enough to burst into flame at any moment, and their animosity had spilled over to infect the rest of the Easter Court. Geoffrey had broken up two fights between his men and Richard’s, and he’d even seen evidence of bad blood between Richard’s knights and their brother John’s household.
Since he was not directly involved in this clash of wills, Geoffrey might have sat back and enjoyed the drama-had it not been for his mother and sister. It was obvious to him that Eleanor and Tilda were deeply troubled by this latest family contretemps, and their unhappiness bothered him, for he could see no quick resolution. He could see no resolution at all.
As Geoffrey entered the great hall, he noticed a boisterous dice game over by the center hearth. Several of his knights were playing, and when Gerard de Fournival waved and beckoned, he started in that direction. But he halted when he saw his youngest brother sitting alone in a window-seat and, on impulse, he veered toward John instead.
“You look even more bored than me,” he said. “You want to join the dice game?” When John hesitated, he wondered if the boy had enough money to play. He had a title now-Count of Mortain-but Geoffrey was sure he had no income of his own yet. Geoffrey himself had not gained financial independence until he was finally allowed to wed Constance. John was betrothed to a rich heiress, his cousin Avisa of Gloucester, and the Earl of Gloucester’s unexpected death just four months ago made the girl an even greater marital prize. Geoffrey was sure, though, that Henry would not let John claim that prize until cobwebs were collecting on the marriage contract. Their father could be lavish with his gifts, generous with his largesse. But it was a golden yoke, for it kept them beholden, always on a tight leash.
“If you’re short, Johnny, I can make you a loan,” he offered, and John’s hazel eyes darkened with suspicion.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Why not?”
“Why are you being so friendly of a sudden, Geoffrey? Since when are you willing to do me favors?”
“Ah…I see. You are nursing a grudge for my past sins.”
He sounded amused, and John did not like it. “I do not have a single pleasant childhood memory of you or Richard, not even one!” His outburst was unplanned, but he found satisfaction now in being able to speak up for his younger self, at long last.
“How could you? We had to adhere to the code, after all.”
“What code?”
“The one that sets out the rules for treating little brothers, of course. They are to be bedeviled without mercy, made the butt of every joke. It was just your bad luck that you had no one younger to pick on, in turn.”
“My bad luck, indeed,” John said coolly, remembering those hours he’d spent in that open grave, remembering his pleas for help that Geoffrey and Richard had claimed never to have heard.
Geoffrey was regarding him pensively. “Now that I look back upon it, all those jokes and pranks that we played on you…” He paused significantly. “I have to tell you, Johnny, they were fun.”
Lulled into expecting an apology, John stiffened in surprise, but after a moment, he could not help laughing. “Come on, lad,” Geoffrey said with a grin. “Let’s go shoot some dice.” They had just started across the hall, though, when John stopped suddenly, directing Geoffrey’s attention toward the door behind the dais.
Tilda saw her brothers at the same time and came toward them, so hastily that they knew something was amiss. “Geoffrey, thank God you’re here! Richard and Papa are having a terrible argument, their worst one yet, and if it is not stopped, I fear they may even come to blows!”
“I’d pay to see that,” Geoffrey said before he could think better of it, and his sister stared at him in disbelief.
“I am beginning to think all of you have gone stark, raving mad! Maman and I could hear their shouting, and she went in to make peace. But by the sound of it, she’s had no luck. Now are you going to help me or not?”
Geoffrey was not keen about getting into the crossfire, especially since he was sure his intervention would be meaningless. He did not have the heart to disappoint Tilda, though, for not only had her husband gone back to Mainz in hopes of obtaining a pardon from the Holy Roman Emperor, but she’d recently revealed that she was pregnant. “Of course I will help,” he said, with far more confidence than he was feeling, and then glanced over at John, who’d once more been overlooked. Having spent much of his own life overshadowed by Hal and Richard, Geoffrey was motivated to say, “Come on, Johnny. I’ll likely need all the help I can get.”
“I would not miss it for the world,” John said, with utter sincerity. He did not understand why Henry could not just order Richard to yield up Aquitaine, for he was the king, after all. He’d initially been sure it would be quickly resolved, but during the course of the Easter Court, he’d begun to fear that Henry might be the one to back down, not Richard. He’d never taken his father’s talk of an Irish kingdom for him very seriously, for he could not envision himself ruling over that strange, wild isle on the western edge of the world. But Aquitaine was different; it was real, one of the richest duchies in Christendom, a land of milk and honey. He’d not even dreamed it might be his, not until that Michaelmas Eve in Rouen, but now he could not bear to think it might be snatched away. Richard was to be king, no longer needed it. Why was he being so selfish?
They found that Tilda had not exaggerated, hearing the angry voices while they were still in the stairwell. Geoffrey did not bother knocking, shoved the door open, with Tilda and John at his heels. Henry and Richard were confining themselves to verbal violence, at least so far. If Eleanor had interceded in hopes of mediating, she’d soon become a combatant herself, to judge from the way she was berating Henry. He and Richard were stalking each other like the big cats Geoffrey had once seen at the Tower of London, and he found himself thinking that this scene was true to form for his family, with everyone shouting and no one listening. Eleanor glanced in their direction, but the men were so intent upon their confrontation that they never even noticed the new arrivals-not until Geoffrey turned and slammed the door resoundingly.
“They can hear all the cursing and bellowing down in the hall,” he said, “and they’ve started to wager which one of you will draw first blood. I came up to see whom I should put my money on.”
That was not the sort of help Tilda had in mind, and she frowned at Geoffrey’s levity. But it worked, for neither Richard nor Henry liked the idea of entertaining others with their quarrel.
“We are done here,” Henry said, glaring at his eldest son, before adding an ominous warning, “for now.”
Not at all intimidated, Richard glowered back, and started for the door. But then he stopped, unwilling to be dismissed so curtly. “I’ll gladly go,” he said defiantly, “and I’ll not be coming back. The next time you want to threaten and rant, you can come to me in Aquitaine.”
John, watching in dismay, saw his great chance slipping through his fingers, and he swung around to demand of his father, “Papa, does this mean Richard has bested you and Aquitaine is lost?”
Eleanor winced, Geoffrey rolled his eyes, and Henry gave his youngest a look John had never gotten from him before. “My life would have been much more peaceful if I’d had only daughters,” he snapped. “As for Aquitaine, it is yours if you can take it.”
Richard had halted when John protested. Now he looked the youth up and down very deliberately, and then he laughed. Geoffrey was astonished that his father had actually said that, for surely one Becket moment was enough for any man’s lifetime. Clearly, Eleanor’s thoughts had taken the same track, for she said scathingly, “Very good, Harry. It is always heartening to see that you’ve learned from your past mistakes.”
But it was Tilda’s reaction that overrode the others, for she cried, “Stop it!” in such pain that all heads turned in her direction. “I cannot bear any more, cannot watch my family being torn apart like this!”
There was a sudden, abashed silence and then alarm as Tilda seemed to falter. She looked so stricken that Geoffrey hastily grabbed her arm so he could hold her upright if necessary. Eleanor and Henry were immediately at her side, united, for that moment at least, in their concern for their distraught, pregnant daughter. She let them guide her toward the closest chair and the next few moments were hectic as Henry and Eleanor hovered over her, Richard hurried to get her wine, and Geoffrey asked if he could fetch one of her women. He was feeling remorseful, sorry he had not spared her this stressful scene by insisting she remain below in the hall, and his relief was considerable when she turned so the others could not see and winked. He at once entered cheerfully into the conspiracy, lamenting how pale and shaken she seemed and doing all he could to keep the focus upon Tilda, and away from their latest family conflagration.
John alone had not gone to Tilda’s aid. He stood apart, as if he were watching a play, hearing only the echoes of Richard’s scornful laughter and his father’s dismissive words. It is yours if you can take it.
