They faced each other in the castle solar, a chamber shadowy and stifling, for Henry had jerked the shutters into place, not wanting to risk eavesdroppers gathering below the window. Leaning back against a table, he regarded his son in baffled anger. Geoffrey’s betrayal had been more painful than Hal’s, for he’d never seen it coming. By that spring, he’d had few illusions left about his eldest, but he’d honestly thought Geoffrey was trustworthy. Finding that it was not so had been a severe blow, both to the king and the father. “You realize,” he said at last, “that if you’d not thrown in with Hal, it is likely he’d not have been able to rebel.”
He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, but Geoffrey found it easy enough to finish the thought. “And Hal might still be alive. So I am to atone for Hal’s sins as well as my own. Who else am I to answer for? The French king? The Viscount of Limoges?” Geoffrey knew he was in no position to offer defiance, but that implied accusation had stung, all the more so because the same thought had crossed his own mind. He braced himself for Henry’s fury. To his surprise, though, it did not come.
Henry looked at him in silence and then astonished him by saying quietly, “That was not fair of me. I do not blame you for Hal’s death, nor would he want me to. It may not have happened until he was on his deathbed, but at the last he accepted full responsibility for his actions, took all the guilt for the rebellion upon himself.” There was a dull, throbbing pain behind his right eye, and his bad leg had begun to ache. He shifted so that more of his weight rested against the table, keeping his eyes upon his son’s face. “I do not want to hear your apologies or promises of future loyalty, Geoffrey. We both know how little such words mean. What I do want from you is honesty. You may speak your mind without fear of consequences. I want-I need-to know why.”
Geoffrey blinked in amazement. “Jesus God, Papa, you know why!”
“No, I do not.”
“How could you not know? Because you refused to grant us Richmond and Nantes.”
“That may be the pretext, but it was not the cause. You knew it was only a matter of time until they came into your hands, for I’d promised them to you. Why were you not willing to wait?”
Despite Henry’s demand for utter candor, Geoffrey knew he could not tell his father that his promises were dross, as unsubstantial as cobwebs and smoke. He compromised by offering as much truth as he dared. “Nantes is the heart of Brittany and the Honour of Richmond belonged by rights to Constance’s father. When he died, it should have passed to her, and all know it. Have you never thought that by holding on to these lands, you diminish me in my wife’s eyes? And the eyes of her barons?”
Henry was not sure how Geoffrey had managed to back him into a corner. “That is nonsense! Your barons know it is a delay, not a denial. Even after your recent treachery, I am not saying these lands are forfeit, although few would blame me if I did. But I cannot help feeling grateful that I held on to them, for if you’d had control of Nantes, that would have enabled you to launch attacks directly into Poitou. My giving you Nantes might well have made it possible for you to win your rebellion.”
Geoffrey stared at him. “Christ, Papa, if you’d given me Nantes, I would never have rebelled,” he said wearily, and after that, there seemed nothing more to say.
Tilda smiled at the sight meeting her eyes: her ten-year-old son, Heinrich, manfully struggling to pull a bow- stave back, with some unobtrusive help from his grandfather. “Suppose we find you a smaller bow on the morrow,” Henry suggested tactfully, “and then we can have a real lesson.”
“Will you shoot it one more time?” Heinrich entreated, and Henry obligingly showed the boy the proper stance and how to nock the arrow-“always on the left side of the stave.” Drawing the bowstring back, he loosed the arrow, and Heinrich gave a jubilant shout when it flew across the garden and thudded into the trunk of a chestnut tree. “Can you do that again?”
“No, dearest, he cannot,” Tilda intervened, “for it is past your bedtime.”
“But it is still light out, Mama!”
“Heinrich, you know full well that it stays light in August until long past Compline,” Tilda reminded him, but he continued to argue until Henry weighed in on Tilda’s side. Conceding defeat, then, he made a reluctant retreat as the adults hid their smiles until he was out of view. “It is kind of you, Papa, to offer to tutor Heinrich in the use of a bow. He has always wanted to learn, but my husband told him it was not worth mastering since the bow is a weapon for the lowborn, the routier.”
“He is right about that,” Henry agreed. “No man of good birth would go into battle with a bow. But the lad needs to know how to shoot it if he ever expects to bring down a deer.”
Tilda’s husband did not share Henry’s passion for the hunt. She had no intention of telling him that, however, for Heinrich’s lack of enthusiasm would be beyond his ken. Deciding to take advantage of this rare time alone with her father, she linked her arm in his and steered him toward the closest bench. “May I ask you a question, Papa?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” he said quickly, but she caught the flicker of a smile as he added, “I cannot promise to answer it, though, not until I hear what it is.”
“You need not worry,” she assured him with a smile of her own. “I will not ask anything awkward or embarrassing.” In other words, she thought, nothing about her mother. “I am puzzled by something you did last month. I understand why you insisted that Geoffrey surrender control to you of his Breton castles. But why did you demand the same of Richard? He…he was not happy, saw it as an affront to his pride.”
“Believe me, lass, I know. Richard is never one to suffer in silence.” Henry was quiet for a moment, deciding how much to tell her. “I was not trying to demean Richard, Tilda. But I’ve become increasingly concerned about the hostility between Richard and his barons. God knows, they are no easy lot to govern and you can rarely go wrong suspecting the worst of Eleanor’s Poitevins. Richard is too quick, though, to apply the whip and spurs. Passing strange, for he is a superb horseman, but he rides men too hard, and I have not been able to get him to see that.”
Tilda had heard her husband voice the same opinion. She did not see, though, how it helped matters to put Henry’s men in command of Richard’s castles. “Mayhap it would ease Richard’s resentment if you made a formal announcement that he is to be your heir?”
Henry was amused by her fishing expedition and decided to let her hook one. “As it happens, lass, I plan to do just that next month.”
Tilda was glad to hear it, for she was troubled by her family’s discord. She’d been deeply shocked by the rebellion, and she could take little comfort from the peace that followed Hal’s death, for she feared it was not likely to last. Heinrich had warned her not to mediate between her father and brothers, saying it would serve for naught and might jeopardize their own position at Henry’s court. Tilda was usually willing to defer to his wishes, but she would have ignored his admonition if she’d thought she might succeed. She knew, though, that she’d be wasting her breath, that neither her father nor her brothers were willing or able to see any side but their own.
“Papa…I have a favor to ask of you. I would like you to give me permission to go to England.” Before he could respond, she reached over and touched his arm in silent supplication. “Please, hear me out. I want my children to meet their grandmother. Surely that is not so much to ask?”
“No, of course it is not. But there is no need.”
Tilda felt a rare stab of anger. Why were the men in her family so stubborn? “You did promise me, Papa, that I could see Maman. How much longer must I wait?”
“You misunderstood me, Tilda. I meant that there is no need to go to England. I have sent word to Ralf de Glanville to make arrangements to bring Eleanor to Rouen.”
“Truly? Papa, thank you!” Tilda flung her arms around his neck, and he laughed, wondering why daughters were so much easier to content than sons.
“Truly, lass. She ought to be here by Michaelmas.”
Amaria looked up from her embroidery as the queen came into their chamber. She knew at once that Ralph Fitz Stephen must have given Eleanor good news, for there was becoming color in her cheeks and her eyes were filled with light.
“You will never guess what Sir Ralph told me. How would you fancy a sea voyage, Amaria?”
“Madame?”
“My husband has summoned me to join our family in Rouen. Who says the Age of Miracles is past?”
“My lady, that is wonderful!”
“I will be able to see my daughter and grandchildren at long last, to spend time with Richard, to pray at Hal’s
