Caen, 1182
Henry’s eyes swept over the packed hall of the Norman Exchequer in the castle of Caen with satisfaction. They had come in response to his summons. His sons were here, and together, in this fine new building, they would preside over a glittering Yuletide court that had been deliberately arranged to rival any that ambitious puppy, Philip of France, might hold in Paris.
The festivities were in full swing, the hall smoky from the fire that blazed merrily in the central hearth, and lit by a giant circular iron candelabra, suspended from the roof between the high arched windows. It was the early hours of Christmas morning, and the court, having attended Midnight Mass, was in high spirits, tucking into the traditional feast known in the duchy as Le Réveillon.
Henry was keeping a wary eye on his sons, who were ranged on either side of him at the high table. It was not going to be a happy gathering. The Young King had arrived in the company of Bertran de Born, whom Henry did not like or trust, and was in a foul mood; the King watched him sitting there sulking and pointedly ignoring his wife, whose homely face bore a strained, troubled expression. Henry thought it odd that for once his eldest son had not brought William Marshal with him; the two were normally inseparable, and the King approved of William’s influence on his hothead of an heir.
For Young Henry had not only upset Queen Marguerite, but had fallen out spectacularly with Richard, who was glowering heatedly at him down the table—their father had to ensure that they were seated as far apart as possible. The quarrel had erupted back in spring, in Aquitaine, where the young Duke Richard’s harsh rule finally provoked his volatile vassals to open rebellion. The evil genius behind this was the malicious adventurer Bertran de Born, who saw Richard’s oppression as the rape of his land, and had incited the Young King to join the rebels. Resentful of his brother having more power than himself, that rash young man had been easy to persuade. Not to be left out, Geoffrey, greedily anticipating the spoils of fighting, hastened to join him. Aquitaine had been abruptly plunged into war, with one brother against the other two.
For some months, Henry had no choice but to let them get on with it, having his hands full in Normandy, but as soon as the campaigning season came to an end in the autumn, and he summoned the Young King north, meaning to divert him from the bloodbath in the South, the arrogant young fool loudly demanded that he cede to him Normandy and Anjou. When Henry angrily refused, the Young King stormed off in a temper to Paris, where that puppy Philip—who would soon need to be firmly muzzled—had welcomed him with sympathetic arms and fallen to plotting with him.
Young Henry had stormed back to Rouen, demanding to be given the power that should be his. He would take the Cross and go on crusade, he threatened, if the King refused his reasonable demand. Indeed, he would prefer banishment to being treated like a subordinate. He was a king, was he not? Or had he imagined those coronations at Westminster and Winchester?
Henry had ignored the sarcasm. He had also ignored his heir’s demands, which left the young fool threatening suicide. In the end, worn down by the pressure, the King bought his son off with a generous allowance and sent him to live with his sister Matilda at Argentan Castle, where Henry had offered her and her husband and children refuge during their exile. Having given his oath not to make further demands, the Young King, with Queen Marguerite in tow, went off to join her household. Henry hoped that Matilda might talk some sense into him; she had a lot of her wise grandmother and namesake in her. But it seemed that his hopes had been in vain.
Henry had insisted, in the interests of restoring peace, that all his sons attend the Christmas court. Matilda was present too; she had grown into a handsome matron of twenty-four, and was now the mother of a large brood, of whom Henry was inordinately proud.
Dark-haired Geoffrey was exerting his usual charm, his ready flow of words smoother than oil, but Henry knew him to be slippery, grasping, and dangerous. He had few scruples—there had been disturbing reports of him plundering abbeys and churches at will—and although he was of tireless endeavor, he was a hypocrite in nearly everything that mattered, and certainly not to be trusted.
Where did we go wrong with our children? Henry wondered, sighing to himself, as his gaze lighted on each of his three elder sons in turn. Of course, Eleanor was much to blame, for seducing them into believing they could seize their father’s domains, and then encouraging them in their treasonable rebellion—but Henry believed that the rot had set in well before then. We both spoiled them, he reflected. I was as much to blame as Eleanor in that respect. And now we reap what we have sown.
Richard, seated to his father’s right, was reining in the famous Angevin temper, which he had inherited from his father, and taking pains to avoid his brothers. Only fifteen-year-old John sat stolidly enjoying the rich food and imbibing too much wine, while basking smugly in his father’s love and approval. It was good to be the favorite, adored son! But the atmosphere was tense, and it became tenser still when William Marshal arrived on the Feast of St. Stephen and, ignoring the venomous glares of Young Henry and the embarrassed fluster of Queen Marguerite, presented himself immediately before the King, his fine face flushed with indignation.
“Sire,” he cried, so that all the courtiers could hear, “certain persons are spreading calumnies about me, which touch my honor and that of this blameless lady here!” He bowed to the blushing Young Queen. “These foul lies accuse me of having cast amorous looks on her. In your presence, I challenge all those who have spread these falsehoods to let me prove my innocence and hers by ordeal of combat! If I win, I ask no reward but the vindication of my honor and hers. If I lose, then I will be hanged for my crime.” So saying, he drew off his heavy gauntlet and threw it on the floor before the King’s high seat.
No one spoke. Marshal was staring hard at Young Henry, as if daring him to respond. At length, the younger man had the grace to look away. Beside him, Marguerite was weeping silently.
“Will no one take up this noble knight’s challenge?” Henry asked.
No one did.
“And you, my daughter, what have you to say to these calumnies?” Henry demanded, fixing a stern eye on Marguerite.
“Marshal spoke truth, my lord. They are malicious lies,” she insisted, casting a sideways glance at Bertran de Born. Henry nodded, satisfied, then turned back to Marshal.
“It seems that those who have slandered you are craven, and afraid to defend themselves,” he observed.
Marshal knelt before the King, his face a mirror of distress. “I had hoped that God would make my innocence manifest,” he declared. “Forgive me, sire, but I cannot remain in a place where my enemies hide their faces. I beg leave to depart. I am bound on pilgrimage to the shrine of the Magi at Cologne.”
“In truth, I am sorry to see you depart, old friend,” Henry said, glaring at his eldest son and the smirking Bertran, who had clearly seen off the rival who would have counseled prudence rather than pursue some hot-headed scheme.
But Bertran had not finished stirring up trouble. He played on the Young King’s insecurities and grievances.
“There goes the Prince of Cravens,” he sneered when Richard was within earshot. “Did you know he has built a castle on your land?”