Geoffrey raised his right forefinger in admonishment. ‘You must see the advantage. You will gain Aquitaine for the taking of a marriage vow. Your rule as duke will stretch from the Limousin to the Pyrenees and give you the resources to go forward in England and Normandy. If you do not seize this opportunity, others will, and you will be the loser.’
Henry grimaced.
Geoffrey’s complexion flushed. ‘Do not look at me as if I have offered you a platter of dead fish! An opportunity like this will not come again. I will have Aquitaine for my bloodline; I have been chasing it for long enough. If you refuse, I am certain one of your brothers will be pleased to accept.’
Henry glared at his sire. ‘I did not say I refused. Indeed, you are right. It is a great opportunity but you have sprung it on me. I was not thinking to wed just yet.’
‘I had been married to your mother for more than three years by the time I was your age.’
‘Hardly made in heaven though, was it? What did you say to your own father?’
‘That is not the point, as well you know,’ Geoffrey said, his eyes brightening with anger. ‘Alienor of France is an entirely fitting match for you and I will hear no more on the matter, is that understood?’
‘Perfectly, sire,’ Henry replied. ‘Do I have your leave to go?’
Geoffrey flicked his hand. ‘For now, but we must talk more on the matter because we need to be prepared before we arrive in Paris.’
Henry bowed to his father and managed to reach the latrine before he was sick, vomiting up the bread that had almost choked him. He hated being treated like a child and ordered around. He was Duke of Normandy and a grown man. He wanted to be free to do as he chose, not be directed by his father’s hand as if he were still an infant. And yet his father was right, and it was an opportunity they had to seize. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then he clenched his fist and struck the wall in temper.
‘What’s wrong?’ His half-brother Hamelin stood in the doorway. He was older than Henry by three years, a handsome, robust young man with tawny hair and changeable hazel eyes. For a short while until her death in childbirth, his mother had been Henry’s father’s mistress. Hamelin’s full sister, Emma, was currently dwelling in the secular house for women at the nunnery of Fontevraud.
‘Nothing,’ Henry said. He and Hamelin had a relationship built on grudges and rivalry, yet at the same time, they would fight side by side against the world. Henry’s battles were Hamelin’s battles, and if it came to a brawl between Henry and his two legitimate brothers, Hamelin always took Henry’s side – from self-interest if nothing else.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing to me.’
‘It’s a private matter between me and our father,’ Henry said, knowing he couldn’t say anything, even to Hamelin. ‘You will know soon enough.’
Hamelin pursed his lips while he decided whether or not to take offence.
‘God, I need to get out of here.’ Henry strode out of the latrine cubby hole. ‘Come, ride out with me.’
Hamelin’s gaze flickered. ‘Haven’t you got more business with our father?’
‘No,’ Henry said, his jaw taut. ‘We have discussed more than enough for now.’
Hamelin shrugged, content to go with Henry because there was nothing he enjoyed more than a hard gallop with the wind in his face and a good horse at full stretch. There was the competition too. Usually Henry won, but there were golden occasions when Hamelin beat him, and they were worth striving for.
Today, however, Henry rode as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels, and Hamelin had to taste his dust, knowing that something had seriously riled Henry, but at a loss to know what.
39
Paris, August 1151
Henry wandered restlessly around the chamber in the Great Tower that had been allotted to him and his father. The wall hangings were of good quality cloth, thick and heavy, and the walls themselves were painted with a frieze of acanthus flowers. A chessboard occupied a table between the cushioned window seats in the embrasure and there was an illuminated book of psalms should he or his father wish to read. It was all very tasteful yet opulent at the same time, and not what Henry had expected of Louis of France; but then in all likelihood this guest chamber was of the Queen’s design and thus interesting when it came to assessing her personality.
Geoffrey sat on the bed rubbing his bad foot. ‘Remember, not a word of the other matter to anyone. It has to be handled with the greatest delicacy.’
Henry picked up the harp and coaxed a ripple of notes from the strings. ‘And you think me indelicate?’
‘I was reminding you what is at stake, that is all,’ Geoffrey replied irritably.
‘I know what is at stake, sire. I am no more a child in need of correction than you are an old man in his dotage.’
Geoffrey flushed and for a moment his eyes were dangerous. However, he chose to be amused and gave a short laugh. ‘But you are still an insolent whelp. I do not want you pushing yourself forward here. We need Louis’s compliance.’
‘I shall be as meek as a lamb,’ Henry replied with a sardonic bow.
His father snorted with disbelieving amusement.
Louis sat on a magnificent carved chair in his chamber with a length of tapestry spread before it to cushion the knees of those who knelt in obeisance. Henry looked at the man whose place he would take in the Duchess of Aquitaine’s bed if their plans came to fruition. In his early thirties, Louis of France was handsome with striking pale fair hair and dark blue eyes. His expression was open and pleasant on the surface, but with inscrutable undercurrents. Anything could have been going on his mind – or nothing. His cheeks were gaunt from his recent illness and he looked tired and pale, but not without presence. His right hand rested on a sceptre with a decorated knob of rock crystal and gold, and a matching reliquary ring of rock crystal adorned the middle finger of his right hand.
Henry knelt to Louis because it was a formality to one’s overlord and because kingship was an estate to be respected, but he did not feel at a disadvantage and he was not intimidated. Louis might be the anointed King of France, but he was still a man, governed by the limit of his abilities.
Louis rose to his feet and bestowed the kiss of peace on Geoffrey and Henry. Henry concentrated on guarding his own response from Louis’s perception. As Louis’s lips lightly touched his cheek, Henry tried not to shudder. There was something fascinating but unpleasant about the moment. He knew he was playing false in a way that went much deeper than diplomatic dissembling. He didn’t want to be put in a position where he got so close that he gave something away.
‘I hope you are recovering from your illness,’ Geoffrey said to Louis with concern in his voice, as if he had not been earlier speculating to Henry about what would happen should Louis succumb to la rougeole and die as inevitably some did.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Louis replied. ‘With God’s help I am well.’
‘I am glad for that, sire,’ Geoffrey replied, ‘but at least your indisposition has given us the opportunity to negotiate rather than fight.’
‘Indeed,’ Louis said. ‘It is better to have the harvest in the barns than burned in the fields.’
Henry struggled to keep still and not fidget while platitudes were exchanged. In England the harvests of his supporters were constantly being burned in the fields. He needed to go there and deal with the matter, but had to resolve difficulties with Louis first.
One of the irritants to their dispute, Giraud de Berlai of Montreuil, was brought forward from the antechamber, still in his fetters. The iron had chafed his wrists raw, and he stank of the dungeon at Angers where his family still languished.
Louis sat up straight, the diplomatic smile leaving his lips. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘Why have you brought this man to me in chains?’