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?’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘He is my vassal but he has plotted to subvert me and he has plundered the monks of my patronage at Saint-Aubin. I bring him to you because he is one of the causes of our dispute.’

Bernard of Clairvaux had been standing behind Louis, listening and observing, and now he stepped forward and struck his staff on the ground. ‘What does it say of a lord when he is vindictive beyond all charity? You are abasing this man out of your own pride and anger.’

Geoffrey sent the Abbot of Clairvaux a scornful look. ‘If I was vindictive beyond all charity, this man would be dead – hewed and hanged on a gibbet long since and his family cast out to starve. Do not seek to lecture me, my lord abbot.’

Giraud de Montreuil stumbled over to Bernard and knelt at his feet, head bowed. ‘I throw myself on your mercy,’ he said, almost weeping. ‘If you and my lord king do not intercede, I shall die in fetters as will my wife and children.’

‘I promise you such a thing will not happen,’ Abbot Bernard said, his gaunt features set and grim. ‘God is not mocked.’

‘Tell that to the monks of Saint-Aubin,’ Geoffrey retorted. ‘If you want him, then bargain for him; otherwise he returns with me to rot in Angers.’

Bernard set one hand to the shoulder of Giraud de Berlai in reassurance, and fixed his burning stare on Geoffrey. ‘You shall return him nowhere, my lord, because your days on this earth are numbered unless you repent.’

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. ‘You speak neither for God nor for the King, old man,’ he retorted. ‘Number your own days before you count the time of others. I will discuss no further with you. You have no authority over me.’ Turning on his heel, he stalked from the chamber, leaving a stunned silence. Henry bowed to Louis, ignored the Abbot of Clairvaux and the miserable chain-bound former castellan of Montreuil, and hastened after his father.

In the stables, Geoffrey waited tight-lipped for his groom to saddle his horse.

‘That went well,’ Henry said sarcastically.

‘I will not have that Cistercian vulture hanging his black prophecies over my head and meddling in my business,’ Geoffrey snapped. ‘I came here to negotiate with Louis, not the Abbot of Cîteaux.’

‘But Louis must have done it deliberately.’

Geoffrey took the bridle from the groom. ‘As deliberately as I am riding out now,’ he said. ‘Let them stew in their own broth. We are here to negotiate, not to let them take control. This gives them time to retire “Saint” Bernard from the fray and now we both know where we stand.’

The Angevin guests, father and son, had arrived back from their ride. Alienor concealed her impatience and stood with outward calm while her women finished dressing her. Clothes and appearance were important tools of diplomacy, especially when facing the Count of Anjou. She had never met his son, the upstart young Duke of Normandy, and she was curious.

They had ridden in earlier in the day, but already there had been trouble. Although she was yet to greet them, she had heard that father and son had walked out following a sharp exchange with Bernard of Clairvaux. Alienor had taken small notice. Such dramatic gestures were a frequent ploy of political negotiations. By all accounts, the Abbot had retired to pray, taking the castellan of Montreuil with him, the fetters struck off, and Geoffrey and his son had returned from their ride and reconvened talks.

Marchisa held up a mirror so that Alienor could see herself in the tinned glass. A beautiful, poised woman returned her gaze and Alienor added an alluring half-smile to that weaponry. She had become an expert at wearing masks; so much so that sometimes it was difficult to find her true self beneath the layers: the laughing child in Poitiers, her future a golden, untrodden road, glittering with possibilities. ‘Well,’ she said to Marchisa, and her smile hardened like glass. ‘To battle.’

Negotiations had ended for the day with both sides wary as the dust settled from the morning’s outburst, but satisfied that progress had been made and understandings reached. As the courtiers mingled in the aftermath of discussion, a fanfare announced the arrival of Louis’s Queen. Henry’s heart began to pound, although he remained outwardly calm. It didn’t matter what she looked like or how old she was, he told himself. She was only a means to an end and he could still have his mistresses as long as he didn’t flaunt them in her household.

She was tall and willowy, the length of her legs hinted at with subtlety by the way her gown flowed around her as she walked. Her shoes caught his eye, for they were embroidered with tiny flowers and exquisite. As she passed Henry and he bowed, he inhaled a glorious scent that was as fresh and intoxicating as a garden in the rain. His concerns about her being a hag vanished in a single bound. Indeed, she looked eminently beddable.