accustomed to receiving from his father.
“I can understand that you are unhappy with me, Geoff,” he said, striving to sound apologetic even though he thought Geoffrey was being needlessly contentious. “I ought to have alerted you to what was coming. But I had no time, truly I did not. You know about my chapel quarrel with Richard. I had to find a way to deflect his accusations. As for ‘pushing our allies over the side,’ that is absurd. Richard already knew they were conniving against him. Nor did I mention any names.”
Geoffrey and Constance exchanged a meaningful glance, one that spoke volumes without a word being said. “Richard suspected they were conniving against him,” Geoffrey pointed out, “but he did not know for certes-not until you helpfully made a public confession. Do you truly think Aimar and the others will be pleased with the work you’ve done this day?”
Hal shrugged. “It does not matter whether they are pleased or not. They’ll still be keen to ally with me, for where else can they go?”
Geoffrey was silent for a moment. “I cannot decide,” he said slowly, “whether you’re a complete fool or an utter cynic.”
“Look, Geoff, we had to put Richard in the wrong. Well, I’ve done that and quite adroitly, I think. Now the pressure will be on him to yield that accursed castle. In all honesty, can you envision him doing that?”
Geoffrey was still frowning, but he had to shake his head at that. “No, I cannot,” he admitted.
“Exactly! And when he balks, we both know Papa’s temper will catch fire, as it always does when his will is thwarted. I’ve proven my good faith by confessing freely to my part in the plot. Now it will be up to Richard to prove his, and when he refuses, he’ll become the legitimate target for our father’s wrath. Once Papa is publicly defied like that, how likely is it that he’d go racing to Richard’s rescue?”
“Not likely,” Geoffrey had to agree. “You do make a plausible argument, I’ll grant you that.”
“Of course I do. I’d given this careful thought,” Hal insisted, apparently unaware he’d just contradicted his earlier claim-that he’d not had time to consult Geoffrey. “As for Aimar and the others, leave them to me. I’ll smooth their ruffled feathers easily enough.” Crossing to Constance’s side, he kissed her hand with a flourish, and departed with a jaunty bounce in his step, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.
It was quiet for a time after he’d gone. Constance was the first to break the silence. “You cannot ever trust that man, Geoffrey.”
“I know. But then I trust no one, darling.”
She arched a brow, but did not make the obvious response, the one that most women would have asked, and because she did not, he amended his statement. “Except for you, of course.”
“You’d have to say that,” she pointed out, and when their eyes met, they both laughed.
Richard had come in grudging answer to the king’s summons, but he was in no conciliatory mood, unable to understand how his father kept allowing himself to be taken in by Hal’s act. “You may as well save your breath,” he warned, “for I will not give Clairvaux up.”
Henry had been expecting just such a response. “Why did you decide to fortify the castle at Clairvaux?”
Richard was surprised by the reasonableness of that question. “It is not as clear-cut as Hal pretends it to be,” he said, less truculently. “Clairvaux was once part of Poitou. It is not as if I started building a castle in the heart of Angers.”
“I have a map of Anjou burned into my brain, know where Clairvaux is.” Henry’s tone was mild enough to take any sting from his words. “But why Clairvaux? Why do you think you need a castle there?”
It was not an accusation; Henry sounded as if he truly wanted to know. “The work at Clairvaux was not done with Hal in mind, at least not directly. Clairvaux is just six miles from Chatellerault, and as you know, Chatellerault controls the crossing of the Vienne on the Poitiers road.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully. “But the present Viscount of Chatellerault is your cousin; his father Hugh was Eleanor’s uncle.”
“And you think our shared blood will guarantee Guillaume’s loyalty? The way blood binds me and Hal?”
Henry acknowledged the accuracy of Richard’s thrust with a bleak smile. “So you have reason to doubt Guillaume’s fidelity. Fair enough. But would it not have made life easier for us all if you’d come to me first, explained why you wanted to fortify Clairvaux? As it is, you gave Hal the perfect excuse for heeding the siren songs of your malcontent barons.”
Richard had not expected his father to see that Clairvaux was as much a pretext as it was a grievance. “It would have been more prudent,” he conceded, and then flashed a sudden smile. “But prudence is not one of my more conspicuous virtues, is it?”
“No, I cannot say that it is,” Henry agreed dryly. But there were worse vices than a lack of prudence, far worse.
“You do not sound as if you hold me much to blame,” Richard said cautiously, for he had little experience with this evenhanded sort of justice; as far back as he could remember, his father had favored Hal.
“I do not. I am not saying you are an innocent, mind you. But your sins in no way justify what your brother has done.”
To Richard, that admission was sweet balm for a wound he’d never have acknowledged. They were standing by the fireplace, and he gazed for a time into the shivering, shooting flames. “But you still want me to give over Clairvaux.”
“Yes, Richard, I do.”
Richard almost said it was not fair. He did not want to sound like a spoiled, pampered lordling, though, did not want to sound like Hal. If his father’s maltreatment of their mother was his most grievous sin, crowning Hal was surely his most idiotic one. Bertran de Born had accompanied Richard to court, and the troubadour had been quick to lambaste Hal’s public confession, calling him the “King of Fools.” His mockery changed nothing, though. Hal was God’s Anointed, and Richard knew he had to deal with that, however little he liked it. Tonight he suspected that his father did not much like it, either, and there was some comfort in that realization, for much of his resentment had been fueled by Henry’s failure to see Hal as Richard saw him.
“I will never turn it over to Hal,” he warned, and Henry nodded.
“I would not ask that of you, promise to keep it in my hands. I will even consult with you ere I choose a castellan.”
“Well, I trust you more than Hal,” Richard said, a joke that was too bitter for humor. “But if I surrender Clairvaux-even to you-Hal wins.”
“Does he?” Henry asked blandly, and his son looked at him with an emotion that he’d rarely felt for his father, one of reluctant admiration. Papa was right. What pleasure would Hal take from a “win” like that? Without Clairvaux, he’d have no pretense for further plotting. The more Richard thought about it, the more he could see the irony of such a solution. He’d still have to sacrifice some pride, and that would not be easy. But the look on Hal’s face when he understood he’d been outfoxed might well be worth it.
“I’ll give it over to you-and only to you. But you’re just putting a bandage upon a festering belly wound, Papa, and I think you know that.”
Henry did, but he was not yet willing to admit it, not even to himself. “For now,” he said wearily, “I’ll be content enough if I can stop the bleeding.”
Henry knew that the surrender of Clairvaux was a temporary solution to a problem that threatened not only the peace of his realm but even the survival of his empire. He’d always envisioned a federation of loosely linked self-governing states, with Hal reigning over England, Normandy, and Anjou, Richard over Aquitaine, and Geoffrey over Brittany, each one following the customs of his own domains, but bound by a common interest, a mutual commitment to a dynasty capable of dominating all the great Houses of Europe. This was to be his legacy. But in those early days of January, he was forced to face a troubling truth-that upon his death, his sons might well turn upon one another, tearing apart all that he’d labored and fought for and attracting a multitude of enemies drawn by the scent of blood.
This was the greatest threat he’d ever faced, for it came from within. But, as was his way, once he acknowledged the problem, he set about finding a means to resolve it. One of his greatest strengths had always been his ability to remain dispassionate; only in his clash with Thomas Becket had that ability failed him, with tragic consequences. Now, though, he found himself caught up in the same sort of emotional turmoil, unable to judge his
