and Norman estates, and his support began to bleed away.”
“At the very least, I doubt Maman would have agreed to wed you if you were not already Duke of Normandy and not merely the Count of Anjou’s heir,” Geoffrey said daringly, and was both pleased and relieved when Henry laughed.
“You’ve got my father’s sense of humor, too, lad. He always had a feel for the vitals.”
As far back as he could remember, Geoffrey had looked at his world with oddly dispassionate eyes; sometimes he felt as if he were watching someone else’s life. He knew that he was about to make a mistake, but he’d never before experienced a moment of emotional intimacy like this with his father, and he could not help himself. “You were not yet seventeen when he handed Normandy over to you.”
Henry stiffened, for he knew where this was going. “That ground has been ploughed over and over again, lad.”
“But I need to know, to understand. Your father could have held on to Normandy until you were of age, and few would have blamed him. Why can you not do the same for me and my brothers?”
“Because-” Henry broke off and shook his head. “Let it be, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey couldn’t. “Papa, I need to know!”
“Because-because I cannot trust you and your brothers the way my father could trust me!” The bitter words were no sooner out of Henry’s mouth than he wished he could call them back. “I did not want to say that,” he said at last, “but you kept pushing…”
“I wanted an honest answer,” Geoffrey said slowly, “and you gave me one. I’ve no cause for complaint.” But even as he sought to make light of it, he was shaken, for he’d recognized a truth that did not bode well for the future. The wound inflicted upon his father by their rebellion had not healed, would never heal. And that meant his father would never be willing to share power, not until he drew his last mortal breath.
Philippe’s relationship with his family and nobles continued to deteriorate, as more and more of his barons became alarmed at the influence wielded by the Count of Flanders. Philippe had announced plans to have his new queen crowned with him that June on Whitsunday. But Philip advised him to have the coronation performed earlier so that none could hinder it, and Philippe and Isabelle were secretly crowned by the Archbishop of Sens at the abbey of St-Denis on Ascension Day. As French kings were traditionally crowned only by the Archbishop of Rheims, Philippe’s uncle was outraged by the slight, and war seemed more and more likely until Henry persuaded the young French king and the count to meet him near Gisors in late June.
The day was hot and despite the shade offered by the tree known as the peace elm, the men were soon sweating. Henry found himself reminded of the many times he and Louis had assembled here in past years. It seemed strange to see Louis’s place taken by this fledgling. Philippe was still two months shy of his fifteenth birthday, still in that awkward gangling stage, his pallor hinting at his serious illness last summer, his face framed by a halo of tousled brown hair, bristling like a hedgehog’s quills. Henry could see little of Louis in the boy.
Henry’s patience was fast fraying, for he’d made what he considered a very fair offer, agreeing to make peace with Philippe upon the same terms that he and Louis had accepted three years earlier at Ivry. He knew he’d surprised them, for he was known to take ruthless advantage of an adversary’s weaknesses and Philippe’s vulnerabilities would have been obvious to a blind man. They were quite willing to avoid hostilities with England, but they were balking at one of his conditions-that Philippe reconcile with his mother, Queen Adele, and her brothers.
Philippe was letting Philip do most of the talking, but he was watching Henry intently, taking in every word, every gesture. Unlike his father, his face was not a window to his soul, and Henry noted approvingly that it was impossible to know what he was thinking, for that was a valuable skill in a king, one Hal had so far failed to master, much to his disappointment. Glancing up at the sun, he measured the passing time, and then said in an abrupt change of tone:
“I think it will be in all our interests if we speak frankly, cast aside the ambiguous, elusive language of statecraft. I need not point out, my lord Philippe, that you may be facing the Devil dogs of rebellion and war if an accommodation is not reached with me and your royal kinsmen. That would not be an auspicious way to begin your reign. And you take the risk that I may not always be feeling so benevolent. The time might well come when I can no longer resist the temptation to profit at the expense of your youth and family troubles.”
Philippe’s eyes flickered, but he showed no other reaction. Philip was scowling openly. “Is that meant as a threat?”
“A threat, a warning, call it what you will,” Henry said, and then, like the others, he was turning to watch the approaching riders. As they drew nearer, it became evident that one of them was a woman, and when Philippe’s face suddenly flamed with color, Henry hid a smile, knowing that the young king had recognized his mother. Sauntering over, he gallantly helped the French queen to dismount.
Adele of Blois had been only fifteen when she’d wed Louis, and twenty years later, she was still a strikingly handsome woman. Moving toward her son, she made a graceful curtsy. “My lord king.” And when she added, “My son,” Philippe no longer looked like the ruler of a great realm, more like an errant youngster whose sins were about to be made public.
“I thought it was time,” Henry said blandly, “for mother and son to talk face-to-face, without intermediaries or mediators.” Draping his arm around Philip’s shoulders, he suggested that they go for a walk in order to give the French king and queen some privacy. The Flemish count’s body was rigid, resistant, but Henry was not to be denied, and Philip reluctantly let himself be led away once he realized that it would take physical force to disengage the English king’s grip.
“Let’s get out of the sun,” Henry said amiably, “so we can talk candidly.” Moving into the shadows of a leafy willow tree, he leaned comfortably against the trunk as he regarded the Count of Flanders. “I cannot say I blame you, Cousin. A gyrfalcon coming across a newborn lamb alone and unprotected will want to make a meal of it. But once the gyrfalcon realizes that the flock’s ram is close at hand, it flies off in search of easier prey.”
“Very amusing,” Philip said coldly. “You are enjoying this.”
“Actually, I am. There are times when the exercise of power can be very gratifying, Philip.”
“I am Philippe’s godfather and, now, his uncle by marriage. That gives me the right to offer him advice and counsel and comfort.”
“Need I remind you that your mother and my father were sister and brother? That makes us first cousins, but that would hardly give me the right to meddle in Flemish affairs, would it?”
“I know what I can get from Philippe. What can I get from you, Cousin?”
“We once had an agreement under which I paid you a yearly fief-rent of one thousand pounds in return for the service of five hundred of your knights. I am willing to renew that agreement.”
Philip considered the offer. “Why should I settle for that when I can obtain so much more?”
“Enough about offers and profits and benefits, Cousin. Let’s speak instead of debts, of what is owed.” There was no longer any amusement in Henry’s voice. “For years you did all you could to estrange me from my eldest son. You owe me a blood debt, my lord count, but until now I have made no effort to collect it. You might want to think about that, think about it long and hard.”
Philip was ten years Henry’s junior, had effectively ruled Flanders since he was Philippe’s age. Renowned for his knightly prowess on the battlefield and in the tournament, he was not a man who was easily intimidated. But he was also a realist, one who’d always known when it was time to fish and time to cut bait.
Correctly interpreting his silence, Henry said, “I think we understand each other. Shall we go back and see how the family reunion is going?”
Emerging from the willow’s screen, they walked without speaking for several moments. They were soon close enough to see that Philippe and Adele had drawn apart from the others and were conferring quietly together, their faces earnest and intent. Seeing the last of his hopes fluttering away on the wind, Philip came to a sudden halt. “At least you can tell me why you are doing this for Louis’s son. I am entitled to that much.”
Henry had stopped, too. “Because,” he said, “there were none to do this for my sons.”
