Raimon scowled at Roger and Ranulf, who looked back at him coolly. “Very well. I shall rely upon your discretion and honor, my lord bishop, Lord Ranulf, for I am putting my life at risk by coming to the king.”
As he’d expected, that riveted their attention upon him. “When I swore homage to you, my liege,” he said, “I vowed to keep faith with you until my last breath, and I am here to prove my sincerity.”
His words and his delivery were too theatrical for Henry’s taste. “What have you come to tell me?”
“You are in peril, my lord. A conspiracy is forming against you, and the conspirators are very highborn and very dangerous. It is a plot that crosses borders, involving the King of France, the Counts of Flanders, Boulogne, Champagne, and Blois. They are casting a wide net, my liege, are seeking to draw in the King of Scotland, too.”
“What you call a ‘conspiracy,’ my lord count, they most likely would call ‘statecraft.’ So they are forging another alliance, hoping to protect their interests. How is this any different than what they’ve done in the past?”
“Because in the past, they did not have a rival claimant for the English crown.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Go on,” he said coldly.
“I am sorry, my lord, but your son, the young king, is an eager participant in the plot against you. The French king and the Count of Flanders have played skillfully upon his lack of experience and his poor judgment, convincing him that he can gain power only by rebellion. He has been persuaded that there is no other way to claim his just due.”
Henry opened his mouth to deny St Gilles’s accusation, to insist that his son would never betray him like that. But he could not, for there was a chilling plausibility about the count’s revelation. “How do you know all this?”
“I have many enemies, my liege, so I try to make sure that I am rarely surprised. I am sure you have spies at the French court, just as Louis has spies at yours. Mine are better informed, for they are better paid.”
Until now, Roger and Ranulf had kept silent. But Ranulf could no longer restrain himself, his suspicions feeding upon his inherent dislike of Raimon St Gilles. “You have made a most serious accusation, my lord count. I do not doubt that the French king is scheming with others to thwart the king at every turn. But I do not believe that Hal would ever connive to harm his father, and if that is what you are alleging, you will need more convincing proof than the whispers and conjectures of paid spies and informers.”
Raimon would have ignored Ranulf’s challenge had Roger not chimed in, too, saying skeptically, “I agree with Lord Ranulf. What proof can you offer?”
“To you, my lord bishop-nothing. I care not if you doubt what I say. My concern is for you, my lord king,” he said, swinging back to Henry. “I do not know the ultimate aim of their conspiracy. It may well be that the young king intends only to compel you to give him a share of your domains. Rumor has it that he has demanded you turn over England or Normandy to him. And I doubt that the French king wants to see you dethroned. That would set a fearful precedent, after all. As for the others, I daresay they have less interest in preserving the sacred inviolability of kingship.”
He paused then, for dramatic effect, well aware of the impact that his next words would have. “Alas, my liege, I have not told you all of it. You are nurturing vipers in your own nest. The young king is not the only one to heed the blandishments of your enemies. Your sons Richard and Geoffrey are implicated as well, doubtless swayed by their mother. For as much as it pains me to say it, your queen is involved in the conspiracy, too, doing all she can to turn your sons against you and stir up rebellion in her lands.”
Ranulf choked on his wine, began to cough so violently that he sounded as if he were strangling. Roger had long cultivated the polished persona of a prince of the Church, rarely giving others a glimpse of his inner self. Now he gaped at Raimon, too stunned to hide his dismay. Gratified by their reactions, the count glanced toward Henry, but here he met with disappointment, for the king’s face was utterly impassive, an inscrutable mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts.
“Is there more?” Henry asked, and his voice, too, was dispassionate. When Raimon shook his head, he said, “I will remember what you have done, my lord. Never doubt that.”
This was not the response the count had been expecting, but he’d obviously been dismissed and he withdrew reluctantly, disquieted and dissatisfied. Henry strode toward the door, slid the bolt into place with a loud thud. Only then did he turn back toward the other men, who were watching him mutely, no more able to read his expression than the Count of Toulouse.
“Well,” he said, “now we know where the snake went after it was thrust out of Eden.”
“Never have I heard such poison spewed from a man’s mouth,” Ranulf said indignantly. “Thank God you were not taken in by his malice, Harry!”
“I daresay there is some truth in what he said,” Roger cautioned, anxious lest his cousin dismiss the count’s warning out of hand because he’d gilded it with lies. “I do not doubt his claim that a conspiracy exists. Nor do I doubt that St Gilles has seized upon it to settle a few grudges of his own.”
“Eleanor warned me that he had an evil heart and a corrupt soul. I ought to have paid her more heed.” Henry had begun to pace, too angry and agitated to keep still. “I knew he hated her, of course, but it never occurred to me that he would dare to strike out at a queen, my queen. And he was not content with that, he must malign my sons, lads of fourteen and fifteen. A wonder he did not think to throw Johnny into the fire, too!”
Ranulf and Roger traded glances, for they both caught the omission-no mention of Hal.
Henry’s shock was giving way to rage. “I swear by the Rood that St Gilles will rue this day. I can only deal with one enemy at a time, but his reprieve will not be for long. That, too, I swear upon the Holy Cross.”
“What will you do, Harry?”
Henry had stopped before the hearth, standing so close he was in danger of being singed by the leaping flames. “On the morrow, Uncle, I shall go hunting,” he said, and at another time, he would have been amused by their bewilderment. “All know how I love the chase, so that will arouse no suspicions. Whilst I am off ‘hunting,’ I will send word to the castellans of my border castles, instructing them to lay in supplies, enough to withstand a siege, and to strengthen their garrisons. When Louis moves against me, he will find that we are expecting him.”
As Roger’s eyes met Ranulf’s again, he saw that they shared the same concern. And because he knew his uncle was too kindhearted for utter candor, Roger realized that it would be up to him. “Only a madman would credit St Gilles’s venomous accusations against your queen and younger sons. But I very much fear that there is some truth in his charges against Hal.”
Henry was silent for so long that they thought he was not going to answer. When he finally turned away from the fire, they saw there was no need for words; his answer was plainly writ in the anguished slash of his mouth, the glimmering grey eyes, the first time that either man had seen him on the verge of tears.
“I know,” he said huskily. “God help us both, I know.”
Eleanor’s dream was unraveling, besieged by an undercurrent of noise and flashes of light. She came back to reality with reluctance, instinctively aware that these were still the hours of night, the hours of sleep. As soon as she moved, she winced, for her thigh muscles were sore. Memory came flooding back-her husband’s return from his hunting trip, long after dark, after she’d gone to bed. She’d awakened to his embrace, his mouth hot upon hers, his beard scratching her throat. His lovemaking had been impassioned, intense, and yet oddly impersonal, for she suspected that any soft female body would have satisfied his need. His side of the bed was empty, but still warm, and she jerked the bed hangings aside, blinking in the glare of torchlight.
A quick glance at a notched wax candle confirmed her suspicion that it was much too early to be awake. Henry was already dressed, though. Sitting on a coffer, he was pulling his boots on, and she wondered if he meant another day’s hunting. “Why are you up at such a God-forsaken hour?” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her voice, but offered no explanation, and she sat up with a sigh, knowing sleep was lost to her now, too.
A servant had fetched wine and bread to break their fast, and Henry poured a cup, carried it across the room, and handed it to Eleanor. “I want you to take Geoffrey with you when you go back to Poitiers,” he said, and she looked up at him in surprise.
“I thought he was accompanying you into Brittany. Has there been a change of plans?”
“Yes.” But he did not elaborate, instead began to buckle his scabbard belt, further proof that he had a journey in mind. Eleanor tugged at her hair, finding it caught under her hip; she’d braided it before going to bed, but Henry had unfastened it during the night. Drinking her wine, she wondered where he meant to go if not into Brittany.
The festivities at Limoges were over. The Kings of Aragon and Navarre had departed for their own lands, as
