The Summer Queen

40

Anjou, 4 September 1151

The early September sun beat a hard yellow light on the cavalcade of the Count of Anjou and the recently confirmed young Duke of Normandy. The road was dusty under the bleached sky and the horses plodded with lowered heads, sweat darkening their hides. Banners hung limp on their staves without a breath of breeze to stir the silks. The knights rode without armour, having consigned their hauberks and thick padded tunics to the panniers of the pack beasts. Broad-brimmed straw hats emerged from the packs instead and men wiped their faces and the backs of their necks with cloths moistened from their water containers.

Being red-haired and fair-skinned, Henry was suffering, albeit stoically. The sojourn in Paris had been highly satisfactory. In exchange for a strip of land and a few moments of obeisance, Louis of France had officially recognised him as Duke of Normandy. He and his father had their truce, which meant he could continue his plans to invade England, and even if he had to make a marriage with the Duchess of Aquitaine, at least she was beddable and would bring him great wealth and prestige. He could still have his mistresses on the side if he chose. When he thought of the lands that might be his, all strung like jewels on a necklace, it made him smile.

Last night they had stayed at Le Mans; tonight they would sleep at Le Lude, and then ride on to Angers to confer with their barons and household.

‘Christ, it’s too hot,’ his father said. ‘I feel as if my bones are burning inside my skin.’

Henry glanced at him. They had been riding in silence for a while, each given to his own thoughts. His father’s face was flushed and his eyes very bright. ‘There’s a good bathing spot about a mile further on,’ he suggested. ‘We could stop to eat and cool off.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘I am not hungry,’ he said, ‘but a moment out of the saddle would be welcome.’

Henry was ravenous. Even the oppressive heat had not stifled his appetite and the thought of bread and cheese had been at the back of his mind for the past several miles.

They arrived at a sandy bank where the river pooled in blue-green shallows and there was some willowy shade to set out a simple picnic. Henry stripped to his braies and ran across the warm grit into the water with a joyful shout. His face and hands were tanned red-brown from a summer spent on campaign outdoors, but the rest of him was milk-white in contrast. The water was deliciously cool once he was thigh deep, and he threw himself backwards to float, arms and legs outspread. His father joined him, also stripped to his linens, but when Henry wanted to horse-play and dunk him, Geoffrey fought him off and snarled that he wished to cool off and to be left in peace.

Shrugging, Henry did as asked and went to drown Hamelin instead.

Geoffrey eventually emerged from the river with chattering teeth, and refused the food his squire presented to him in a folded napkin. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Why would I want to eat any of that? It smells as if you’ve been storing it down your braies.’

Someone made a quip about a big sausage, which caused a belly laugh, but Geoffrey did not join in. Instead he went to hunch in a blanket by himself, a cup of wine in his hand, from which he barely drank.

‘What is wrong with him?’ Hamelin asked.

Henry shook his head. ‘Too much sun probably. His foot has been troubling him these last few days and you know how he sulks when he is in pain. Let him be and he will be all right by and by.’

Refreshed and rested, the troop dressed and moved on. Geoffrey struggled to mount his horse and he was still shivering. A short while later, he drew rein to vomit over the side of his saddle.

‘Sire?’ Disconcerted, Henry drew rein. His father’s face was still flushed and his eyes were as opaque as scratched blue stones.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ his father snapped. ‘It is nothing. Press on, or we’ll not reach Le Lude before nightfall.’

Henry exchanged glances with Hamelin, but said nothing other than to order the cavalcade to pick up the pace.

They reached Le Lude upon the hour of sunset, the sky the colour of a bruised rose in the west. The soldiers opened the gates to admit them and they trotted into the courtyard. Geoffrey sat on his stallion for a moment, gathering himself. He had been sick twice more on their journey and his whole body was shaking. When he eventually moved to dismount, his knees buckled, and only the grip of Henry and Hamelin, who had been standing close by, saved him from falling. Feeling the fire in his father’s flesh, Henry knew a terrible sense of foreboding.

Over the next three days, Geoffrey’s condition deteriorated. His lungs became congested and a violent red rash flushed his body: mute evidence that he had picked up the rougeole contagion while in Paris. The physician shook his head and the chaplain took the Count of Anjou’s confession. Unable to believe this was happening, Henry paced the sickroom like a caged lion. His father had been a constant in his life, always there, always a support even when Henry no longer needed a prop to lean on. They had often irritated each other and there was the constant friction of masculine rivalry, but nevertheless their bond was strong and affectionate. Father to son, son to father, and man to man. Henry wanted to be independent of his sire, but he did not want to let him go.

‘You will wear a hole in the floor,’ Geoffrey said, his voice weak and querulous with irritation. He was propped up in the bed, supported by numerous bolsters and pillows. The fever had lessened over the last couple of hours, but his breathing was laboured and his extremities were blue.

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.