cheerful scene, shutters barred against the storm, a hungry fire in the hearth. Henry’s Christmas Court had drawn princes of the Church, barons and their ladies, and more than a thousand knights. The gathering in the solar was an informal one, though, for Henry was determined to spend some time with his family in as much privacy as a king could reasonably expect.
Richard was due to arrive any day, but the others were all present: Tilda and her husband, Geoffrey and Constance, Hal and Marguerite. If any thoughts were spared for Eleanor, the ghost at the feast, they were not expressed aloud and Henry was in a mellow mood, delighted to have his daughter back, relieved to have lured Hal away from the Paris court and his too-helpful young brother-in-law. It was one more worry for Henry that the seventeen-year-old French king had begun to show greater steadiness of purpose and will than Hal, who was fully ten years Philippe’s elder.
Tilda was comfortably ensconced on the settle, with her father on one side and her husband on the other. Hal and Marguerite were together in a window-seat and Constance was seated in a high-backed chair, with Geoffrey lounging on cushions at her feet. Henry’s grandchildren had just been ushered out of the solar, reluctantly sent off to their beds, and the echoes of their carefree laughter seemed to linger pleasantly in the air. Marveling at the resilience of the very young, who were able to take even exile in stride, Henry found himself hoping that their stay at his court would be an extended one. It had been a long time since he’d been able to enjoy the simple pleasures of parenthood.
“Have you talked to Richenza about a name change?” he asked his daughter and Tilda gave him a shy, sideways smile.
“Yes, Papa, we have. We explained that Richenza is a foreign-sounding name to Norman or English ears and highborn brides often take names more familiar to their husbands’ subjects, like my sister Leonora. Richenza seemed comfortable enough with the idea, but wanted to choose her own name. Fortunately, she does not have Joanna’s fertile imagination, and she decided she’d like to be called Matilda, after me.”
Henry was pleased that his mother’s name was being kept alive in a new generation; Matilda was the Latin form of Maude. Hal and Marguerite expressed their approval of Richenza’s new name, but Constance mused aloud whether Richenza’s brother Otto would change his foreign-sounding name, too, and Henry gave his daughter-in-law a tight smile, sure that she was amusing herself at his expense. He was very fond of Marguerite and he’d done his best to like Constance, too, but she did not make it easy, putting him in mind of Eleanor on her worst behavior. She was adept at delivering pinprick wounds with a smile, planting her barbs with a specious air of innocence. He was not going to let his son’s caustic wife ruin the Christmas revelries, though. He could only hope that Geoffrey thought Brittany was worth her peevish tempers.
He’d begun to question Tilda and Heinrich about the son they’d had to leave in Brunswick when a servant entered with welcome word: his son Richard had just ridden into the castle bailey. Richard made his appearance soon afterward, for he’d not bothered to change from his travel clothes and his boots were still caked with mud. He greeted his father and Heinrich with rather formal courtesy, kissed his sister on the cheek, and gave courtly kisses to his sisters-in-law. But he acknowledged his brothers with a flat, toneless “Hal” and “Geoffrey,” greetings they returned with equal terseness, the tension so palpable that even Henry, blind believer in family unity, could not help noticing.
He had no time to fret about it, though, for Richard at once revealed what was on his mind. “I do not understand,” he said, “why my mother was excluded from the Christmas festivities.”
Henry stiffened. These arguments about Eleanor had been occurring with more and more frequency, but this was the first time that Richard had thrown down the gauntlet before others. His son did not even wait for his response, saying curtly, “You know how much she wants to see Tilda and her grandchildren. How can you justify keeping her away?”
Henry was sorely tempted to remind his troublesome son that he did not have to justify himself to anyone, one of the prerogatives of kingship. But because he wanted to extinguish this quarrel as quickly as possible, he said only, “It is neither the time nor the place for this discussion, Richard.”
Richard would not be distracted, though, knowing his father was a past master at such evasive tactics. Instead, he sought allies and turned toward his sister. “Tilda has not seen our mother in fifteen years. You think she was not disappointed by this arbitrary decision of yours?”
Tilda’s husband closed his hand over hers, giving a warning squeeze. She understood his concern; her father had been extremely generous to them, providing a lavish allowance while continuing his efforts to shorten the length of their exile. But Richard was right; she wanted to see her mother very much, and her father’s vague promises had done little to fill that void.
“I admit I am eager for Maman to meet your grandchildren, Papa,” she ventured, in a vain attempt to satisfy her husband, her father, and her own conscience.
“And it shall happen, Tilda,” Henry said, in a much softer tone of voice than he’d used with Richard. “I promised you that we will arrange for your return to England this spring, at which time you may visit with your mother to your heart’s content.” Still smarting over Richard’s “arbitrary” accusation, he regarded his son coolly. “You seem to have forgotten how perilous Channel crossings can be. Even in good weather, it is dangerous. It’s less than seven years since your brother Hal’s chamberlain and three hundred souls drowned when their ship went down off the French coast. Did you truly want your mother to risk a crossing in December, of all months?”
Richard started to speak, stopped himself, and Henry felt a satisfying moment of triumph, for even this stubborn son of his could not refute the truth. December crossings were dangerous, and they all knew it. But it was then that Constance chose to dip her oar into troubled waters, saying in the painstakingly polite tones of one earnestly seeking information, “But ought that not to have been a decision for the queen to make? She may have considered the risk worth taking.”
Henry drew upon a lifetime of self-control to say calmly to his daughter-in-law, “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, my dear, but this is not truly your concern, is it?”
Constance always knew when a strategic retreat was called for, and she withdrew from the field. But Henry’s rebuke now drew Geoffrey into the fray. “Surely you’d agree that it is my concern, Papa. I am no happier about Maman’s absence than Richard. And my wife is right-you should have offered her the choice.”
“Whether that be true or not, the fact remains that it is done and cannot be undone. I do not see any point, therefore, in continuing this discussion.”
“I expected you to say that.” Richard strode forward, stopping in front of his father. “And you’re right. It is too late to redeem my mother’s Christmas. But the time is past due to discuss her continuing confinement. She is about to begin her tenth year as your prisoner, and for what reason?”
Henry got to his feet, not liking the way Richard loomed over him when he was seated. “Enough, Richard. Let it be.”
“You’ve forgiven all the others who took part in the rebellion. You welcomed that French fool Louis to Canterbury, whilst knowing that he bore as much blame as anyone for the revolt. You pardoned the rebel lords, even that dolt Leicester, a man who drew his sword upon you, for Christ’s sake! You ought to have sent the bastard to the block, but instead you restored his lands. The only one who continues to suffer for her past sins is my mother, and I want to know why. I want you to tell me here and now why you refuse to set her free!”
“I’d be interested in hearing that answer myself,” Geoffrey interjected, and Hal now chimed in, too, saying that he also wanted to know.
Henry looked from one to the other, saw that they were all allied against him in this, and that knowledge was as bitter as gall. “I told you once before that I would not discuss my wife with you, Richard, and nothing has changed. I would suggest that you apologize to your sister for your bad manners and that for the remainder of the Christmas Court, you remember this. If you will not accord me the respect due your father, then by God, you’ll give it to your king. Now this conversation is done, and I’ll say no more on it.”
For a long moment, he stared down his sons, daring them to protest. They did not, but their silence was shrouded in hostility and he knew it. Bidding good night to Tilda, Heinrich, and Marguerite, he left the solar without looking back.
By the time Henry reached the bottom of the stairwell, he’d still not decided whether he’d return to the great hall or withdraw to his own chamber. But when he opened the door, he came to a halt, for the storm had intensified and rain was coming down sideways. He’d left his mantle behind in the solar and, after his dramatic departure, he did not want to go back for it. Sheltered from the worst of the wind, he gazed out across the deserted bailey, thinking that this bleak sight was a good match for his mood.
