between you and your brother.”
The corner of Geoffrey’s mouth twitched. “And since Richard is celebrated for his forgiving nature, how can you fail?” He made an indecisive movement and Henry feared he was about to go. But instead he reached out and grasped his father’s arm. “We both know that not even God’s own angels could make Richard and me anything but enemies. He is to be king. So be it, then. You said you were sorry that I’d ‘misread’ your intentions. You can prove it by giving me the means to defend my duchy.”
“What do you need? Money?”
“I want Anjou.” Geoffrey’s grip tightened. “It makes sense, Papa, politically and geographically. I am more Angevin than Richard could ever hope to be, for he is Maman’s son, not yours. He cares only for Aquitaine and for the crown. Anjou would never mean as much to him as it would to me. And if I held it, he’d be far less likely to declare war upon Brittany. You know that is so. Give me that much, Papa, give me Anjou so that I can honor your heritage and protect my family and my lands.”
Henry was moved by Geoffrey’s eloquence, and by his urgency. He wanted to say yes, to give his son what he wanted so desperately. He’d gladly have given Geoffrey Aquitaine if it were his to give. Anjou was dearest to his heart of all his domains, the land of his birth. He did not doubt that it would be in good hands if Geoffrey held it; he’d proven in Brittany that he could rule and rule well. But how could he rend his empire like that? Anjou and Normandy and England were his legacy, meant to be passed intact to his eldest son. Could he give up the dream that had sustained him through even the worst of times, the dream of establishing a dynasty that would endure long after he and all who’d known him were dust?
“I can see how much this means to you, Geoffrey. I cannot promise you that Anjou will be yours. But I can promise you this-that I will give it very serious consideration.”
Geoffrey was silent for several long moments. “Yes,” he said and smiled tightly. “I am sure you will.”
Constance admitted a servant and instructed him to place the tray on a coffer. Following him to the door, she slid the bolt into place and then hurried over to her husband. Geoffrey was leaning back in his chair, his eyes half closed, his body as limp as if his bones were made of liquid. He looked utterly exhausted and she was not surprised, not after he’d told her he’d left Rouen just four days ago. That meant he and his men had covered more than forty miles a day, which sounded to her more like an escape than a departure.
“Denez has brought food and wine,” she said. “Whilst you’re eating, they’ll heat water for a bath.”
“Is that your subtle way of telling me that I reek?” he asked, opening his eyes long enough to give her a quick smile. But when she offered a wine cup, he shook his head. “I have not eaten all day, would be roaring drunk after three swallows.” She reached for the plate of meat and bread, and he shook his head again. “Later…I’m not hungry.”
She didn’t insist, for she was scornful of women who hovered over their husbands as if they could not be trusted to take care of themselves. Geoffrey was a man grown, knew if he was hungry or not. Fetching a chair, she dragged it over and sat down beside him. “Do you want to talk about it? Or wait till the morrow?”
“You’d let me do that?”
“Of course,” she said, and would have risen had he not caught her wrist. She sat down again and watched him as he seemed to doze. But then his lashes flickered and he turned his head to look directly at her.
“It is done, Constance.” She waited and after another long silence, he said, “He wanted to know what was wrong. Can you believe that? When I told him, he seemed truly taken aback and swore that he’d never meant to mislead me, to make me think that I might be king.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Does it matter?” He laughed, a sound that was not pleasant to hear. “He lies to everyone, even to himself. Especially to himself.” He smothered a yawn, saying, “I’ll have that wine, after all. I asked him for Anjou.”
“What did he say?”
“What does he ever say? He fell back upon his usual stratagem-delay and evasion, promising to give it ‘serious consideration.’ He does not seem to realize that by now we understand the code and I know damned well that he turned me down.”
After it had become obvious to them that their hopes of a crown were illusory, they’d had several sobering conversations about their future once Richard was king. Constance wanted to discuss their options now, but she held back, for she was not taken in by his bitter bravado, and she realized that his hurt went far deeper than he’d ever admit.
“I cannot believe that I let him play me for such a fool, Constance. I should have known better, should have known…” He drank slowly, and then startled her by flinging his cup against the wall.
Watching the wine stain the whitewash, looking eerily like blood to her, Constance said, “It may not be as hopeless as you think. How long ere your father and Richard start quarreling again? Who is to say that he will not turn to you, this time for true? In his way, he does love you, after all-”
“Indeed,” he said, cracking the word like a lash. “Of course Hal comes first and then Johnny, but after that, yes, he finds space in his heart for me.”
“Hal is dead and Johnny has just made a bloody botch of his Irish command,” she pointed out. He surprised her then by coming to his younger brother’s defense, saying that his father was as much to blame as Johnny, that he’d thrown the lad into deep water without first teaching him to swim.
“Mayhap it is better not to be loved by my father,” he said after a time, “for it can be argued that Richard and I fared better than poor Hal and Johnny. He set us loose at eighteen and seventeen, sent us into Aquitaine and Brittany to learn how to fight, how to govern. He kept Hal and Johnny close, not giving them the chance to stand on their own. As God is my witness, Constance, I will never do that to my sons, never.”
“I know you will not,” she said, moving behind him and beginning to massage his shoulders; as she expected, his muscles were rigid, taut with tension. “Come to bed, Geoffrey, get some sleep. Our troubles will still be there on the morrow.”
He did not seem to hear her. “I am glad he forced that talk, for now I see much more clearly. I’ll play no more of his accursed games, leave that to Richard and Johnny, and good luck to them both. What I am going to do is to safeguard our future and our duchy. I’ll need a few days to rest up…and then I think it is time you and I pay a visit to the French court.”
This had always seemed like the obvious move to Constance. The French king had a keen interest in Brittany, an even keener interest in clipping Angevin wings, and Philippe was already showing signs of a ruthless will to rival Henry’s. Philippe would make a useful ally, if not an entirely trustworthy one, but she felt confident that her husband was more than his match. She’d never urged Geoffrey to reach out to Philippe, even though she’d long thought it made political sense, for she understood that there’d be no going back. For Geoffrey, it would be a repudiation of his own blood and she’d not thought she had the right to ask that of him. She moved around the chair now so that she could see his face.
“Are you sure, Geoffrey? They are still your family and-”
“No,” he said, “not anymore. You are my family, you and our children.” His eyes sought hers. “So…what do you say?”
She leaned over, brushing her lips against his forehead and then cradling his head against her breasts. “Well, I have always wanted to see Paris.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
February 1186
Paris, France
Constance was not impressed by the entertainment provided by the French king, although in fairness, she supposed she was spoiled. Geoffrey was an enthusiastic and generous patron of the troubadours of his mother’s duchy, and as a result, he’d never had trouble attracting renowned performers to the Breton court. When she said as much to her husband, Geoffrey murmured, “Well, you get what you pay for,” reminding her that Philippe had so far shown little interest in music or literature, forcing men of talent to look to others for support, to Henry and his sons, the Count of Flanders, or Marie, the Countess of Champagne, who’d been acting as regent since her
