Richard had leaped onto the dais, was telling Hal in no uncertain terms exactly what he could do with those holy relics, and if his suggestion was anatomically impossible, it was nonetheless an eloquent declaration of his mood at the moment. By then Henry had reached them and, as Richard cursed his brother to Hell for all eternity, he grabbed Hal in a grip that would leave bruises. “Have you lost your bloody mind? Come with me-now!”
Hal was not pleased to have his dignity disparaged like this, but Henry’s fingers had clamped onto his wrist like talons, and he decided against attempting to break free, not wanting to be seen physically brawling with his father in public. As Henry pulled Hal toward the stairwell, Richard turned on his heel and made a dramatic departure, slamming out of the hall as people scattered out of his way and his men made haste to follow.
Constance moved to Geoffrey’s side with a low, throaty “well done” meant only for his ears. They were soon joined by several of the bishops, and when they entreated him to act as peacemaker between Henry and Hal, he graciously agreed to do what he could in the interest of family harmony.
As he mounted the steps, Geoffrey could hear the yelling, only slightly muffled by the closed door. Entering without knocking, he found his father and brother glaring at each other, both shouting at once, neither listening. Geoffrey closed the door, and then leaned back against it to watch. Henry was as angry as he’d ever seen him, giving off as much heat as a flaming torch, berating Hal bitterly for his lunacy, his irresponsible, selfish blundering, saying all that he’d kept bottled up for years. Hal was more in control, but he was angry, too, defending himself by casting as much blame as possible upon Richard.
His chest heaving, his blood pounding in his ears, Henry at last exhausted even his hoard of invectives. Once his rage no longer burned so hotly, his suspicions began to flare up. “With that insulting demand, you alienated Richard to the point where he’s not likely to ever agree to do homage again. Is that what you had in mind, Hal-to cripple my efforts to make peace between you?”
“Of course not!” Hal exclaimed indignantly, and Geoffrey decided it was time to intervene, not wanting to give their father a chance to dwell upon those suspicions.
“Hal is not alone in his mistrust of Richard, Papa,” he said, moving to step between them. “I share it, too. I daresay you do not want to hear this, but we know Richard better than you do, and he has given us reason, time and time again, to doubt his good will, to suspect his good faith. Hal’s method may have been lacking in subtlety, but he was only trying to protect himself, hoping that a sacred oath might be more binding upon Richard than the one he intended to make.”
Henry was inclined to give Geoffrey more credence at that moment than Hal. But their treacherous, ravening Richard did not resemble the man he’d bargained with last night. “Whatever your suspicions, Hal, you could not have handled it worse. I am not even sure I can repair the damage you’ve done this day.”
When Hal would have argued further, Henry cut him short. “We’ve said enough,” he said curtly. “Better that we discuss this later, once our tempers have had time to cool.” And turning away, he left the chamber, left them alone together, hoping that Geoffrey might be able to convince Hal that compromise was an important aspect of statecraft. He’d spoken the truth when he’d confessed that he did not know if Richard could be placated, knew only that he dreaded trying. Could he truly blame Richard if he suspected collusion, if he’d concluded that he’d been led into an ambush?
Retreating to his own chamber, he pondered the best way to heal this ugly breach between his sons. He could think of only one way to convince Richard of his good faith, and while it would not be easy for him to do, his son had spoken true yesterday. They had to trust each other. If he still held to his part of the bargain and ordered Eleanor’s release, that should convince Richard that he’d known nothing of Hal’s duplicity.
Deciding that once again he must be the one to come to Richard, he rose tiredly from the bed, limping slightly for his bad leg was sensitive to wet weather. The bailey was muddy, but at least the rain had eased up. Catching sight of his steward, he called the man over; it might be best to avoid any surprises, to give Richard warning that he was on his way. When he instructed the man to carry this message to his son, though, the steward flushed in dismay.
“I am sorry, my liege,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at Henry’s face. “I thought sure someone would have told you…The lord duke is gone. He and his men rode out immediately after the…the altercation in the hall. He did not even take the time to pack, left his clothes behind in his chamber.”
Hal escorted Marguerite to her mare, assisted her to mount. She was pale, but her eyes were dry. She’d shed her tears already in the privacy of their bedchamber as she’d argued against being sent to her brother’s court in Paris. She did not want to go. She could not counter Hal’s contention that it was too dangerous for her to remain as long as war might be looming. She’d had no answer for him when he’d reminded her how she’d been caught by Henry at Poitiers and held in honorable confinement for several months. She still did not want to go, for she did not trust Hal’s protestations of innocence. She suspected that he was still conspiring with the rebel lords against Richard, and she had a terrifying premonition that if they were parted now, she might never see him again.
He’d laughed away her fears, assuring her that she had no cause for concern, that even if Richard forced a war, he’d be in no danger. Holding her hand in his, he pressed a kiss into her palm and promised that he’d soon join her in Paris. She mustered up a brave, farewell smile, trying very hard to believe him.
Constance was no happier than Marguerite. She’d quarreled with Geoffrey for days, to no avail, for he was stubbornly set upon having her accompany Marguerite to Paris. She’d preferred to return to Rennes, but he insisted that she’d be safer in France in the event the war went badly for them. She’d finally stopped arguing, although she had no intention of humoring him. Once they were well away from Angers, she meant to inform her escort that there’d been a change of plans and they’d be heading back to Brittany.
Standing in the castle bailey with Geoffrey, she found herself reluctant to mount her mare, reluctant to leave. She realized that her reluctance was illogical; she could not very well ride to war with him. Yet she continued to linger, delaying her departure with needless questions and last-minute admonitions. It was disconcerting to recognize the real reason for her disquiet-fear for his safety. She was not accustomed to worrying about someone else’s welfare, and did not like the sensation in the least. Nor did she want to sound foolish by urging him to take care. Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss that was not at all wifely, breathing in his ear a promise to celebrate his victory with a game of the novice nun and the lecherous monk.
Geoffrey laughed, said with an incentive like that, how could he possibly lose, and helped her up into the saddle. Henry had come out to bid his daughters-in-law a safe journey, and he joined Geoffrey as the women’s escort mounted and they headed off. Hal went back indoors, but Geoffrey remained in the bailey to watch their departure.
So did Henry. He looked drawn and tired, for he’d not been sleeping well. He’d sent an urgent message after Richard, but so far there’d been no reply. He knew, though, that Richard would have to come to Mirebeau for the peace conference with the rebels of Poitou and the Limousin, and he hoped, then, that he’d be able to give Richard the reassurances he clearly needed. How he would reconcile Richard and Hal, he did not yet know, but he told himself that he could only take one step at a time. For now, he had to concentrate upon making peace between Richard and his defiant barons, and with that in mind, he drew Geoffrey aside.
“I want you to go to Limoges on my behalf. Do whatever it takes, but convince Viscount Aimar and the others that they must meet with me at Mirebeau. Assure them that I will hear their grievances and Richard and I will work out some sort of accord. Can you do that for me, Geoffrey?”
His son looked startled, but then he smiled. “I can do that,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
January 1183
Angers, Anjou
Henry walked to the hearth and thrust a parchment into the fire, wrinkling his nose as an acrid smell of burning sheepskin filled the chamber. When he’d been unable to dictate the letter to his scribe, he’d dismissed the man and tried to write it himself, to no avail. The words just would not come. How could he tell Eleanor that the curse of Cain had afflicted their two eldest sons? He wanted to believe that he’d be able to patch up a peace between Hal and Richard, but for once his innate optimism and boundless self-confidence were guttering like candles in the wind. The survival of his empire had been predicated upon the premise of family solidarity. He’d
