“I’d like to give you the benefit of the doubt, assume that you honestly believe what you’re saying. How can I, though, when you know the sorry story of Richard’s past history fully as well as I do. Does your memory really need refreshing, Eleanor? Must I remind you that last year’s near-war with Philippe ended with Richard riding off with him to Paris? Or that all reports had them acting closer than brothers? Have you forgotten what Richard did next? He rode to Chinon, seized the treasury I kept there, and hastened into Poitou to fortify all his castles against me.”
Henry had been endeavoring to sound matter-of-fact, but he betrayed his inner agitation by the color rising in his face. “And that is not the half of it. Richard never fails to believe the worst of me. Indeed, I think it gives him pleasure. He nurses his suspicions the way a miser hoards his coins, and nothing seems too far-fetched for him to believe. I have even heard that he suspects me of providing money to the Poitevin rebels and the Count of Toulouse. Supposedly I am the mastermind behind all the strife in his duchy, hoping to create enough unrest to keep him from going to the Holy Land.”
“Oh, my,” Eleanor said, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “You know, that sounds just devious enough to have come from your brain, Harry.”
“I did nothing of the sort!” he snapped, so indignantly that she could not doubt his sincerity on this much, at least.
“I believe you. But you cannot blame Richard for giving it some credence. You’ve always been too clever by half, Harry, and now you are reaping what you’ve sown. You’ve spun such fine webs over the years that I suppose it was inevitable you’d eventually ensnare yourself in one.”
“I am glad that you find this so amusing.”
“Believe me, my lord husband, I find nothing even remotely amusing about any of this. I will not deny that Richard trusts you no more than you trust him. But why is that? Because of your determination to keep him in suspense about his heritage. Because you gave him reason to think you were considering Geoffrey in his stead and you continue to raise suspicions with the favor you show John. Because you even sought to take Aquitaine away from him!”
“I meant to deprive him of nothing! I was only trying to provide properly for Johnny, as any father would. You keep blaming me for not acknowledging Richard as my heir. Well, I offered to do just that after Hal died. But Richard scorned the offer, surely the only man in Christendom who’d choose a duchy over a kingdom!”
“Dear God in Heaven!” Eleanor was staring at him in dismay. “You have not given up on that, have you? You still hope to coax or coerce Richard into yielding up Aquitaine to John!”
He was too angry to deny it. “What if I do? As you delight in reminding me, Aquitaine is your legacy. It makes more political sense to have it ruled by its own duke, as Brittany is. If Richard becomes king, he’ll have little time for personal rule over that hornet’s nest of rebels and malcontents!”
“‘If Richard becomes king?’ That truly goes to the heart of the matter, to your reluctance to anoint your successor. The only thing worse than not learning from your mistakes is learning the wrong lessons. Richard is not Hal, and your refusal to see that may end up costing you dearly!”
He glared at her, then swung around to stalk out. He halted at the door, though, standing motionless for a moment and then slamming his fist into the heavy oaken wood. When he turned back to face her, his mask was gone. “Do you think I wanted it this way? I loved my father dearly, never imagined that my sons would not love me.”
“Ah, Harry…”
“I lost Hal and then Geoffrey, and Richard…he was always yours, never mine. If it were not for Johnny…Can you not see why I want to do right by him? He is all I have left.”
She was shocked by what he’d just done, dropping his defenses to give her a glimpse of an open, bleeding wound. Crossing the chamber, she came into his arms. He held her so tightly that it hurt and they stood like that for a timeless moment, one in which they recognized all that still bound them together and mourned all that had been lost.
When Henry released her and stepped back, he was once more in control of himself. “I would ask you to come with me to the Holy Land,” he said lightly, “but it has been agreed that women are to be banned from the expedition, save only laundresses of good character.”
“My legacy, I daresay,” she said with a smile. “Apparently the stories of my pilgrimage with Louis have passed into legend.” He smiled, too, encouraging her to make one last attempt. “Harry, I am imploring you to give some thought to what I’ve said. There is still time to make things right with Richard.”
She’d half expected him to react in anger again. Instead, he took her hand in his, pressed his lips to her palm, wondering if their marriage might have been different if she’d given to him the utter, unconditional loyalty that she gave to Richard. “I hope Richard realizes how fortunate he is to have you as his advocate.”
She almost told him the truth, that her fears were not for Richard. Time was Richard’s ally, not his. But she knew he’d never forgive her if she admitted that she saw him now as the vulnerable one. So she said only, “I will pray for your safe voyage to Barfleur.”
Henry sailed in a violent storm, but he found conditions no less turbulent upon his return to Normandy and the rest of the summer was taken up with skirmishing, raids, threats, and futile peace conferences. At one held near Gisors that August, it went so badly that Philippe angrily ordered the ancient elm tree be chopped down. A second meeting in October at Chatillon-sur-Indre was no more successful. It began promisingly, with the agreement that Philippe would return the gains he’d made in Berry and Richard would relinquish his conquests in Toulouse. But then Philippe demanded that Henry surrender his castle at Pacy as a “good faith pledge,” and the council broke up in acrimony.
Richard’s frustration grew by the day, for he could not depart for the Holy Land as long as this sporadic war raged between England and France. He received some unexpected support that autumn when the Count of Flanders, the Counts of Blois and Champagne, and other French lords balked at continuing to wage war against their fellow crusaders, and faced with the defection of a large part of his army, Philippe reluctantly agreed when Richard proposed another peace council at Bonsmoulins in November. Henry was willing, too, and Richard set the plans in motion. But he was determined to end this impasse one way or another, and he had a secret parley with the French king before they were to gather at Bonsmoulins.
C HAPTER F IFTY-TWO
November 1188
Bonsmoulins, Normandy
Richard’s new Chancellor, Guillaume de Longchamp, was meeting his duke at the Cistercian abbey of La Trappe, not far from the conference site at Bonsmoulins. He was unpopular with Richard’s knights, partly because of their natural distrust of clerks and partly because of Longchamp’s physical flaws. The young men agreed that Longchamp was one of the ugliest individuals they’d ever seen: short and swarthy, with close-set black eyes, a flat nose, and a receding chin. Moreover, he was crippled, lame in both legs, and theirs was a world in which deformity was often seen as the outer manifestation of inner evil.
As the chancellor limped toward the abbey guest hall, he was aware of the hostile scrutiny of a handful of Richard’s knights. He knew what was said of him, that they referred to him behind his back as a “dwarf” and “elf” and “gargoyle.” He knew, too, that they resented him all the more because he was not meek and obsequious, because he refused to act like one of society’s misfits. He believed that his superior intellect mattered more than his physical defects and saw no reason why he must defer to these fortunate young men with handsome faces and healthy bodies and empty heads. He could hear their muttering as he was admitted into Richard’s presence without delay; it vexed them no end that he stood so high in the duke’s favor.
Richard smiled at the sight of him. “Come with me, Guillaume,” he directed. “We need to talk in private.”
As he followed Richard across the hall, Longchamp took satisfaction in the disgruntled expressions on the faces around him. Let them call him arrogant and presumptuous. Their enmity did not change the fact that he was the duke’s confidant, viewed as utterly trustworthy by a man who did not find it easy to trust.
Once they were alone in Richard’s chamber, he waved his chancellor toward a seat even though he remained
