“Ah, but this time I believe he’d stay out of it, Constance. When he told Johnny to ‘take’ Aquitaine, I think he meant it. He may not admit it, even to himself, but that was a cry from the heart. I think he’d secretly be relieved if we could get Aquitaine away from Richard. He loved Hal to distraction and seems genuinely fond of Johnny, but he knows full well that Richard loves him not, and he knows, too, that as long as Richard holds Aquitaine, his defiance will continue. So why would he not welcome our efforts to give him what he wants-the duchy for Johnny?”
“But what if you’re wrong?”
He shrugged. “It seems a risk worth taking.”
“That is what I do not understand, Geoffrey. I do not see what we gain from this, unless you have it in mind to then claim Aquitaine from Johnny?”
“No, that would indeed bring Papa into the fray,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ll settle for some Poitevin castles, a more peaceful border region, and the chance for future benefits.”
“Ah, I knew it! Tell me about these ‘future benefits.’ What scheme are you hatching now?”
“No scheme, Constance. I merely want to give my father the chance to consider all of his options. It has to have occurred to him that I’d make a better king than Richard. I’ve proven myself to be an able battle commander, and I’ve done in Brittany what Richard has failed to do in Aquitaine-I’ve reconciled the barons to my rule. But he cannot disinherit Richard as long as he holds Aquitaine, for he knows it would mean unending rebellion. Richard would never accept it, not if he had the means of waging war. If he loses his duchy, he loses, too, his income to hire routiers and wreak havoc.” He slid his fingers under her chin, tilted her face up to his as he murmured, “Tell me, darling, that a kingdom is not worth the risk.”
She could not, of course. She wanted him to be the English king as much as he did. She wanted the power and security that only a crown could bestow, wanted it for Geoffrey and herself, for her Breton homeland, and above all, for Aenor and their children not yet born.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
September 1184
Winchester, England
'Your son is so sweet, Tilda. May I hold him?”
“Of course, Alys,” Tilda said with a smile and surrendered her baby to the younger woman. She was making a special effort to be friendly because of her discomfort in Alys’s presence. She felt that her father and Richard had treated the French princess rather shabbily, cold-bloodedly using her as a pawn in their high-stakes diplomatic maneuvering. Her mother’s attitude seemed callous to Tilda, too. Eleanor was obviously in no position to influence Alys’s fate, but she’d shown a marked lack of sympathy for the girl in her conversations with Tilda, her only concern how Alys’s fortunes affected Richard. Tilda’s husband liked to tease her that she was too tenderhearted for her own good, and she supposed there was truth in that. She could not help pitying Alys, though.
As she glanced from Alys to her twelve-year-old daughter, Tilda found herself worrying what the future held in store for Richenza. Alys was not the only highborn bride to be treated as a commodity, after all. Alys’s half sister Agnes had found only grief in Byzantium. And then there was the still-grieving Marguerite, being used by her brother for bait as he fished for allies.
Tilda had heard people claim that a nuptial curse hung over the French House of Capet. Louis had certainly been shipwrecked in matrimonial seas, surviving a turbulent union to Eleanor, losing his second wife in childbirth, and not gaining the son he so desperately wanted until he’d sired four daughters and given up all hope. His sister Constance had been unhappily wed to two abusive husbands, and his nineteen-year-old son, Philippe, had already weathered one marital crisis.
Earlier in the year Philippe had attempted to repudiate Isabelle of Hainaut, the niece of his onetime ally turned enemy, the Count of Flanders, claiming that she had failed to give him an heir, an unfair accusation in light of her extreme youth; she’d been ten at the time of their marriage and was now only fourteen. Isabelle had outmaneuvered him, though, taking to the streets of Senlis as a penitent.
Barefoot and clad only in her chemise, she’d made a pilgrimage from church to church, attracting huge, sympathetic crowds as she prayed aloud to God to forgive her sins and protect her from the king’s evil counselors. The citizens had rioted in her favor, and when the flustered Philippe offered to find her a highborn second husband, she had responded, “Sire, it does not please God for a mortal man to lie in the bed in which you have lain.” Facing the disapproval of his subjects and the likely opposition of the Church, his pride assuaged by his young wife’s artful flattery, Philippe had relented and agreed to take her back. But Tilda still felt sorry for Isabelle, and hoped when her daughter was wed that she’d be treated more kindly than Philippe’s queen.
Alys laughed, not at all disturbed when Tilda’s infant son burped and spit up on the bodice of her gown. “You are so lucky,” she said wistfully. “He is such a beautiful baby.” Glancing over the child’s head toward Tilda, she hesitated before saying, “I was sorry to hear that your husband had no success during his trip to Germany.”
“It was a disappointment,” Tilda conceded. “But we remain hopeful. My father met the Archbishop of Cologne at Canterbury last month and entertained him lavishly in London. The archbishop had long been one of my husband’s fiercest foes, but my father got them together during the archbishop’s visit and brought about their reconciliation.”
The archbishop had suggested that Henry send an embassy to the Pope and ask him to mediate on Heinrich’s behalf with the emperor, but Tilda was not about to reveal something so politically sensitive to Alys. Nor was she going to tell Alys the real reason for the archbishop’s presence in England. His had been a diplomatic mission disguised as a pilgrimage; talks were under way for a marriage between Richard and the emperor’s daughter Agnes. Tilda hoped that the marriage would come to pass, for at least that would free Alys from her political purgatory. But she did not know Alys at all, and it could be that the young woman really wanted to wed Richard, especially now that he was a future king, so it seemed wisest to say nothing.
Tilda’s daughter was cooing over her baby brother with a motherly air that brought a smile to Tilda’s lips. Richenza-Tilda found it hard to remember that she was now called Matilda-and Alys were taking turns extolling little Wilhelm’s manifold virtues when Eleanor’s abrupt entrance put a halt to their cheery conversation. Her greeting to Alys was so curt that the younger woman flushed and Tilda felt a prickle of resentment on her behalf. But then she took a closer look at her mother’s ashen face.
“Alys, would you mind taking Wilhelm back to the nursery? My daughter will show you the way.” Catching the eye of Gertrud, her attendant, Tilda nodded her head and the woman rose and followed the others out. Turning back to her mother, then, Tilda was alarmed to find that Eleanor had sank down upon a coffer, almost as if she no longer had the strength to hold herself erect. “Maman…what is it? What is wrong?”
“It is happening all over again.”
Tilda had never heard her mother sound so vulnerable, so…old. “What is happening? I do not understand.”
“Your brothers are at war with one another. Only this time it is Geoffrey and John against Richard.”
“God in Heaven!” Tilda stared at Eleanor in horror. “You mean…they took Papa’s angry words seriously?”
“So it would seem.” Eleanor rubbed her temples with her fingers; she had a throbbing headache, and when she closed her eyes, she could see white light pulsing against her lids. “I am so tired,” she confessed, “so very tired of all this, Tilda. It never seems to end…”
Tilda leaped to her feet, much too swiftly for a woman who’d given birth so recently. Crossing to Eleanor’s side, she sat down beside her on the coffer and reached for her hand. “Maman, I know how painful this must be for you…” Her voice faltered, for in truth, she did not. She could not even imagine a world in which her own sons were set upon destroying one another. Could there be any worse grief for a parent than that? “You must not despair, Maman. Papa will not let this happen. He will stop the bloodshed, find a way to end their lunatic rivalry and make peace between them. He’ll make this right, you’ll see.”
What if he does not want to make it right? The words hovered on Eleanor’s lips, but she bit them back. She was not about to burden Tilda with her fears. If she could keep from voicing them, though, she could not keep them from taking root, could not banish them from the back of her brain. What if Harry’s “angry words” had come from the heart? What if he meant what he said?
