“How gracious of him!” Maud exclaimed sharply, and then, “I am sorry, but I could not help myself. If you please, continue.”
“I caught up with Harry in June, ere he left for Gascony to chase down more of Eleanor’s Poitevin rebels. He seemed pleased to see me; I may be one of the very few whose friendship with Thomas he is willing to overlook. He was in good spirits for a man who’d spent the spring putting out fires in Aquitaine whilst attempting to get the Pope to absolve Gilbert Foliot and the others from their sentences of excommunication. I tried to talk to him about Thomas a few times, but he was always quick to change the subject; you know how elusive Harry can be.
“Still, all was going well until we attended Mass together on the third day of my visit. When Geoffrey Ridel entered the chapel, I had no choice but to depart at once. Harry followed me, baffled by my sudden departure. I explained that I could not be in the company of an excommunicate, but that was not what he wanted to hear. One hasty word led to another and ere we knew it, Harry was ordering me from his domains. I could probably have talked him out of it, but my own temper was afire by then and I made some intemperate remark to the effect that my foot was already in the stirrup, which did not help at all.”
Maud could not keep from laughing. “I’d think not. A pity that neither one of us inherited our father’s calm, placid temperament instead of taking after our hotheaded mother! So what happened then?”
“I rode off in high dudgeon,” Roger admitted, laughing, too. “To his credit, Harry cooled off first and sent a messenger after me, telling me to return. I refused, of course. But by the time his third summons reached me, I was done with my sulking and so I came back and we made our peace. I had no luck in convincing Harry to end his estrangement with Thomas, but for the rest of my stay, Harry saw to it that neither Geoffrey Ridel nor any of the other excommunicates came into my presence.”
“What will you do if Becket goes ahead with his threat and excommunicates Harry, too? No, never mind; I do not want to know. I think we’ve dealt with enough sorrows and trouble for one night. Let’s talk instead of more cheerful matters.”
And so they did, discussing Roger’s studies in canon law and theology at the nearby city of Tours, reminiscing about the marriage earlier that year of Maud’s eldest son, Hugh, to the daughter of Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux, and sharing what little news they had about their uncle Ranulf, still secluded deep in Wales. Roger told Maud, with an enthusiasm she did not share, all about Henry’s ambitious plans to build a thirty-mile stretch of embankments to keep the River Loire from flooding. And she did her best to coax him into returning with her to Poitiers, lavishly praising the anticipated splendors of Eleanor’s Christmas revelries.
Roger demurred, joking that there were too many temptations to be found at the royal court. After a moment, though, he frowned slightly. “I was told at Montmartre that Harry planned to celebrate Christmas with his son Geoffrey at Nantes, as a gesture of goodwill toward the Bretons. Has he changed his plans, then?”
“No, he will be holding his Christmas court in Brittany this year.”
“I see… But Eleanor will be at Poitiers?”
Maud nodded slowly and their eyes met in a brief moment of unspoken understanding. A pall seemed to have settled over the room, giving them both an unwelcome glimpse of the road ahead, strewn with pitfalls and snares. Maud reached for her wine, no longer having the heart to tease her brother about his Advent abstinence. “Roger… do you think this will end well?” she asked at last, realizing that her words could apply equally to the troubles with Thomas Becket or the unacknowledged rift widening between Harry and Eleanor.
Roger did not reply at once, crumpling his napkin as he looked into the hearth’s flames. “No,” he said softly. “No, I do not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
February 1170
Caen, Normandy
Richard urged his mount forward as they passed Athrough the city gates of Caen, intent upon overtaking his mother. She smiled as he drew alongside, pointing out the twin towers of St Etienne’s, the vast Benedictine monastery founded by Richard’s ancestor, the conqueror of England known as William the Bastard. Working out the relationship in his head, Richard determined that this long-dead king was his father’s great-grandfather. He remembered how he’d once delighted in making mention of William because it allowed him to swear with impunity. He was somewhat scornful of that younger self, though, for he was twelve now and such childish pleasures were beneath him.
To the east was another great abbey, this one a nunnery owing its existence to that ancient William’s queen, and in-between the monasteries lay their destination: William’s formidable stronghold of Chateau Caen. Richard glanced again at his mother as the castle’s battlements loomed ahead. He knew she was not happy to be summoned back to Normandy so suddenly by his father; she and his elder brother Hal had been at Caen for much of January whilst his father punished rebels in Brittany. She’d only just arrived back at Poitiers when his father’s messenger had found her. Richard was very pleased, however, by this return to Caen, for he’d coaxed her into letting him come along.
He was not particularly keen upon seeing his father, for if truth be told, the man was a stranger to him, often gone for many months at a time. Nor was he that eager to be reunited with Hal. The two and a half years between them was still an unbridgeable gap, although Richard definitely preferred his company to Geoffrey’s. It was enough for him that this journey to Caen offered a respite from his studies and the novelty of unfamiliar sights.
Eleanor was well aware of her second son’s excitement, but she shared little of his anticipation as they rode across the drawbridge into the bailey of Caen Castle. She expected Henry to be in a foul mood, for rumor had it that his latest envoys to the papal court, Richard Barre and the Archdeacon of Llandaff, had returned empty-handed from Benevento, having failed to undermine the Pope’s obligatory support for his exiled archbishop. She assumed, therefore, that he wanted an audience for his outrage, and while that was a role she’d often played during the past eighteen years, she no longer had either the patience or the inclination to smooth her husband’s ruffled feathers or gentle his untamed temper.
The castle steward was waiting to bid them welcome and informed them that the lord king was watching practice at the quintain on the open ground north of the keep. Eleanor decided to get her first meeting with Henry over with as soon as possible, and refused to let herself remember those times when she’d been eager for their reunions. Sending her ladies and their escort on into the great hall, she cantered her mare across the bailey, soon joined by Richard, who flung a challenge over his shoulder as his gelding galloped by. Eleanor laughed, urging her mare on, and they raced onto the quintain field as a team, sending up a spray of mud in their wake.
Their dramatic appearance interrupted the competition at the quintain and they found themselves the focus of all eyes. Henry came forward to help Eleanor dismount. Richard had already slid from the saddle and received a playful clout on the shoulders from his father. Henry was grinning, and demanded to know who had won. Eleanor allowed Richard to claim that honor, her eyes resting speculatively upon her husband. He seemed in suspiciously high spirits and she wondered what he was up to now, for there was nothing about him of a man bowing to inevitable defeat.
“My lady queen!” At the sound of that familiar voice, Eleanor swung around toward the quintain, handing her reins to Henry. Her eldest son was sitting upon a muddied chestnut stallion, smiling down at her. Eleanor smiled back, and Hal skillfully reined his mount in a semicircle, gracefully lowering his lance with a flourish. “Would you honor me, my lady, with a token of your favor?”