Glancing up from the letter, Eleanor said, “My daughter writes that Viscount Aimar surrendered his castle a fortnight ago. Harry razed it to the ground and Aimar was compelled to forswear further revolts, but Tilda thinks he got off lightly. The other rebels have gone to ground, too.” For a moment, her eyes held Maud’s and the same thought was in both their minds: that the rebellion had died when Hal drew his last breath. Eleanor swallowed with a visible effort and lowered her gaze to the letter. But then she stiffened in disbelief. “God in Heaven!”
When she looked up again, she was shaking her head in amazement. “Tilda says that as Will Marshal and Hal’s knights carried his bier north, crowds gathered by the roadside to watch, weeping and mourning. A leper and a woman suffering from hemorrhages claimed to be cured after touching his bier.” They were equally astonished, and she held up her hand to forestall questions. “Wait, there is more. When the funeral cortege halted at the monastery of St Savin, people said they could see a beam of light shining down upon the church. And as they approached Le Mans, a cross was seen in the sky and another beam of light enveloped the bier. The citizens of Le Mans were convinced they’d seen a miracle, and they seized Hal’s body, insisting that he be buried in their city. Will and the knights protested, to no avail, and he was interred in their cathedral next to Harry’s father.”
The other women were dumbfounded. Naturally they believed in saints and miracles, but neither one could envision Hal as a saint. Could they say so forthrightly, though, to his mother?
Eleanor had resumed reading, continuing to shake her head at the contents of the letter. “Tilda says the townspeople of Rouen were outraged, threatening war with Le Mans if Hal’s body were not re-interred and buried in their cathedral as he wished, and to keep the peace, Harry has had to order it done.” Looking up, she said with a sad smile, “Hal would have been amused by the furor, and even more amused to hear himself proclaimed a saint. His ambitions never rose higher than a kingship.”
Amaria was emboldened to confess that she did not understand any of it. She got her answer from Maud as the countess said dryly, “Saints are valuable commodities, Dame Amaria. Holy relics attract pilgrims. And saints are even more useful for political purposes. Cousin Harry could contend with his rebellious archbishop, but he had no chance whatsoever against the Holy Martyr.”
Turning her attention again to the letter, Eleanor drew a hissing breath. “Do you remember the Archdeacon of Welles, Maud? Harry sent him to me with word of Hal’s death, knowing that he had always been sympathetic to my plight. It seems the good archdeacon is one of those promoting Hal’s sanctity. According to him, I already knew of my son’s death, for I’d had a dream in which he wore two crowns, and I told Archdeacon Thomas that these dual crowns could only mean eternal bliss and everlasting joy. The archdeacon has been commending me in his sermons for ‘fathoming the mystery’ of my dream and for accepting Hal’s death with such discernment and strength.”
Amaria was now thoroughly confused, but not Maud, who said with a frown, “You’d best write to Harry and assure him that the archdeacon has a vivid imagination. If you wish, I will write to him, too, and tell him that I was present when you first learned of the archdeacon’s claims.”
“That is not needed, Maud, but I thank you. Harry will know without being told that I would not have said this.” Seeing Amaria’s bewilderment, Eleanor said, with a thin smile, “Harry’s foes learned well from Archbishop Thomas’s martyrdom. If they can convince people that Hal was a saint, that puts Harry in a very poor light, indeed. And whilst I admit that there have been times when that would have given me great satisfaction, if Harry is tarnished by this…this foolishness, then so is Richard. And Harry knows I would do nothing to undermine Richard’s authority in Aquitaine.” He has enough troubles there as it is. But this thought remained unspoken, for not even to Maud would Eleanor confess her misgivings about her second son’s heavy-handed rule over the turbulent, defiant barons of her duchy.
Going back to her daughter’s letter, she smiled again, only this one was genuine. “At last, some good news! Tilda says that Geoffrey has been summoned to meet Harry and Richard at Angers. God Willing, we can restore family harmony, although how long it will last…”
Maud was surprised that Eleanor seemed so eager to see Geoffrey forgiven, for she’d assumed that the queen would have been very wroth with him for the part he’d played in the assault upon her favorite son. Striving for tact, she said, “You bear Geoffrey no grudge, then?”
Eleanor’s smile disappeared as if it had never been. “I am not happy with him. Nothing is more important, though, than bringing peace to our family and our domains. I have lost one son this summer, and I will be damned if I will lose another.”
Henry was standing upon the dais in the great hall at Angers, conversing with the bishop and several of his barons. Losing interest, Richard drifted over to an open window. He was growing impatient, for they’d been waiting since noon for his errant brother to make his appearance. One of the castle dogs had followed him and he was roughhousing with the hound when Geoff joined him. Their alliance of expediency still endured, for both men had been equally outraged by the claims of sainthood being made on Hal’s behalf. They began to discuss the latest developments now, for Geoff had just learned that Robert de Neubourg, the dean of Rouen Cathedral, had been the one making the loudest demands for the recovery of Hal’s body.
“I think the dean is intent upon feathering his own nest,” he said darkly. “All know his uncle Rotrou’s ailment is likely to be mortal, and all know, too, that he is keen to succeed Rotrou as the next Archbishop of Rouen. What better way to court votes from the canons than by securing a ‘saint’ for their cathedral?”
Richard wondered why Geoff sounded so indignant, for he took it for granted that men acted out of self- interest. “Well, you did not think he truly believed in Hal’s holiness, did you? The only ones who could swallow that fable are madmen, drunks, and gullible ceorls. At least they were not such fools in my duchy. There were no ‘grieving crowds’ lining the roads in the Limousin or Poitou. That lunacy did not start until they’d crossed into Anjou.”
“It is hard to see a man as saintly when you’ve been watching him plundering your abbeys and terrorizing your clerics,” Geoff agreed, but Richard was no longer listening. Nudging his brother, he gestured and, turning toward the window, Geoff saw that Geoffrey had just ridden into the bailey. “Will you look at that?” he said in surprise, for Geoffrey was not only accompanied by his duchess, but it appeared as if half the barons in Brittany were in his entourage. Geoff had not expected that, for Geoffrey had never shown Hal’s partiality for pageantry and spectacle.
Richard was surprised, too. “The milksop! Does he hope to hide behind his wife’s skirts?”
“No, he has something more subtle in mind.” Neither of them had heard Henry’s approach, and they both jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice. Kneeling on the window-seat to get a better view, he said, “He is a clever lad, Geoffrey. He is reminding us that he is Duke of Brittany by right of his wife, that he owes nothing to me. And the presence of his Breton lords testifies to the widespread support he enjoys amongst his barons-in case I should be rash enough to contemplate trying to divest him of the duchy.”
Geoff and Richard exchanged looks of mutual aggravation, for their father sounded almost admiring of Geoffrey’s political acumen. They’d already concluded that Henry was not likely to punish his son more harshly than he had the Viscount of Limoges, but it was still exasperating to get confirmation of their qualms. “Uprooting Geoffrey from Brittany sounds like a fine idea to me,” Richard said acerbically, although he knew that had never been an option.
Henry didn’t reply, watching as Geoffrey helped Constance to dismount. His attention was drawn then to a minor commotion on the edge of the crowd. Ranulf and Bleddyn had shouldered their way through the bystanders and were thumping Morgan on the back, bantering and laughing, showing such pleasure in their reunion that Henry felt a sharp pang of envy. Why could his relations with his sons not be as simple, as easy?
Constance gave Geoffrey’s hand a quick squeeze, and then he began that long walk toward the dais where his father and brother awaited him. He was determined to show no emotion, not willing to give Richard that satisfaction. Unfastening his scabbard, he put his sword upon the steps and then knelt. “My lord king, I am here to seek your pardon for the part I played in the rebellion. I offer no excuses for my actions, can only hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Henry wondered how often he’d have to play out this farce with one of his sons. They always said the right things, showed the proper contrition. But their words rang hollow, and when he looked into their eyes, he saw strangers. He found he had no stomach for yet another of these public mock-capitulations and got abruptly to his feet. “Come with me,” he said brusquely, and without waiting to make sure Geoffrey was obeying, he strode from the hall.
