husband’s death five years ago.
Constance was willing to concede that Philippe’s dinner in their honor was a culinary triumph; clearly the French monarch was more generous with his cooks than with his musicians. So far she’d not seen enough of Philippe to form any impressions of him, but that seemed about to change when they were summoned to join the French king and his queen upon the dais after the trestle tables had been cleared away and dancing begun. Isabelle was a pretty, slender blonde, who looked younger and acted older than her sixteen years. She was obviously attuned to her husband’s wishes, for when Philippe asked Constance jovially if he could “borrow” her husband for a short while, Isabelle immediately chimed in with compliments about Constance’s gown, saying that she would like to discuss the countess’s seamstress with her.
Constance was not taken in by the flattery. How dare Philippe dismiss her as if she were an errant child? Had he forgotten that Brittany was hers? But as her eyes met Geoffrey’s, he winked and she reconciled herself to playing the role Philippe cast for her, the dutiful, unobtrusive spouse. “Of course you may, my liege,” she said, and then smiled sweetly. “As much as it grieves me to be deprived of your company, I know my husband will relate to me all that I miss. You see, we share everything.”
As Isabelle did her part and drew Constance aside, Philippe said to Geoffrey with a bemused smile, “Your wife is rather spirited.”
“Yes, she is,” Geoffrey agreed with a grin. “I’m a lucky man.” Philippe thought that was open to debate, but it would hardly be politic to insult the wife of a man whose good will he wanted. When he proposed now that they schedule a private meeting on the morrow, Geoffrey suggested instead that they take a stroll in the gardens. Such spontaneity was not Philippe’s modus operandi, but he could see no reason not to go along with it and sent a servant for their mantles, then signaled to his bodyguards as the two men left the hall.
Geoffrey was quick to notice the men trailing at a discreet distance, for their presence seemed to confirm the tales he’d heard about Philippe’s nervous disposition. He could not imagine that being said of any member of his family-male or female-and hoped the young French king’s circumspection did not bode ill for his hopes of an alliance. In Geoffrey’s view, statecraft and kingship were not for the faint of heart.
They walked in companionable silence through the gardens, dormant now in winter’s grip. Daylight was a limited commodity in February and dusk was not far off. The Seine had not yet been closed to traffic for the night, and they could see boats bobbing past, their lanterns swaying in the wind, brief glimmers of light against the dimming sky and icy, dark river. When they reached the end of the island, Philippe sat down upon a wooden bench, but Geoffrey chose to perch on the garden wall, a position that seemed precarious enough to make Philippe uncomfortable.
“Do you mind sitting down here?” he said. “I’d have a difficult time explaining to the English king that his son drowned when he tumbled into the Seine.” Although Geoffrey hid it well, Philippe suspected that the other man was humoring him when he obligingly switched seats. Philippe did not care, though; he never worried what others thought of him. “This is my first opportunity,” he said, “to express my sorrow over the death of your brother, the young king. Hal’s unexpected death was a great loss to us all.”
“Yes,” Geoffrey said, “indeed it was. It must have been a particularly sharp blow to you, my liege.”
Philippe thought that was an odd thing to say, for Hal had been merely a brother-in-law and they’d never been close. He made no comment, though, and when Geoffrey saw he was not going to respond, he said, “After all, Hal would have been the perfect king-for France.” He saw Philippe’s eyes flicker, and he bit back a smile as he continued blandly, “My brother had many admirable virtues. He never lacked for courage and he was remarkably good-natured and so generous that he’d literally give a man the shirt off his back. He was also one of the most malleable men I’ve ever known, easily led and easily bored. Given his lack of interest in the drudgery of governing, I am sure he’d have been grateful for any guidance offered by the French Crown. When you heard of his death at Martel and realized you’d now have to deal with Richard, you must have felt as if your affectionate, docile dog had been transformed by evil alchemy into a feral, ravening wolf.”
“That is hardly a brotherly description of Richard.” Philippe was rarely surprised by other men, and he regarded Geoffrey with suddenly sharpened interest. “So we are speaking candidly, are we?”
“Under the right circumstances, it can save a great deal of time.”
Philippe glanced across the garden to reassure himself that his bodyguards were not within earshot. “Fair enough. Let me begin by saying that I’ve been expecting you. I’ve watched the brazen way your father used you to put the fear of God into Richard, and I knew it was only a matter of time until you turned your eyes in my direction.”
“Yes,” Geoffrey said dryly, “my brothers and I seem to look to Paris the way infidels look to Mecca. I am not Hal. I am not a king and I am neither malleable nor overly trusting. But that does not mean we could not forge an alliance that would be to our mutual benefit.”
“Just what are you seeking?”
“Security.” Geoffrey leaned closer, lowering his voice to evoke an intimacy more conducive to sharing secrets. “My father’s health is beginning to fail.”
Philippe nodded; he’d paid a sickbed visit to Henry that past November at Belvoir Castle. “Well, he is old,” he said, from the comfortable vantage point of his twenty years, “so it is only to be expected.”
“If you know a storm is coming, you do not wait until the wind is raging against your house ere you take protective measures. I want to be ready when that storm breaks over Brittany.”
Philippe nodded again. “And what would make Brittany safe from the storm? Anjou? Mayhap even Normandy?”
Geoffrey was pleased that Philippe was so quick. “Anjou,” he confirmed, “and an alliance that I can rely upon once Richard becomes king.”
“It would certainly be in France’s interests to have more reasonable leadership in Anjou or Normandy. I’ve long thought that the Bretons are natural allies of the French, not the English. Your father’s meddling in Brittany was a shameless encroachment upon the suzerainty of the French Crown. I will not deny I find it offensive that you’ve done homage for your duchy to the Duke of Normandy and the King of England, but never to your rightful liege lord.”
“Fortunately,” Geoffrey said, “that can be remedied easily enough.”
Now that they’d come to it, Philippe drew a deep breath to dampen down his rising excitement. “So you would be willing to do homage to me.”
“I would.”
“Well, then, I do not see why we cannot come to an understanding advantageous to us both. For example, I think it would be only fitting to name you, my lord duke, as the Seneschal of France.”
As that office traditionally belonged to the Count of Anjou, Philippe could not have made Geoffrey a more welcome offer. He studied the French king intently and then startled Philippe by laughing. “I feel,” he admitted, “as if I’d ventured into a foreign land, expecting to have difficulty making myself understood. Imagine my surprise to discover that we speak the same language.”
Philippe thought that Geoffrey’s reputation for eloquence was well deserved, for he’d just articulated perfectly what the French king was also feeling-that he’d finally found the ally of his dreams, one who shared his insight, shrewdness, and sangfroid. Philippe had long known that he was more intelligent than most of those around him, and while the knowledge was undeniably satisfying, it was occasionally lonely, too. For the first time in his young life, he was discovering the pleasure of finding a kindred spirit, and he joined in Geoffrey’s laughter, laughter that sounded surprisingly carefree and gleeful to his bored bodyguards, not like Philippe’s usual, guarded chuckle at all.
Morgan Fitz Ranulf could hardly believe he was at Lagny, site of some of the most famous tournaments of recent decades. When Geoffrey returned to the French court that August, Morgan had not expected such a marvelous surprise as Lagny. Tournaments were not frequently held in August, for even the most enthusiastic devotees of the tourney preferred not to have hundreds of men trampling through their fields and vineyards during the harvest season. But upon their arrival in Paris, Geoffrey and his men discovered that Philippe was absent from his capital, not likely to return from Senlis for another week. They also learned that a tournament was to be held that coming Monday at Lagny, just twenty miles from Paris, and suddenly Geoffrey no longer minded the wait, for while he’d never been as enamored of the sport as Hal, he enjoyed testing himself against men of equal skill. For Morgan, the Lagny tournament had even greater significance; he’d been knighted by Geoffrey in the past year and
