their strategic location, forming a triangle between Normandy and Aquitaine. “That is satisfactory,” he said, smiling.
Henry had no time to savor the moment, though. Hal was on his feet, staring at them accusingly. “You cannot give those castles to John. They are mine!”
Henry swore under his breath. “We shall discuss this later,” he said hastily, intent upon reining Hal in before the other guests took notice of their dispute. “It is true these castles are in Anjou, but you will not be the loser for it,” he assured his son. “I will make other provisions for you.”
“Promises can be broken.” Hal glared at his father, fists clenched at his sides. “I was invested with Anjou and it cannot be partitioned without my consent-which I will never give!”
Henry’s face flamed. “I told you this is neither the time nor the place. We will discuss this later!”
“There is nothing to discuss.” And to Henry’s fury and frustration, his eldest son turned away, stalking down the steps of the dais and shoving his way through the suddenly silent crowd. Flushed with embarrassment, Henry could only watch. But Hal never looked back.
Henry paced the solar as if it were a cage, his fury rising with each step. Eleanor had made herself comfortable in the window-seat, sipping from a wine cup as she watched her husband’s fuming. When Hal finally entered, Henry crossed the solar in three strides, slamming the door shut with enough violence to reverberate out into the stairwell.
“How dare you shame me like that before the court!”
Few men could stand up to Henry in one of his Angevin furies. Even kinsmen like Ranulf and Rainald feared getting scorched by those flames. Only his cousin Roger was not daunted by the royal rage; during their clashes over Thomas Becket, they’d once had a public shouting match that earned Roger a reputation as a man who was utterly fearless and utterly foolhardy. But Eleanor saw now that Roger had a rival in recklessness, for Hal did not flinch.
“How dare you give away my castles!” he shot back. “And without even a word to me beforehand!”
“I told you,” Henry snapped, “that I’d make sure you were compensated for their loss!”
“I do not believe you,” Hal said flatly. “Why should I? You handle the truth carelessly, and your promises ebb and flow like the tides. I reach for one, and all I grasp is a handful of foam and sand.”
Henry could not remember the last time anyone had dared to defy him like this…not since Thomas Becket. “I am done with making excuses for your rash, heedless behavior. For too long, you have been playing the fool instead of learning the duties of kingship. You have done nothing to earn my trust…or my respect. Until you do, you’ll be kept on a short leash, and that is a promise you can rely upon.”
Hal flushed, hot color surging into his face and throat. “Say what you will. Your threats and insults and mockery will change nothing. I will never agree to relinquish those castles-never!” Blinking back tears of rage, he whirled then, fled the chamber before his emotion could overcome him, before Henry could stop him.
With a powerful thrust of his arm, Henry cleared the table, sending wine cups, flagon, and candles flying. Eleanor rose without haste, tilted her cup and poured wine onto the smoldering floor rushes. “I think the viscount would rather we did not burn his castle down,” she said, and Henry gave her a look that all but ignited the air between them.
“I suppose it was too much to hope that you’d be helpful,” he said scathingly.
She did not respond at once, regarding him pensively. Hal had nothing of his own, neither castle nor crofter’s hut. Yet now he planned to give three valuable Angevin castles to six-year-old John and he did not think Hal would be resentful? How could he be so blind?
“I could not take your side, Harry,” she said, “for I believe Hal is in the right. I would do all I could to mend this breach between you, I swear I would, if only you could see that…”
“‘Hal is in the right’?” he echoed. But because there had been no anger in her voice, his own anger began to ebb away. “He is a credulous, idle spendthrift, and, God pity him, a lamb amongst wolves. How can you not see that, Eleanor? I will not let my son become a puppet for the French king, and if he blames me now, so be it. In time he will understand that I was acting in his best interests.”
She was taken aback by the sadness that swept over her. It was both unexpected and unwelcome. She looked at him, this man who’d been husband, lover, partner for more than twenty years, and she felt such a confusing welter of emotions-regret, resentment, a painful sense of loss-that her words caught in her throat.
“I am sorry, Harry,” she said, and there was such sincerity in her voice that he forgave her with a fleeting, mirthless smile.
“So am I, love. Life would be far more peaceful if you’d given me only daughters as you did for Louis. Mayhap we could make a trade-Hal for Louis’s little Philippe. He seems like a docile, biddable lad.”
Even now he could still make her smile. “‘A docile, biddable lad’ would drive you to drink, Harry. It would be like riding a timid, meek gelding who shied at every shadow.”
“You’re right,” he admitted, wryly amused by how well she knew him. He did indeed prefer a mettlesome stallion, but he also wanted one that was broken to the saddle. Fortunately even the most spirited horse could be tamed with enough patience.
A gale was brewing, and by dark, the winds had picked up, rattling shutters, tearing off shingles, and testing the castle walls for points of entry. A fire roared in the hearth of Henry’s bedchamber, but he could still hear the muted sounds of the storm, wailing into the night like the cries of the damned. That was an unusually morbid thought for him, but his confrontation with Hal had inflicted some deep wounds and he was still brooding about it hours later.
“Your move, Harry,” his cousin prompted, and with an effort, he forced his attention back to the chessboard. His distraction had cost him; Roger, a skilled player, had maneuvered him into an untenable position. To gain time, he signaled for wine, and one of his squires hastened over with a flagon.
Ranulf stood and stretched. He’d smothered several yawns and had begun to drop hints about the lateness of the hour. But Henry did not want him to leave, not yet. These two kinsmen of his could be relied upon to give sound advice, for Roger had a good head and Ranulf a good heart. Once he’d summoned them, though, he’d found himself reluctant to unburden himself, not wanting to start the bleeding again. His son’s defiance hurt more than he was willing to admit, and talking about it would change nothing.
But if he did not want to confide in them, he still wanted them to stay, trusting them to keep his ghosts at bay. Pushing away abruptly from the table, he said, “I cannot keep my mind on this game tonight. Sit in for me, Uncle.”
Taking the seat Henry had vacated, Ranulf studied the chessboard and whistled softly as he saw his predicament. “You are too kind,” he said dryly. “You could at least provide me with a flag of surrender.”
“When did a Welshman ever roll over and play dead?” Henry perched on a corner of the table, but he was too restless to sit for long and soon he was wandering aimlessly about the chamber, picking up and discarding items at random. This was going to be a long night. He briefly considered going to Eleanor’s bedchamber, but if he was no longer wroth with her, he was still disappointed by her stubborn defense of the indefensible. A pity Rosamund was so far away. Tumbling a wench might make it easier to sleep. But he could not very well ask Aimar to find him a bedmate, not with his queen under the same roof. Jesu, she’d stab him with his own dagger, like as not!
A soft knock at the door drew all their attention, given the hour, and they watched as one of the squires hurried over to open it. After a brief exchange with someone out in the stairwell, he turned back toward Henry, frowning in perplexity.
“The Count of Toulouse is without, Your Grace, seeking a few words with you. Shall I admit him?”
Raimon St Gilles was the last man Henry had expected to see, the last one he wanted to see. His curiosity got the better of him, however, and he nodded. Entering the chamber with his usual swagger, the count made a perfunctory obeisance, then said brusquely, “I have urgent information for you, my lord king. But it is not meant for other ears, must be given in private.”
Henry hesitated, but boredom won out. “Go down to the hall,” he told his squires, “and see if you can find some mischief to get into.” He stopped his kinsmen, though, as they started to rise. “The Bishop of Worcester and Lord Ranulf are staying. I would trust them with the surety of my soul.”
“With all due deference, my liege, I do not,” Raimon objected.
“With all due deference, my lord count, it is not open for debate.”
