The Young Lion (27 page)

Henry dropped his head in his hands. Tears streamed down Guillaume’s cheeks.

‘Oh, good!’ Geoffrey said cheerfully. ‘You’ve guessed.’

They nodded.

Geoffrey grinned, but the poison spreading through his blood made his lips stretch in a sinister grimace.

The young men were so miserable they both wanted to return to their beds and their women, and weep. Henry asked, ‘Would you like us to stay with you?’

‘Why not?’ Geoffrey said. He suddenly recovered his old, sly smile. ‘Once you accustom yourself to its filthy taste, this medicine Father Bernard sent from Chartres is remarkably cheering. My leg is throbbing, demons gnaw on my foot, but I really don’t care. Have a cup.’

They sat each side of him and drank, the liquid burning their throats, but immediately they both felt cheered by it. Geoffrey rubbed his fevered head against one son, then the other as if he were a huge, affectionate cat. ‘What’s the point of sadness?’ he asked. ‘We’re all but guests on this earth for a while. And guests must leave at some stage. I won’t see you on the throne of England but I think, Henry, when I’m dead …’ He took a long swig from his cup.

They waited for the end of the thought but Geoffrey closed his eyes and began to sing in a ragged voice, ‘A Young Lion steps forth from …’

He spoke no words again.

He sang and made sounds but nobody could understand what he said. The priest who came to hear his confession announced he was at peace within himself and with the Saviour.

Exactly a week after he said adieu to Eleanor, on the morning of the seventh of September, Geoffrey died.

Corpse attendants washed his body, washed and combed his hair, shaved him and trimmed his nails. Rachel, Isabella and Maria arranged his hair as it should look, in long thick curls. Rachel rubbed something onto his cheeks and lips that gave them a rosy glow.

When they were done, Henry asked them to leave. He and Guillaume knelt beside the corpse and bent their heads to pray together that their work would be properly done. ‘Go first,’ Henry said.

Guillaume plunged his dagger between his father’s breastbone and upper ribs, cracking them apart. He left it to Henry to reach
in, push the collapsed lungs aside and slowly pull out the yellow sack of clotted blood with Geoffrey’s heart inside it. ‘It’s the size of an ox!’ Henry said. They drained the blood into a bowl, then wrapped the heart first in the linen they had soaked in the medicine which, they reasoned, would help preserve it. Around the linen, they wrapped a long strip of brown seaweed, then scarlet silk, then scarlet velvet, then a square of leather. It made a weighty bundle. They stuffed wadding into the hole in Geoffrey’s chest, and pushed the broken ribs and breastbone back in place. It was difficult to pull on his armour over his arms, but eventually they managed to cover his torso, and even to put gauntlets on his hands. ‘We’ll let the corpse-washers dress the rest of him,’ Henry said. Both were anxious that Isabella, Maria or Rachel might knock on the door, curious to know what they were doing. Henry left it to Guillaume to dispose of the blood and the heart sack. He made a dash for the coolest part of the chateau, where wine was stored, and hid his father’s heart.

Geoffrey’s funeral took place the next morning in the Abbey of Fontrevault. Broom flowers grew in abundance around the fields and in the lanes. Henry ordered the casket filled with it so Geoffrey appeared to float on a cloud of gold. His face was at peace and instead of a helmet, he wore his hat at a jaunty angle with a sprig of fresh
Planta genista
in its band.

Matilda and the younger children had arrived that morning. Matilda wept convulsively throughout the service and that night Henry summoned the physician to give her a calming physic, and sat with his mother.

‘He was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen,’ she said. ‘He was fourteen, and his cheeks bloomed with roses. And there was I, almost twice his age …’

‘Mama, Mama, don’t upset yourself,’ Henry said. But Matilda was determined to make a confession. ‘I was so ashamed, Henry.
Because I was a virgin. I’d been married to the Emperor for twelve years, but he could not … I never told your father, and so from the beginning …’

‘Why didn’t you tell Father?’

‘I felt ashamed for the Emperor. The poor man suffered excruciating pain when he tried …’

Henry gazed at his mother. She was seven years old when she was sent away to live in the court of the Emperor of Germany. All Henry’s life she had beckoned him to her, then pushed him away. Perhaps, he thought, she re-enacts what happened to her. I love her and I hate her. I’ve judged her without knowing why she treated me so capriciously. He mentally paused: she could have controlled herself, he thought.

Matilda was now almost fifty years old. Grey threaded her hair, but her fine-grained skin was without lines.

‘Your husbands are dead and now you’re free,’ Henry said. ‘Mother, enjoy it.’

Suddenly Matilda gave the brilliant smile that had created for her the reputation of being the most beautiful princess in Europe. ‘Thank you, son,’ she said. She turned on her side and went to sleep.

It was inevitable that Henry and Young Geoffrey would argue over their inheritance. Geoffrey had bestowed on his younger son the castles of Chinon, Loudun, Mirebeau and Montsoreau. When Geoffrey had asked Henry to promise that if he became King of England he would give Young Geoffrey Anjou and Maine, Henry had refused until his father lost consciousness. He summoned Guillaume to support his claim that he had not vowed to give Young Geoffrey anything.

‘It’s true,’ Guillaume said. ‘He refused to vow.’

‘You bastard swine! You say whatever Henry asks you!’ Young Geoffrey yelled.

Guillaume stepped back. His arm moved like a ribbon.

Young Geoffrey’s mouth gaped at the sword in Guillaume’s hand. ‘You’d dare …!’

‘You spurned my honesty,’ Guillaume said.

Henry also drew his sword. ‘Geoffrey, our father is not yet cold in his grave. Conquer Brittany if you want territory. Now piss off.’

On the excuse that much had to be done to cancel the planned invasion of England, Henry and Guillaume left Le Mans before dinner. They took four vassal knights and a change of horses.

It was almost twilight when they arrived in the Bois de Boulogne and stopped to ask if anyone knew the whereabouts of the Queen.

‘She’s hawking,’ a forester told them. ‘Been hawking all week with her white gyrfalcon. Hasn’t been back to Paris at all. Stays in her tent at night for feasting and singing competitions. The King complains they keep him awake.’

The brothers got directions for the royal tents, but as they expected, foot guards were posted around the area.

Henry and Guillaume had both changed into their most impressive hot weather riding clothes: white linen tunics embroidered with gold thread, blue cloaks to protect them from the dust, and gold boots. Henry wore a gold hat with a sprig of broom in its band. The sword he had chosen was his grandfather’s, with its rubied hilt. He and Guillaume had ridden into the wood on the black warhorses Geoffrey had given them on their return from England. They were not the fastest of mounts, but they were massive and comfortable, and no man on foot, as the guards were, could feel anything but apprehensive as the horses stepped slowly and purposefully towards them.

A knight announced, ‘The Duke of Normandy requests audience with Her Majesty.’

‘Her Highness is not to be disturbed,’ the guard replied. He was a small, officious man, helmeted, armed with a halberd.

Henry sent the horse an image: snort at him. The horse snorted. Henry sent another: lift your right front leg. Be ready to strike him. The horse lifted its huge hoof and lunged towards the guard, who jumped backwards. He could kill the horse with his halberd if he struck it just right – but more likely the horse would kill him first.

‘Tell Her Highness the Duke of Normandy, accompanied by his brother, brings her tidings,’ Henry said.

After a short wait several guards returned to conduct Henry, Guillaume and their companion knights to the Queen’s tent. They heard the sounds of revelry long before they arrived. An orchestra of ten musicians played and Ventadour sang. Male and female voices joined him in the chorus, some of them whooping and laughing.

‘They sound drunk,’ Guillaume muttered. He and Henry dismounted and stood beside their horses.

When the song finished, the Queen, accompanied by two court ladies, emerged from the tent. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. ‘Join us!’ she cried. ‘We’ve had the most wonderful day of hawking – my gyrfalcon brought down ten ducks …’

Her giddy mood evaporated. ‘You bring bad tidings?’ she asked.

Henry nodded. He made a small gesture towards the court women.

‘Leave us,’ Eleanor said. Her demeanour changed from its wild, huntress excitement to caution.

‘Where can we talk in private?’ Henry asked.

It was still twilight. She pointed towards the tent set up for morning and evening Mass. It was of a size to accommodate the altar, a few chairs and about thirty people on foot.

‘I would like my brother, Guillaume, to accompany us.’

She nodded. Her glances darted from one man to the other, increasingly anxious.

A young monk was inside the Mass tent, extinguishing its candles. ‘Stop,’ the Queen said. ‘Re-light the other candles, and leave us.’

Guillaume thought she trembled slightly. It was he who carried the bulky leather-wrapped bundle. Every so often she glanced at it. When the monk had left and they were satisfied they were alone Henry said in his softest voice, ‘I bring tragic news, Your Highness.’

Eleanor sank onto one of the few chairs and Henry, without waiting to be invited, sat beside her. ‘My father died two days ago, in Le Mans. It appeared to the world he died from a cut on his foot that became infected. But, lady, he died of love for you. He told us so.’

The Queen was mute with shock. She stared at Henry then at Guillaume, as if expecting they would suddenly contradict what she had just heard. Henry hesitated a moment. He then took her hand and held it against his heart. ‘May I fall dead if what I tell you is untrue.’

She continued to stare, dumbstruck.

‘His dying wish was that we cut his heart from his body and bring it to you, for you to know his love for you is eternal.’

Guillaume, who had remained standing, stepped forward holding the heart. The Queen began to shake uncontrollably, to whimper, then to scream.

‘Hush, lady. Hush,’ Henry said. He could hear the sound of guards running. As they reached the door to the tent all had halberds grasped in both hands. Eleanor, with great dignity, rose, turned to them and ordered, ‘Out! All of you! Leave us.’ She collapsed back onto the chair.

To Guillaume she whispered, ‘Open it.’

He unwrapped each layer until he held in his open palms Geoffrey’s big heart. The seaweed and the medicine had preserved
it well. There was no stench, only a slight smell of herbs and minerals. Eleanor leaned forward, took it from Guillaume and pressed her face into it. With that she began to weep until the heart was wet with tears and her own face smeared in brown blood. ‘Geoffrey, my Geoffrey,’ she whispered.

Her mind seemed to have left her. ‘Did he …? Was he …?’ she asked. She was unable to finish her own questions.

Henry guessed. ‘It took him four days to die,’ he said, ‘but he had medicine from Father Bernard that dulled the pain. He made a confession. The priest said he was at peace. He appeared to be.’

‘But I wanted him to live! Why did he die?’ Eleanor asked. She looked desperately from one son to the other.

‘Because,’ Henry said, ‘he realised he could never give you the life you deserve. He said – it shames me to tell you this – “I have neither the means nor the prestige for a woman of her great qualities.”’

Eleanor turned to Henry and with the heart now held against her own, grasped him around the neck. She sobbed inconsolably, rubbing the brown blood over both of them. Guillaume stepped back into the shadows.

From outside there came, again, the sound of running steps, in great number. A guardsman shouted, ‘The King! All rise for the King!’

Louis strode into the tent towards the row of chairs in front of the altar. Henry took the Queen’s arms from around his neck and rose. She remained seated, staring down at the heart in her lap.

‘Normandy,’ Louis demanded, ‘what have you done to my wife?’

‘He brought me a noble gift, sire,’ she said. Her tone was cold.

Louis took a step forward to peer at what she held. He recoiled as though from a blow to his face. ‘Offal!’ he said. He glared at
Henry. ‘You bring my wife offal from a horse!’ To the Queen he added, ‘You look disgusting. Like a woman who’s been lying in mud.’ He turned and left.

Henry said, ‘Highness, we’ll fetch water to cleanse your face. And then, if you wish, we’ll re-wrap my father’s gift and take it wherever you instruct us.’ She looked at him with the vulnerable eyes of a child. The brothers found a bowl of holy water behind the altar and while Guillaume held a candle, Henry wiped the blood from Eleanor’s face and hands with a pall from the altar. She sat still as he worked, as if she were one of his little sisters who needed her face washed. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she murmured repeatedly. When he had finished Henry tossed the holy water on the ground and pocketed the dirty pall. ‘Now, as to Father’s heart …?’

‘I shall keep it,’ she said. Guillaume had re-wrapped it and handed it to her. ‘My husband once gave me a heart made of ruby …’ She glanced at Henry, questioning whether Rachel had shown him her gift.

‘Rachel wears it daily. And thanks you each morning and night.’

The Queen gave a sad smile. ‘Any rich man can give his wife a heart made by a jeweller.’

Night had fallen. Henry and Guillaume bowed to her and, watched by guards who now surrounded the tent, returned to their waiting horses and knights.

As soon as they had disappeared into the dark Louis strode back to his wife. Eleanor was on her knees on the grass in front of the altar, hugging the bundle to herself. The King observed her for a moment, crossed himself then wrenched the package from his wife’s grasp.