Eleanor raised her head, and there was nothing of the niece in the look she gave him. “You have said enough,” she said, and Raoul knew better than to argue, not when she sounded like that. He excused himself, and Hugh soon followed.
“Madame.” When Eleanor turned toward him, Saldebreuil rose and limped over to her. “This does not bode well for a quick resolution of the rebellion. Your lord husband will never agree to honor your son’s promises, and Hal’s new allies will not be willing to make peace unless he does. Do you think you can talk sense into the lad, make him see that he’s blundered into a den of thieves?”
Eleanor appreciated his candor, the bluntness of an old soldier who knew his days were dwindling, freeing him to speak his mind. “It is too late for that. He has already struck these Devil’s deals and cannot repudiate them…at least not until he wins,” she added, with a queen’s cynical understanding of statecraft. “Damn Louis for this! The rest of them are no better than wolves on the prowl. But Hal is wed to Louis’s daughter, and he owed him better than this.”
Saldebreuil thought that Eleanor’s analogy was an apt one, for Hal was indeed a lamb let loose amongst wolves. Thankful that their young duke was not as trusting as his elder brother, he sat down again, for his bones were beginning to ache. “What will you do, my lady? If you send Richard and Geoffrey to Paris, there will be no turning back.”
“I know,” she said. “But you saw the looks on their faces. They’d set out tonight if it were up to them. How could I tell them not to go? I cannot do what Harry has done, treat them like feckless, flighty children. Richard would never accept that, and Geoffrey is already very jealous. If he were not permitted to go to Paris, too, he’d never forgive Richard.”
Events were taking on a momentum of their own and choices were being made for her, much to her dismay. If only she did not have to rely upon Louis. If only she could take command of this ill-assorted coalition. But men like Philip of Flanders were not likely to pay heed to a woman. And for a moment, she could hear echoes of Maud’s tart-tongued reminder that she could not take the field herself.
Looking up, she saw that Saldebreuil was watching her with the protective concern allowed an old and devoted retainer, and she mustered up a smile for his benefit, before saying grimly, “Raoul was right when he said that whether we are ready or not, the hunt is on. Hal’s rebellion has become a war, and it is a war we must win.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
April 1173
Rouen, Normandy
Henry held his Easter Court that April at Alencon. It was one of the most miserable times of his life. His rage still smoldered, yet the object of his anger was well out of reach, being lauded at the French court. He sent Archbishop Rotrou to Paris to fetch his son, but he did not have any hopes of success. He was still waiting, too, to hear from Eleanor. He’d dispatched an urgent message, instructing her to use her influence with Hal, but he’d not yet gotten a response from her. Not that he expected she’d have any luck in bringing Hal to his senses. The youth who’d betrayed him so cruelly and then fled to his enemy’s embrace was a stranger to him. It was almost enough to make him believe in changelings. And since nothing in his life seemed to be going right anymore, he was not at all surprised to get a communication from Rome informing him that on February 21 the Pope had canonized Thomas Becket as a saint.
After Easter, Henry moved on to Rouen and had Rosamund Clifford summoned from Falaise. He took little pleasure in her presence, though, for his world was out of kilter. The archbishop had not yet returned from Paris, nor had there been word from his queen. He lay awake at night, dwelling morbidly upon the events at Chinon, blaming himself for allowing Hal to delude him like that and vowing it would never happen again. Hunting offered a respite from the bleak landscape of his own thoughts, but incessant rains often robbed him of even that brief reprieve. The only happiness he had that April came with the unexpected arrival from England of his natural son, Geoff, who’d raced for Southampton and took ship for Normandy as soon as he’d gotten word of Hal’s defection.
Geoff was the oldest of his children, having turned twenty that past December. He’d been raised in Henry’s household, treated since infancy as the king’s son, and Henry was determined that his out-of-wedlock birth would not besmirch his prospects. His grandfather had done right by his numerous illegitimate children, and Henry meant to do no less for Geoff. Intending a career in the Church for the boy, he’d put Geoff into deacon’s orders at an early age and bestowed upon him the archdeaconry of Lincoln, but he had even grander plans in mind for Geoff, and was very pleased that he’d now be able to share them in person with his son.
The day after Geoff reached Rouen, the weather cleared and Henry seized the opportunity to spend the afternoon in the forest of Roumare west of the city. The season for hart would not begin until the summer, but roebucks could be hunted in the spring, and Henry was eager to try his new pack of running hounds, the best of the breed known as chien bauts. Returning at dusk with enough venison to feed a hundred of Christ’s Poor, he was weary and muddied and more relaxed than he’d been in many weeks.
Geoff deserved much of the credit for his change in mood, for his son was as passionate about the hunt as he was, and just as competitive. They were still squabbling playfully about which of them had brought down the last buck as they entered the city gates and headed toward the ancient ducal castle on the south bank of the River Seine.
“I know it was my arrow,” Geoff was insisting, turning in the saddle to ask the Earl of Essex for confirmation of his claim. “You saw the kill, Willem. Tell my father whose arrow brought it down!”
When Willem grinned and muddied the waters by suggesting it might well have been his, Geoff gave a hoot of derision, loud enough to startle his stallion, which shied suddenly and almost unseated its young rider, much to Henry and Willem’s amusement. Geoff was a skilled horseman and soon got his mount under control. He was usually thin-skinned about being laughed at, for like many born on the wrong side of the blanket, he was very sensitive to slights. But he was so pleased to see his father laughing that this was one time when he was quite content to be the butt of their humor. If he’d thought it would cheer Henry’s spirits, he’d willingly have been tossed head over heels into the Seine.
Upon their arrival at the castle, Henry ordered the deer carcasses to be turned over to his almoner, saving only a few haunches for their table that evening. He then took Geoff and Willem to the kennels to show them a litter recently whelped by Lerre, his favorite lymer bitch, and the King of England and his son were soon down on their knees, romping with Lerre’s puppies.
Rising reluctantly, Henry brushed straw from his tunic and bent over to give the mother dog a fond farewell pat. He lingered, though, in the kennels, for he wanted a private moment with Geoff. “I needed a day like this, for it has been a wearisome week. The Pope has been complaining that I have left six English bishoprics vacant for far too long, and since I am now back on good terms with the Church, I felt obliged to address his concerns. So I’ve been mulling over candidates, hope to have the selections made by month’s end.”
Willem and Geoff tactfully refrained from mentioning the reason those bishoprics had been unoccupied for so long-because Henry collected six thousand pounds a year from the revenues of vacant sees. Henry went on to tell Geoff that he’d written to the Pope, assuring him that the vacancies would be filled as soon as free elections could be held. Geoff nodded politely, trying to hide his boredom. Even though he knew he was destined for a career in the Church, he had little interest in Church matters. If it had been up to him, he’d have chosen knighthood, but he’d been loath to confess this to Henry; he’d do almost anything to avoid disappointing his father.
At the mention of “free elections,” Willem began to laugh. “It must be said that you have your own interpretation of what ‘free election’ means, my liege. May I tell Geoff about the instructions you sent yesterday to the cathedral chapter at Winchester?”
When Henry shrugged, Willem turned to Geoff. “Your lord father ordered the monks to hold a free election, and then he added, ‘But I forbid you to accept anyone save my clerk, Richard de Ilchester, Archdeacon of Poitiers.’”
Geoff grinned and the corner of Henry’s mouth twitched even as he protested that he was merely trying to
