Henry came to the bedside and took his father’s hand. ‘There is nothing else I can do,’ he replied.

‘Hah, you never could sit still,’ Geoffrey said. ‘That is a lesson you could learn from Hamelin.’ He nodded at his bastard son, who sat on a chair by the hearth in the bedchamber, his head bent over his clasped hands, his despair almost palpable.

‘I can be still when I am dead.’

Geoffrey gave a snort of bleak amusement. ‘You are a great comfort to me.’

‘You would not want me to be still.’

‘Sometimes it would be an advantage. Sit. I want to talk to you while I still have breath and reason.’

Reluctantly, Henry took his place at the bedside. It was his duty to keep vigil, but all he wanted to do was saddle his horse and ride like the wind to outstrip death.

Geoffrey summoned his reserves and spoke with sucking pauses for breath. ‘You are my heir. Anjou will be yours as well as Normandy.’

Henry flushed. So much for his younger brother’s constant demands that Anjou should be his. He was glad his father saw eye to eye with him on that score. ‘I will govern and exalt them well,’ he said.

‘See that you do. Do not let me down in this.’ Geoffrey was silent for a time, and closed his eyes while he mustered the energy to speak again. ‘But your brothers must have something. I leave William’s gift to your discretion, but I want you to give Geoffrey his due.’

Henry stiffened. That was not so good. The only due that Geoffrey deserved was a kick in the braies. ‘His due, sire?’

‘He is to have the castles of Chinon, Loudun and Mirebeau. These are the traditional heritage of a younger son.’

Henry tightened his lips. He had no intention of letting his younger brother have control of those castles. They were too strategic and important. He knew full well that the upstart desired all of Anjou. He would not be content with such an inheritance, and would only use it to foment rebellion.

‘Do you hear me?’ Geoffrey demanded hoarsely.

‘Yes, sire,’ Henry muttered.

‘Then swear to me you will do this thing.’

Henry swallowed. ‘I do so swear,’ he said through his teeth. There were no chaplains around at this moment to hear the oath. A dying man should not try to impose his will on the living.

Geoffrey bared his teeth. ‘I hold you to your oath on pain of my curse,’ he gasped. ‘You will also care for Hamelin and advance him. He is your right hand and sired of the same seed. I expect you always to acknowledge that. He will be your greatest ally.’

Henry nodded with more readiness to this command. ‘I shall look after Hamelin, sire,’ he said with a glance over his shoulder. ‘When England is mine, I shall find him a suitable heiress and lands of standing.’

‘And your half-sister at Fontevraud. Make sure Emma is cared for also.’

‘Yes, sire. I shall do all that is necessary.’

‘Good.’ Once more Geoffrey paused to replenish his reserves. For a moment Henry thought he had fallen asleep, but as he began to disengage his hand, Geoffrey tightened his grip. ‘Your marriage.’ He fixed Henry with a bloodshot stare. ‘Do what you must to secure your marriage to the Duchess of Aquitaine.’

‘Sire, I shall.’

‘Women are fickle and will lead you down twisted paths if you allow them to. Always be on top of your wife in every sense of the word, because she will try to ride you as women do with all men.’

Henry almost smiled at the analogy, but concealed his humour as he saw his father was in complete and grim earnest.

‘Do not trust women. Their weapons are not the blade and the fist, but the glance, the soft word in the bedchamber and the lie. Put your own men in her household whenever you can, and watch her carefully, for if you do not, you will never be master of your own domain.’ Geoffrey’s chest heaved as he strove to articulate the words. ‘Keep her with child, and make sure your seed overcomes hers so that she bears you sons; otherwise she is no wife. It is for you to rule and for her to provide what you rule.’ His grip tightened on Henry’s hand with a sudden surge of strength. ‘That is the way of God, and do not forget it, my son. I leave this in trust to you, as it was left in trust to me.’

Henry realised these were the last words of wisdom and advice he would ever receive from his father. He would no longer have that standard in his life, that solidity that his father had provided, and thus he focused on them with increased intensity. ‘I shall not fail you, I promise, sire.’

‘I know you will not. You are a good son; you have been a joy to me from the moment you were born. Remember me when you have sons of your own … and name one for me.’

‘Sire, I shall be honoured to do so.’

Geoffrey let out a breath that shook his body. ‘I am very tired,’ he whispered. ‘I will sleep now.’

Henry’s urge to stride about and do things had vanished somewhere during the final efforts of speech from his father. These were taut moments before the final stillness. The time between each laboured breath and the next. He had never been good at waiting. The world was too full of opportunities and promises, bursting like juice from a ripe fruit, ready to be devoured. And yet what did he have to give his father now but his word and his time?

Hamelin drew near to the bedside. ‘I heard what he said.’ He gave Henry a keen look. ‘And what you said; all of it.’

‘I meant it about an heiress and lands,’ Henry said. ‘But only if you swear fealty to me alone.’

Hamelin’s jaw tightened. ‘I will not swear you fealty while our father still lives, but when you become Count of Anjou, you will have my allegiance. I do not love you; there are times when I hate you, but that has nothing to do with putting my hands between yours and swearing to be your man in exchange for what you can offer.’

‘I do not love you either,’ Henry retorted, ‘but I would trust you with my life and I will reward your service well.’

A look of mutual understanding passed between the brothers, and they knelt, shoulder to shoulder, to keep watch.


41

Paris, Autumn 1151

Raoul de Vermandois had spent an enjoyable evening playing dice with Robert of Dreux and a few other courtiers. Some folk, Louis included, had retired early to bed because on the morrow the court was setting out for Aquitaine as soon as dawn lit the sky. The carts were loaded; the packs for the sumpters were piled up in a corner of the great hall near the door with an usher guarding the heap like a dragon sitting on a pile of treasure. It was a journey to begin the end of Louis and Alienor’s marriage. Once the tour of Aquitaine was complete, Louis would withdraw to France, and all that would remain was the formality of the decrees and the seal of the Church.

‘You’ll be a free man too, eh, cousin, with the Queen’s mad sister out of your life,’ Robert said to Raoul. His face was wine-flushed. ‘I warrant you regret ever laying eyes on her.’

‘I do not regret that, only what came to pass afterwards.’ Raoul scooped up his winnings from the game.

‘Admit it, you seduced her because she was the Queen’s sister and you thought to gain influence through the back door of the bedchamber.’

Raoul shrugged. ‘If I did, I would not be the only man at court.’ He rose to his feet and trickled a handful of coins into the cleavage of the courtesan who had risen with him. He did not want to be alone tonight. Felice was buxom and good-natured and exactly what he needed. ‘I’m for my bed,’ he said.

Robert raised his brows. ‘I can see you are, and with a nice soft mattress.’

‘That’s where I store my treasures.’ Raoul dipped his fingers between the courtesan’s breasts making her squeal again. ‘In my mattress.’

He left the dice table and took her to his chamber, kissing and fondling her along the way. His sexual appetite was voracious, although not in the ways Petronella had been demanding of late. To her, the act affirmed her desirability and convinced her she was loved. But the effect was always fleeting and the more he gave, the more she wanted and was still not satisfied. If he refused her she grew angry and accused him of wasting himself on other women. Well, now he was, and it wasn’t a waste, it was a pleasure. Knowing that Petronella was leaving with Alienor gave him a feeling of having been sprung from a trap.

He swung open his chamber door and pulled Felice into the room with him. She laughed as he pressed her against the wall, kissing her neck, rubbing between her legs. Suddenly she screamed and began pushing him away, her eyes wide in horror. Raoul turned and saw Petronella advancing on them, his hunting knife raised in her hand, poised to strike.

The sharp instincts of a fighting man saved Raoul from being ripped open. He ducked sideways and seized Petronella’s wrist, wrenching it until she was forced to drop the dagger and he was able to kick it away.

‘You son of a whore!’ she shrieked. ‘You son of a whore! I knew it was true. Everyone told me it was my imagination, but I knew it wasn’t!’ She struggled in his grip, trying to claw him. ‘You spurn me in favour of a whore! You disparage me with a slut!’

‘Fetch my chamberlain,’ Raoul shouted at Felice as he struggled to hold Petronella. ‘Rouse my squires and send Jean to summon the Queen.’

Felice fled.

‘I hate you, I hate you!’ Petronella sobbed, kicking and flailing.

‘That is why we must part,’ he panted, his face contorted with effort and shock. ‘There is naught left in you but destruction. You would have murdered me.’

She bared her teeth. ‘Yes, and I would have danced in your blood!’

For an instant he felt a horrible dark thread of arousal, but knew that to act on it would be vile, mutual assault and he was sickened by his own response. ‘You are not well.’ He gripped her hard, holding her away from him. ‘I will have no part in this. You must be looked after by those more able to deal with you.’