Ranulf whistled softly. Duke Conan of Brittany had wasted no time in claiming Nantes after Geoffrey’s death. It was only to be expected that Henry would seek to regain Nantes and punish Conan for his rashness. But it was quite surprising that Louis would acquiesce in it, for it was not in the interest of the French Crown to see Henry’s influence expand into Brittany. “Now however did you manage that?”
Henry’s grin widened. “Louis has decided to make me a seneschal of France, conferring upon me the authority to make peace in Brittany.”
“Very clever,” Ranulf said admiringly, for that was an adroit, face-saving maneuver, giving Henry the authority to intervene in Brittany without eroding any of the French Crown’s purported sovereignty over the duchy. “I’d wager that was your idea and not Louis’s.”
“Actually,” Henry conceded cheerfully, “it was Eleanor’s. Women seem to have a natural instinct for subtlety.”
Becket was frowning impatiently. “But what of the rest, Harry? Has the deal been struck?”
Henry playfully dragged out the suspense before nodding. “You sowed the seeds well, Thomas. It was only for me to harvest the crop. Louis has agreed to cede me the Vexin.”
Becket looked gratified, but Ranulf was dumbfounded. As the high price of recognizing first Geoffrey of Anjou and then his son Henry as successive Dukes of Normandy, the French king had demanded that the Vexin be yielded up. But the castles of the Vexin controlled the River Seine from Paris to Rouen, making it much too strategic for Henry to accept its loss with good grace. Ranulf knew how determined his nephew was to recover the Vexin. He could not imagine what bait he might have used to tempt Louis into giving it up. “Good God Almighty,” he said, “what did you do-cast a spell upon the man?”
Henry was obviously enjoying himself. “The Vexin,” he said, “cannot compare to a crown, and that is what we are offering Louis: the opportunity to see his daughter as Queen of England one day.”
Ranulf was speechless. Louis’s Spanish queen, Constance, had given him a daughter early in the year, a bitter disappointment to a man desperate to have sons. It did not surprise Ranulf that Louis would contract a marriage for the little girl at such an early age; that was the way of their world. But as pragmatic as people were about marital unions, it still had not occurred to him that a match could be made between Eleanor’s son and Louis’s daughter. Could the children truly wade to the altar through so much bad blood?
“Louis agreed to this marriage?” he asked, sounding so incredulous that both Henry and Becket laughed.
“Indeed he did, Uncle. Our eldest lad will wed Louis’s little lass when they are of a suitable age, and the Vexin will be her marriage portion. The Knights Templar are to hold the castles of Gisors, Neaufles, and Neufcha tel until the marriage takes place, at which time they will be yielded to me. Louis did prove prickly on one point, though. He refused flat-out to allow his daughter to be raised at our court, in accordance with custom. Whilst he was too well-mannered to say so, it was plain that he fears Eleanor would exert a sinister influence upon the child! I had to agree that Marguerite would be looked after in Normandy by that pillar of rectitude, Robert de Newburgh.”
Becket was glowing with satisfaction. “I had my doubts that we’d ever bring this to fruition,” he confessed to Ranulf. “When Harry first proposed the idea to me, the sheer audacity of it well nigh took my breath away. Even after Louis showed an interest, I feared it could all fall apart at any moment. Fortunately for us, Louis retains a monkish distrust of the female sex and blames Eleanor far more than Harry.”
“Yet even a crown would not have been enough,” Ranulf pointed out, “had Louis not taken to Harry straightaway. That is what baffles me. How in God’s Name did you win him over, Harry?”
Henry’s mouth quirked. “Must you make it sound as if I’ve been practicing the Black Arts upon the poor man? The truth is far simpler. There is a bond between us, as kings. And we could each find qualities to respect in the other. It surprised me somewhat, I admit, for I did not expect it. But Louis is an easy man to like.” He laughed then, silently. “And if you love me, Uncle, do not ever quote me on that to Eleanor!”
After a highly successful visit to Paris, Henry headed west to deal with the Duke of Brittany. That proved easier than he’d anticipated, for Conan wanted no war with the King of England. Hastening to meet Henry at Avranches, he made peace by yielding up Nantes. Henry then rode into Poitou, where he taught a sharp lesson to one of Eleanor’s more troublesome vassals, the Viscount of Thouars, in just three days capturing a castle that was said to be invincible.
In England, Eleanor gave birth on September 23 to another son, naming the baby Geoffrey in honor of her husband’s father.
A cold November rain had been falling since dawn. Rhiannon was seated so close to the hearth that Maud kept an uneasy eye upon her, not totally trusting Rhiannon’s insistence that she could judge the fire’s distance accurately by its heat. Absently stroking Eleanor’s favorite greyhound, Rhiannon was struggling to keep her depression at bay. She’d begun to envision her homesickness as a wolf stalking her relentlessly across the English countryside. Kent, Hampshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire, Devon shire. The shire names meant nothing to Rhiannon, blurred one into the other. She’d known that the English royal court was migratory, but she’d not anticipated that Eleanor would spend so little time in any one place, so much time on the road. She could have elected to remain behind, but she preferred the hardships of travel to the alternative: time to dwell upon her unhappiness.
Eleanor was acting as co-regent with Henry’s two justiciars, and Rhiannon was impressed by the sheer volume of work that entailed, especially for a woman just two months risen from childbed. But Eleanor seemed to thrive on it, holding court and issuing writs in her absent husband’s name. As November drew to a damp, chilly close, they reached Old Sarum, where Eleanor settled a dispute in favor of Ranulf’s niece Maud, Countess of Chester. Rhiannon hoped they would linger here for a while, but she wasn’t counting upon it.
Letters from their husbands had been few and far between. Ranulf had written to describe Henry’s entry into Paris, as deliberately understated as Becket’s had been ostentatious. Modestly declining all ceremonial honors, Henry had impressed the Parisians by traveling with a small escort, visiting the city’s shrines, and graciously deferring to his host, the French king, at every opportunity. The letter was circumspect, for Ranulf knew it must be read to Rhiannon, but his unspoken amusement echoed throughout the narrative. It was becoming all too evident to Rhiannon that he was enjoying himself, and so she was not totally surprised when he explained that he felt honor-bound to accompany his nephew on an expedition against the rebellious Viscount of Thouars. Rhiannon had been assuring her mutinous young son that they’d be home for Christmas. But in recent weeks, she’d begun to wonder if their English exile might last far longer.
She’d not seen her children for hours. Gilbert was laboring over his lessons with Maud’s youngest son, who’d soon be sent off to serve as a page in some noble household, as his elder brother had. Mallt was in the nursery with Eleanor’s children, under a nurse’s care; it had shocked Rhiannon to realize how little the queen was involved in their daily routine. She supposed that was why royalty could bear to send their children away to be raised by strangers. Ever since she’d learned that the French queen would be yielding up her infant daughter to Henry, she’d been overwhelmed with pity for Constance. Princesses were bartered away for peace, for gain, for gold, their futures often determined while they were still in the cradle. Constance would have known that, expected that. But Rhiannon found herself wondering if the mother was as accommodating as the queen.
Across the hall, Eleanor was conversing with her husband’s justiciars, Richard de Lucy and Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester. Maud and Eleanor’s sister, Petronilla, were playing a game of hazard, under the disapproving eye of the Bishop of Salisbury, who felt that gambling was an even greater sin when engaged in by the female sex. Left to her own devices on this rain-soaked afternoon, Rhiannon let her defenses slip. Her sister was with child again, the babe due in January. Eleri’s two earlier pregnancies had been difficult ones, her birthings prolonged and painful. She ought to be there for Eleri, not stranded here at the English court, feeling like a flower put down in foreign soil.