made at Chatillon-sur-Indre, declaring that he was willing to submit his dispute with the Count of Toulouse to the judgment of the French court if that would end the hostilities, Henry needed little to convince himself that they were secretly in league against him, for Eleanor’s charge had been right. He did not trust his eldest son.
The first day had gone well enough, with all parties maintaining civility. By the second day, tempers had begun to fray, and by the third day, negotiations had become so heated that Henry and Philippe’s knights were keeping their hands on their sword hilts. As was customary, they were meeting in an open field not far from Bonsmoulins Castle, and the blustery November weather only added to the general sense of discontent and distrust. But even Henry’s bleak expectations had not prepared him for what was to come.
The cold and the damp seemed to have penetrated to the very marrow of his bones and his bad leg was aching, but Henry would not show weakness by requesting a chair. His physical discomfort was just one more aggravation on a day of many. So far little progress had been made, despite the best efforts of the Norman and French bishops, who feared that their holy crusade might be doomed before it even began. And by mid-afternoon, Henry’s patience had run out.
“This is a waste of all our time,” he said curtly. “For three days we have been wrangling like barn cats, and what have we accomplished? We’ve agreed on a truce to last till St Hilary’s Day! Unless you have a new proposal to make, my lord king of the French, I suggest we put an end to this trumpery, resume once you are truly interested in reaching terms.”
“We can settle our differences here and now,” Philippe said coolly. “We have but two demands to make and are willing to overlook all our other grievances if you are prepared to concede on these two points.”
Henry’s eyes turned accusingly toward Richard. “Does he speak for you now?”
“In this, he does.” Before Philippe could continue, though, Richard stepped forward. “But first I would have a private word with you, my lord father.”
This was the first time that Richard had even acknowledged their blood bond, and Henry nodded his agreement. They walked away from the others, coming to a stop under a gnarled oak, stripped bare by the winter winds. “I want to caution you,” Richard said bluntly, “to think carefully ere you answer us. There is no room for compromise here, and more rides upon your response than you could ever know.”
Henry scowled. “Is this why you took me aside-to threaten me?”
Richard started to speak, stopped himself. “So be it,” he said, and turned on his heel, leaving his father to return on his own to the waiting circle.
“I am willing to make a true and lasting peace with England,” Philippe demanded, “and to return all of the lands I’ve claimed in this past year. But in return, my lord king, you must at once hand over the Lady Alys to our keeping so that we may make arrangements for her marriage to the Duke of Aquitaine. And you must also order your barons and vassals to swear an oath of fealty to the duke, as your heir and king-to-be. Do this and we will be content.”
“I daresay you would be content,” Henry jeered, “and why not? You would be dictating terms to another king, meddling in English internal matters, and using the threat of war to gain your own way. I would be a poor king indeed if I yielded to French extortion or allowed you to crown my heir apparent. I’d sooner abdicate than betray my coronation oath and the promises I made to preserve and protect the English kingdom.”
Before Philippe could respond, Richard strode over to confront his father. “Are you denying that I am your rightful heir?”
“I am saying that I will not be coerced or compelled. Any declarations I might make today would be suspect and bring shame to me and to my subjects, for it would seem as if I were not acting of my own free will.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other, and then Richard slowly shook his head. “Now at last I must believe what I had always thought was impossible.” Turning his back upon his father, he unfastened his mantle, let it slip to the ground, removed his hat, and unbuckled his scabbard, handing his sword to the closest of his men. He then crossed to the French king and knelt before him.
“My lord king and liege lord. As Duke of Aquitaine and rightful heir to the English throne, I do willingly enter into your homage and faith and become your sworn man for the Duchy of Aquitaine, the Duchy of Normandy, for Anjou, Maine, Berry, Toulouse, and all my other fiefs on this side of the sea, saving only the fealty that I owe to my lord father, the English king.”
Philippe had listened with the glimmer of a smile. “We do promise you, my vassal and liegeman, that we and our heirs will guarantee to you and your heirs those lands that you now hold of us, against all others. And we do hereby promise to return to your keeping those lands we’d taken in Berry and to assure your possession of those lands you now hold in Toulouse.”
Rising, Richard accepted the kiss of peace from his new liege lord and then reclaimed his sword. “We are done here, then,” he said, and walked away without once looking back at his father.
Morgan’s family was not pleased by his belated decision to accept Henry’s offer. His mother had been very happy to have him home again, his brother could not imagine why he’d want to leave Wales, and his father was wary of him becoming entangled in the political turmoil roiling the Angevin Empire. When it became apparent that he was determined, though, Ranulf insisted upon giving him a letter for the English king, pointing out that Henry may have forgotten all about his young Welsh cousin by now in light of the ongoing crisis. “But I’ve always been his favorite uncle,” he said, “and if I ask it of him, he’ll be sure to find a place for you.” Morgan accepted the letter with thanks, but he doubted that he’d have to use it. He was convinced that he needed no other credentials than his link to Henry’s son.
And when he finally caught up with the king, holding his Christmas Court at Saumur in Anjou, his confidence was justified by the warmth of his welcome. Henry seemed genuinely pleased to see him, so much so that some of the other knights looked askance at this newcomer thrust into their midst. Morgan had always heard that royal courts were breeding grounds for intrigue, envy, and rivalry, and those stories seemed confirmed by the coolness of the king’s household mesnie. His first few days were lonely ones, and he began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. But he’d grown bored in Wales, missing the energy and excitement of the Breton court. In truth, he’d been tempted from the first by Henry’s offer. He could not in good conscience join the king’s service, though, until he was sure Henry would not be making war on Geoffrey’s lady. When word had finally trickled into Wales that Constance had thrown her lot in with Henry rather than Philippe, he felt free then to offer his services to Geoffrey’s father.
He’d not expected to be treated like an interloper. Outgoing and sociable, he was accustomed to making friends easily. The rules seemed different at the royal court, though. It was shaping up, he thought, to be a bleak Christmas indeed, for the king’s anxieties naturally filtered down to his followers. But things changed for the better with the arrival of William Marshal, returning from a diplomatic mission to the Flemish court. To Morgan’s surprised pleasure, the celebrated older knight greeted him as if they were comrades of long standing and his approval was enough to win acceptance for the king’s newest knight.
Morgan was very flattered by Will’s friendliness because the older man had risen in the world since their last meeting. He’d always been acclaimed for his battle and tourney skills, but now he was a man of substance, too. Henry had given him the wardship of an heiress and the manor of Cartmel in northern England upon his return from fulfilling Hal’s pilgrimage pledge in the Holy Land. But that past July, Henry had bestowed upon him a far greater prize, Denise de Deols, the heiress who would bring Will the Honour of Chateauroux. The castle itself had fallen to Philippe that summer, but Denise was safe in England, lodged with Richard’s unhappy betrothed Alys and John’s bride-to-be, Avisa of Gloucester. She was too young for marriage yet, Will explained to Morgan, but his future was now assured, and all agreed he’d done remarkably well for a younger son with no lands of his own.
As Christmas drew nigh, the weather took a nasty turn, and on this Friday evening, snow was falling thickly upon the ancient castle perched high above the River Loire. The night’s fish meal had been a modest one by royal standards, for Henry was ailing again and his cooks were taking advantage of his failing appetite to slack off. At least that was the view of the knights gathered around the hall’s center hearth. Hours later, they were still complaining about the inferior quality of the fish that had been served, grumbling that the sauce had been too salty and the bread hard enough to pound nails. Will and Morgan and several of the Marshal’s friends were listening to these laments with amusement, for soldiers had griped about such matters since the dawn of time.
“In one breath they’ll be claiming the wine tastes like goat’s piss and in the next breath asking for more,” Will said with a wry smile. “Though it is true that this was a meager meal to serve at a king’s table. I’ve talked to the steward about it, but he insists the cooks and kitchen servants are doing the best they can, pointing out that they’d not expected the king to celebrate Christmas at Saumur when Chinon is so close at hand.”
