that the legendary luck of the English king held true for his son, too.
Marie had lost all interest in the tournament after Geoffrey’s narrow escape. She’d accompanied him back to his tent, not departing until she was sure that he had indeed suffered no more than bruises, scrapes, and contusions. She’d have preferred to go to her lodgings at the abbey of St Pierre, but she’d left her young son in the stands with her ladies and his nurse, and she did not trust them to keep Thibault out of mischief. Upon her return, she found that the melee had long since broken up into smaller presses, continuing the fighting out of sight and sound of the spectators. But Thibault was still so excited that she had to promise she’d bring him back later to watch the awarding of the prize.
True to her word, Marie and Thibault were back in their seats several hours later. She knew they’d have a wait, but she did not have the heart to deny her son, whose enthusiasm for the tourney had not been diminished by his uncle’s mishap. To Thibault, the day had exceeded his expectations, and he was soon proving to be a handful for his harried nurse, bouncing up on his seat to watch knights returning to the field, squirming and wriggling and demonstrating that no adults could hope to match the boundless energy of puppies, colts, and small boys. Marie kept a sharp eye upon him, for she was not a novice to motherhood, and her vigilance soon paid off, for she was able to stop Thibault from dashing down onto the field when he sighted her eldest son.
The young Count of Champagne rode over, delighting his little brother by swinging him up into the saddle and taking him for a slow gallop around the lists. After turning Thibault over to one of his knights, Henri reined in beside the stands and Marie hastened down the steps to meet him. His flaxen hair was tousled, his face smeared with sweat and dirt and there was a reddish stain on his hauberk that was worrying until she could be sure the blood was not his.
“Maman, I heard what happened to my uncle Geoffrey and so I stopped by his tent. He insisted that he was unhurt and said he means to attend the dinner tonight.”
“What? Why must you men be so loath to use the brains God gave you?”
Henri grinned, for this was a conversation they’d had before; his mother was convinced that males were born without any common sense whatsoever. “I’d want to go, too, if I were in his place,” he admitted. “It is a matter of pride. But…” Lowering his voice, he said, “The thing is that I do not think he is as well as he claims. He is very pale and hollow-eyed, like a man trying to pretend he’s not suffering from a morning-after malaise. I think it would be best if he keeps away from the revelries tonight; they can last till dawn, after all. I thought mayhap if you talked to him…” Finding a smile, he joked that she was a force to be reckoned with and Geoffrey would not dare to defy her. But Marie was not misled by his attempt at humor; Geoffrey must look like Walking Death if her daredevil son Henri had taken notice.
Tents of the nobility were often so large that they had to be erected with winches, and Geoffrey’s was a spacious one, but it was so crowded that Marie did not at once see her brother. Geoffrey knew most of the tournament participants and friends had quickly gathered once word spread of his fall. A number of French knights and lords were there, too, their presence confirming Marie’s suspicions that Geoffrey and Philippe were plotting together. She finally found Geoffrey seated on the edge of his bed, talking with the renowned French knight Guillaume de Barres. One glance was enough to convince her that he was in pain; her husband had suffered from chronic headaches and she knew the signs: the tightness around Geoffrey’s mouth, the vein throbbing in his temple, the ashen cast to his skin.
Marie was, at forty-one, still a beautiful woman and an accomplished flirt. She drew upon that charm now to disperse the men clustered around her brother. Sitting beside Geoffrey, she asked if he had seen a doctor. He swore he had, saying the physician had been impressed that his injuries were so trifling. Marie hoped he was right, but did not let that distract her from her purpose, and launched into her argument why he should not attend the night’s dinner.
Much to her surprise, Geoffrey did not dispute her. “I am not feeling so good,” he admitted. “My headache has gotten worse and I’m having some pain here.” He gestured vaguely toward his abdomen. The mere thought of food roiled his stomach, but he saw no need to share that, saying with a flickering smile, “So you need not fret, Sister. I shall keep to my bed tonight, I promise.”
“I am glad to hear that.” But the more Marie scrutinized Geoffrey, the more uneasy she became. “I want you to come back with me to the abbey,” she said. “Their infirmarian is experienced in the healing arts, and I can vouch for his skills, which I cannot do for your tourney leech. Do it for me, Geoffrey, I implore you.”
“You’re forgetting the Church’s hostility to the tournament, Marie. I doubt that the abbot would be pleased if one of his monks tended to a sinful tourneyer.”
“And you are forgetting that my husband’s father was a great patron of St Pierre’s. Not only is he interred in their church, his son Hugh was the abbot there for seven years. Trust me when I say the monks will bid you welcome.”
Marie was both relieved and disquieted when Geoffrey raised no further objections, for if he was willing to see the infirmarian without being coaxed into it, he must be in considerable pain. “Henri promised to stay with Thibault through the ceremonies, so we can go straightaway,” she said, determined not to give him a chance to change his mind. But then he turned to face her, and she felt a throb of fear, for the pupil of his left eye was so dilated that it looked black. “I’ll be back,” she said and jumped to her feet, going in search of Gerard de Fournival, for she knew the French knight better than the others in Geoffrey’s mesnie.
Gerard did not protest when she told him Geoffrey was going to see the abbey infirmarian. He did balk, though, when she told him to find a horse litter or cart. “I cannot do that, Madame! The duke would be shamed to ride in a conveyance meant for women and the elderly. I’ll order horses saddled-”
“We have more urgent concerns than the duke’s pride,” she snapped. “I fear he has suffered a serious head injury.”
Gerard stared at her and then beckoned to the closest of Geoffrey’s knights, Matthew de Goulaine and Morgan. After a brief murmured exchange, they both hastened toward Geoffrey. At their approach, Geoffrey started to rise, but he felt so dizzy that he had to grab Matthew’s arm for support.
“I am all right,” he insisted, “just a little light-headed.” Releasing the knight’s arm, he stepped back to show he’d regained his balance. But then his knees buckled. They caught him before he fell, maneuvered him toward the bed. Marie and Gerard were beside him now, and when his sister grasped his hand, Geoffrey tried to squeeze it reassuringly. “My head hurts…” he said indistinctly, and by the time they got him onto the bed, his eyes had rolled back in his head and he’d gone limp in their arms.
Gerard de Fournival sat up with a start, surprised that he’d actually dozed off even though he’d slept little since Geoffrey’s collapse. Getting stiffly to his feet, he glanced quickly toward the bed where his liege lord and friend lay motionless, as he’d done for the past two nights and a day. The infirmarian and another monk moved quietly about the chamber, but Gerard found their composure to be oddly comforting; these aged men of faith had seen too much to fear death. Some of the knights were napping, sprawled in the window-seat, slumped in chairs, or on the floor. A few of them-like Morgan and Matthew and Geoffrey’s friend Ivo de la Baille-were still staving off sleep, for keeping vigil was all they could do for their duke now. Marie was not present, and Gerard assumed she’d gone to check upon her son, for only the duties of motherhood had taken her away from her brother’s side.
Gerard stretched and winced as his knotted muscles protested, then crossed to the open window. Dawn was streaking the sky in delicate shades of pink and pearl, the last of the night stars flickering out like quenched candles. It took Gerard a moment to remember the day of the week…Wednesday, the feast day of St Bernard of Clairvaux. Gerard would normally have implored the saint’s intercession on his day, but Bernard was a newly made saint, and the mortal Bernard had been a fierce foe of Geoffrey’s parents. “From the Devil they came and to the Devil they’ll go” had been Bernard’s terse judgment upon the Angevins. Would he bestir himself on Geoffrey’s behalf?
Geoffrey had been taken to a private chamber rather than to the large infirmary hall and, from the window, Gerard had a view of the abbey garth, watching without interest as riders were admitted. But then he leaned forward in amazement. “Jesu!”
That attracted the attention of the other men, and Morgan and Ivo came to stand beside him, though they saw nothing unusual about these new arrivals. “That man on the chestnut palfrey,” Gerard cried. “It is my brother Roger!” They looked at him blankly, unable to understand how he could be so excited about a family reunion when their lord might be breathing his last. Seeing their lack of comprehension, Gerard said impatiently, “Roger is the
