Geoff was in London when he heard of his family’s latest crisis. He was soon in the saddle, riding for Windsor in such haste that he covered the thirty-five miles at a pace one of Henry’s royal couriers might have envied and reached the riverside castle that evening. Admitted into the middle bailey, he ran into Willem, who grimly confirmed that the rumors were true. “Thank God you’re here, Geoff. You’ll know how to comfort him.”
Once he was escorted up to his father’s chamber, though, Geoff was not so sure of that. Henry was seated by the hearth, staring into the flames as his squires tiptoed around in nervous silence. Recognizing his son’s footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. “You heard, then.”
Geoff found a stool and brought it over to sit beside his father. “For a long time, I’ve suspected that my brothers are possessed.”
“I would that it were true,” Henry said, his voice so low that Geoff barely heard him. “At least then I’d have an answer for this family madness.” They sat in silence for a time, the only sound the crackling in the hearth. Henry stretched his feet toward the fire, wondering why he was so much more sensitive to the cold as he aged. For most of his life, he’d never paid any heed to the weather, but in the past few years he’d begun to see his own body as the enemy, for on any given day he had more random pains and aches than he used to suffer in the course of a year. He did not want to think of fifty-one as old, though his muscles, bones, and sinew seemed to be telling him otherwise. Looking at Geoff from the corner of his eye, he said reluctantly, “I may have played a part in this latest outbreak.”
“What do you mean, Papa?”
Henry sighed heavily. “During one of our quarrels at my Easter Court, I lost my temper and told Johnny that Aquitaine was his if he could take it from Richard. Do you think that…that they could have taken me seriously? Surely they must have known that I did not mean it?”
This was the first that Geoff had heard of his father’s rash outburst, and he blinked in surprise. But he did not hesitate, saying stoutly, “Of course they knew you did not mean it, Papa! Anyone with half a brain would have known you were just speaking out of frustration. You must not blame yourself for their folly.”
“I expected better of Johnny, though. Of course he is still young…” Henry said, with another sigh.
Geoff did not think John’s age was an excuse, for he was just three months from his eighteenth birthday. But if his father wanted to harbor these comforting delusions about his youngest, then Geoff would not be the one to gainsay him. “What will you do?”
“I am going to order them to cease hostilities and summon them to England to answer for themselves.”
“What will you do if they defy you?” Geoff asked, for he considered that a distinct possibility, but he was taken aback by the raw candor of his father’s reply.
“I do not want to think about that,” Henry admitted, for he found none of his choices palatable. If he stood aside and did nothing, his sons could tear his empire apart. He had limited control over Richard and Geoffrey, neither of whom were financially dependent upon him as Hal had been. But as angry as he was with them, he did not want to make war against his own flesh and blood. He’d already lost his eldest, his best-loved son. How much more would the Almighty ask of him?
A light November snow was falling as Eleanor, her daughter, and her son-in-law reached the palace at Westminster. The journey had not been a long one, for they’d been staying at Berkhampstead, which was much closer to London than Winchester. Eleanor was still very tired, and thoroughly chilled, too, for the day had been one of blustery winds. She did not summon servants to prepare her bath yet, as eager as she was to soak in warm, scented water. Henry had greeted them briefly upon their arrival, but she was expecting him to pay her a private visit.
He did not keep her waiting. Watching impatiently as servants stoked the fire in the hearth and piled fur-lined coverlets upon the bed, he seized his first opportunity to dismiss them, including Amaria. As soon as they were alone, he crossed the chamber to face Eleanor; she could not help noticing that he was favoring his bad leg again.
“I have summoned our sons to London. Johnny has already landed at Dover and Richard and Geoffrey ought to arrive by week’s end. I intend to reconcile them, to put an end to this infernal rivalry once and for all, and I expect you to assist me in this endeavor.”
“Of course.”
“You are not always so biddable,” he said suspiciously, and she gave him a tight smile.
“When our interests converge, I am always ‘biddable,’ Harry, and I want to end this strife as much as you do.”
“See that you keep that in mind,” he said brusquely and turned toward the door.
Eleanor waited until he’d reached it before she spoke again. “I will do all I can to make peace between them, however hollow it may be. But I will do nothing, Harry, to help you take Aquitaine away from Richard, and you forget that at your cost.”
He’d paused and was regarding her impassively, but his eyes were as frigid and foreboding as the slate- colored November sky. “I can only put out one fire at a time,” he said and left without waiting for her response.
In addition to his daughter and son-in-law, Henry was entertaining the Count of Flanders and numerous English bishops, having convened a council to discuss the selection of a new archbishop of Canterbury. But his first priority that November was bringing his rebellious sons back into the fold. With that in mind, he waited until all three of them had arrived at Westminster and then summoned them to a private reckoning at the Tower of London.
Geoffrey was the last to arrive, and he took his time climbing the stairs to the upper floor of the White Tower, knowing the coming confrontation would be an unpleasant one. As he was ushered into the great hall, he at once became the avid object of all eyes. To his relief, he was directed toward the private royal chamber that adjoined the hall; at least this was not going to be a public ordeal.
They were waiting for him: his parents and his brothers, Richard, John, and Geoff. Richard shot him a look that would have been deadly had it been launched from a bow, Geoff was glaring, and John seemed relieved to see him. Eleanor’s expression was unrevealing, warning Geoffrey that he was facing the queen, not the mother. Henry’s court mask was in place, too, but he seethed with restless, edgy energy, unable to stay still for long, not understanding why he, who’d always found the mastery of other men so easy, should be so hobbled when it came to controlling his own sons.
“Come in, Geoffrey,” he said coldly. “It has been suggested to me that the lot of you are possessed. Others think that you must be secretly in the service of the French king, for no one benefits more than Philippe from our family bloodletting. As for myself, I do not know what to believe, for I can no more explain your inexplicable behavior than I can walk upon water. So I’d truly like to hear you speak for yourselves. Tell me why you are seeking to do what none of my enemies could, why you are so set upon following in the footsteps of Cain.”
Geoffrey was silent, able to recognize a rhetorical question when he heard one. His brothers were not as prudent. “But you told me to take Aquitaine!” John protested. “I thought that was what you wanted, Papa!”
Richard was almost as quick as John. “I have nothing to apologize for. I was the one wronged, was merely defending myself!”
Henry dealt with Richard first. “The trouble is, Richard, that you always show what Hal called ‘an excess of zeal’ in dealing with your enemies. You were hardly defending your borders when you raided deep into Brittany.”
The blatant unfairness of that took Richard’s breath away. That was how warfare was conducted, as his father well knew, being an astute practitioner of the art himself-when at all possible, carry the war to the enemy. But Henry had already turned his attention toward John.
“That is not the best defense to make, Johnny, for it raises troubling doubts about your judgment and common sense. It was obvious that my words were spoken in anger, not to be taken seriously.”
Geoffrey wondered if he’d said that, too, about the knights who’d been motivated by one of his fits of temper to murder an archbishop in his own cathedral. But he had no time to appreciate the irony of it, for he was now the one in the line of fire.
