Solomons crown, p.11
Solomon's Crown, page 11
We stood in silence as we considered my failure. Richard bowed over so that his nose brushed my shoulder, and he began to laugh. “You are terrible,” he said, muffled by my collar.
“You were in the way,” I replied.
“Yes, I suppose that is true.”
“But I am also terrible,” I admitted, which made him laugh more.
I let him do so, and I let myself stay where I was, even as I knew I would eventually have to move. The tension had broken, somewhat; I had found myself again, somewhere in the haze of my desire, although my presence remained tenuous at best. But Richard’s lips were still hovering over my collarbone, and his palms were still pressed against my hips, and I was painfully aware how easy it would be to lose myself once more.
“Richard,” I said.
“Yes?” he murmured. He began to rub circles into my back with his thumbs.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Archery.”
I turned my head to frown at him. That was foolish, because our faces were now very close. His lips twitched in amusement at my expression. “Stop pouting, Philip.”
“I do not pout.”
“You do. Very effectively, I might add, so feel no shame for it.”
“If you will not answer me—”
“No, I will,” he said. “This is whatever you would like it to be.”
I stared at him, allowing myself to linger over the messy tangle of his hair, and the scar on his cheekbone, and the ears too large for his face. Then I thought of my father, who had gone half mad grieving the Duchess of Aquitaine after she left him; I thought of the map in my drawer; I thought of Geoffrey and the plans we had made. I reminded myself that Richard’s brother was dying, and that Richard was desperate to distract himself from it. Grief can drive desires that we later come to regret.
We could create a thousand grievances between us, for the sake of this single moment. I did not trust myself enough not to disappoint him. Eventually, Richard would realize that I was not what he wanted, and he would resent me for it. That resentment would be dangerous, once we both wore crowns upon our heads.
“I would like it to be archery,” I said.
Richard dropped his hands from my hips, taking a step back. “Of course,” he replied.
“Richard—”
He shook his head and gave me an uncomfortable, bitter smile. “It was archery,” he said. “Was it not? What else could it have been?”
“I…”
“Terrible archery, yes,” he continued, “but archery all the same. I commend you for the effort.”
It was an attempt at a truce, even though his teasing tone had an edge of genuine frustration. I nodded. “Thank you for the instruction.”
“Shall we go to supper?” he asked, gesturing towards the doorway.
I nodded again. As I put the bow back into the crate, I found myself digging my nails into my palms in some effort of self-punishment. It had been selfish of me to entertain Richard’s advances. I had guaranteed his disappointment, and mine.
When I looked up, Richard was gone. He had not waited for me before he had walked inside. I almost gaped in astonishment. I had not been treated with such rudeness since my father was king, and he had forced me to wait outside the chapel while he prayed. Once, I had stood there for more than an hour, in the winter cold. My fingers had turned blue. And yet—somehow—this still felt worse.
It had become clear enough that my interest was unreturned.
If it were as simple as a rejection, I might have feigned acceptance. But Philip would hardly look at me, even when we were forced together. At mealtimes, he was silent and solemn, staring blankly at his plate, gaze hardening to steel whenever it happened to meet my own. It was as if he wanted us to be strangers, but I did not have the patience to maintain the illusion. I would rather an argument than this tepid truce. Something had to give way: I began to stare at him openly, brushing my knee against his beneath the table, cracking chicken bones to make him flinch. Anything to provoke a response. I wanted him to snap at me, or else give me an excuse to snap at him. I wanted proof that he knew I was there. But he had refined his composure to a needle point.
By the end of the week, I was going quite mad, and Philip was only partially the cause. Harry haunted me. I saw him in every reflection. He wore my own face, but not quite my own; he was haggard, grey, eyes hollow with hunger. That was what flux did, it made food flow through you like water. One might eat and eat and never be full.
I had dreams, too. I had dreams where Harry knelt with his head upon the block, crowned with a laurel of thorns. My father would come, bearing an axe, and cut away his head; he would lift it up by the hair to display it, as Harry’s dead, swollen tongue spilled from his lips. Then he would fling the crown to me. As I caught it, the thorns pressed into my palms, blood streaming to my wrists. It was clear enough what such dreams meant, what fears they spoke to. They were no less terrifying for it, though, and no milder were the feverish, shivering sweats I would awake to.
One morning I emerged from such a dream and found myself sitting up in the bed, as if preparing to rise. The new angle of viewing made me confused as to where I was; I half stumbled off the mattress, in a panicked tangle of limbs and feet. I dressed badly. My shirt was tied sloppily, my boots half undone. I made little time for anything but escape. When I pulled the door open to leave, however, I almost collided with my courtier Bernard. He had his fist raised in preparation to knock.
“My lord, Geoffrey has arrived,” he said, realizing from my expression that I would have no patience for greetings.
“Geoffrey?” I repeated, and I stepped into the corridor. Still bleary with sleep, I scrubbed my face with my hand, as if to rub the dream away from it. “Good God, he came quickly. Where is he?”
“In the front courtyard,” Bernard replied.
“Has the king been informed?”
“Of course—I came as quickly as I was able, but—”
“Christ,” I snarled, and I marched down the hallway, leaving him in my wake. I made straight for the front courtyard, thundering down the stone steps to the ground floor. When I reached the door, I nearly tripped on a bootlace. I tucked it into the edge of my shoe, rather than spend the time to tie it. Then I stepped out into the sunlight.
I was too late. In the shade of the walls, I saw Philip and my brother, mired in inaudible discussion as the horses were led away. They were vexingly complementary to each other, both statuesque and slender; they had the same cautious elegance in their movements and expressions, each speaking softly, nodding and frowning as if engaged in some sort of Socratic dialogue. As the door swung shut behind me, they both stopped talking and looked up towards me. Geoffrey smirked. Philip’s face remained blank.
Geoffrey greeted me with “Brother” as I approached.
“Geoffrey.” I glanced at his companion. “Philip.”
“My Lord Aquitaine,” he replied.
“You look well, Richard,” Geoffrey said.
If he thought I would affect politeness for Philip’s sake, he was mistaken. “No thanks to your arrival, dear brother,” I responded, and Philip raised an eyebrow. “Why have you come?”
“I have news,” Geoffrey said. “Perhaps we should go inside?”
“News? Of Harry?” I asked.
“I—yes. I am afraid so.”
It was as good as telling me he was dead. Whatever anger I had felt at Geoffrey’s appearance drained away, leaving only a curious emptiness. My hands prickled, palms damp with sweat; as my fingers curled against them, the wetness felt almost bloody, as if I were dreaming again. I took a halting step backward, scuffing my heels on the base of the steps.
Philip glanced between us. I could almost hear the movements of his mind as he assessed the situation, like the winch of a trebuchet. “Inside,” he said, and we could do little but follow him into the castle.
He led us to a set of chambers I had never seen before. They were as well kept as all the others but lacking any evidence of recent use. There was a table in the center of the room, surrounded by wooden chairs; there was little else of note apart from the large tapestry hung across the back wall. I went to stand in front of it, unable to look either Philip or Geoffrey in the eye. It was beautiful work, if something of a macabre subject. The many-headed dragon of Revelation was battling against servants of God, lances skewered through each of its throats. Gore flowed from the wounds like tributaries of a river. It was a momentary distraction, and I allowed my head to empty as I looked at it.
A chair scraped against the floor as Geoffrey sat down. Philip approached me. He looked at me, and then the tapestry. He said, “It was my father’s.”
“Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “The tapestry. It was a favorite of his.”
I looked down at him. His eyes were scanning the tapestry with efficient movements, left to right, top to bottom, as if he were reading words on a page. Their blue color was so clear they reflected the red threads as a mirror would. His gaze lifted and met mine. When he realized I was staring, he flushed and turned away, moving back to the table.
I turned to see Geoffrey watching us with an inscrutable expression. Unwilling to sit, I stood at the table’s head, laying my palms flat on the wood and leaning forward.
“I was near Chinon when it happened, and I heard the news quickly,” Geoffrey said. “I made haste here, since I knew you were both in Paris.”
“How considerate of you,” I said.
“I am glad to be the first to tell you, Richard,” he replied, “even if you would rather hear it from someone else. Harry has died. He is to be interred in Rouen.”
I bowed forward, my arms briefly unable to support my weight. Philip said, quietly, “God rest his soul.”
“Amen,” Geoffrey murmured.
“Was it—” I began, and then I shook my head.
Both of them stared at me. Words filled my mouth, but I could not speak them. Philip cleared his throat and asked, “Does Henry know?”
“Of course,” Geoffrey said. “Harry wrote a confession to him on his deathbed, asking his forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness for what?” Philip asked.
“The rebellion.”
I scoffed at that, glad for the stab of annoyance I felt. It was easier to speak when fueled by anger, rather than grief. “We were already forgiven,” I said. “At least publicly.”
“I suppose publicly is not good enough, when one’s immortal soul is at risk,” Geoffrey replied. “Well. He got what he wanted. Father would not see him, but he sent him a ring as a sign of his favor.”
“A ring!” I repeated.
“Yes, a ring, with the royal seal on it. It is said Harry cried tears of joy to see it.”
Harry had felt such relief to receive my father’s mercy, but even on his deathbed he had sent me nothing, and he had asked me for nothing. Our last conversation had been an argument. Our last embrace had been when we were children. He had been absolved by our father with a trinket, gladly so, and yet he left no apologies, not even a letter for the brother once his friend. I said, with astonishment, “And so he shall dance straight through purgatory, no doubt! Since King Henry has cleansed him of his sins with jewelry!”
“Oh, Richard,” Geoffrey said, making a passable attempt at sounding scandalized. But Philip made a strange cough, clearly attempting to disguise a laugh, and we both turned to him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Pardon. Your father is…” he began, and then he trailed off. “A ring, truly? Instead of visiting his son on his deathbed? It is almost an insult, is it not?”
I said, “I should think so. He might as well piss on Harry’s grave, for all the ‘favor’ he has shown him.”
Philip had schooled his expression into one of stoicism, but there was a curl to the corner of his lips that betrayed his amusement. It was intensely gratifying to see such a fissure in his composure, as tiny as that fissure was. It struck me that he was simply too lovely to be sitting next to Geoffrey: a hyacinth in a patch of hemlock. I stared at him with a newfound, manic concentration. Philip could usurp whatever other images my mind supplied. He could replace Harry’s grey, dead face with his own.
Geoffrey sighed, folding one leg over the other. If he recognized my expression, as I stared at Philip, it was of no consequence to him. “It matters very little now,” he said. “Henry shall come calling for Aquitaine soon. You have months, at most, before he tells you to give it up. He will not name you heir until you do.”
“And we all agree that we shall not allow it,” I replied.
“He will attempt to negotiate,” Philip said. “Coerce, certainly, if that does not work. He knows this is a fight he is unlikely to win.”
Geoffrey agreed. “He will delay as long as possible. It is to his advantage. This—Harry’s death, I mean—was obviously unexpected; he is not prepared for battle.”
“Neither are we,” I said. “The state of your army, in particular, Geoffrey—”
He interrupted, “Unlike you, the entirety of my treasury is not devoted to war—”
“And that is cause for regret, brother, for if we now must go to war—”
“When we go to war, we will have had time enough—”
“We shall go to war,” Philip said. Despite his gentle tone, his voice was surprisingly loud, sufficient to cut off my sneering response. I had begun to loom over the table without realizing, and I fell back, chastened. “We shall go to war,” Philip repeated. “But some patience is necessary. We all need to prepare our armies. Meanwhile, we must stay the course, and maintain confidence in the alliance. Do not give Henry cause to demand more than he already shall.”
Geoffrey tapped impatiently on the table. “And if—when—the negotiations fall through, in terms of land…”
“You shall have Normandy,” I told him, taking a seat. I glanced nervously to Philip, wondering if he might call out my lie. His expression was impassive.
“And you, my liege?” Geoffrey asked him.
“Anjou,” he said.
“Only Anjou?”
“Yes.”
“Then Richard shall have a kingdom,” Geoffrey said.
“A kingdom,” I agreed, “and Aquitaine also.”
“And Aquitaine, of course,” he replied. “Tell me, Richard, how long have you been in Paris?”
“A week.”
“Not long, then.”
“No.”
“You wish to return home as soon as possible, I presume,” he said, “now that Harry is dead. You would not leave your lands undefended.”
Now that Harry is dead. To hear it spoken so casually was painful, as if someone had put their hand through my stomach and twisted. “And you?” I asked, strained.
“What of me?” he replied.
“Shall you return to Brittany?”
“I am not under immediate threat.” I opened my mouth to respond, but Geoffrey turned to Philip, speaking quickly enough to cut me off. “I shall remain at court,” he continued, “if you would permit it, my liege.”
Philip nodded. “You may stay as long as you need, my Lord Brittany.”
I made a noise of disgust and leaned back into the chair.
Geoffrey smirked. “Pardon, Richard. Is something the matter?”
“No, brother, of course not.”
“You seem distressed,” he said. “Are you so reluctant to return to your duchy?”
“Are you so reluctant to return to yours?”
“There is no fault in visiting the court of an ally, when circumstances permit.”
Had there been an appropriate object on the table, I would have thrown it at him. “And the funeral?” I asked.
“Harry’s funeral?” he said. “Come, now. As if we would ever be permitted the time to travel. I expect Father has already put him in the casket. He will be rid of him as soon as possible. Yet another failure of the Angevin lineage.” His lip curled in disdain. “Fuel for the pyre, nothing more.”
This was a fair summation of our father’s character, and one I could not respond to without revealing my agreement. I settled for scowling at the table. Philip looked back and forth between us, his lips pursed. I could not fault him for deciding to abandon the conversation. He stood from his chair.
“We have more to discuss, I know,” he said. “But I am afraid there are matters I must attend to, before supper. My Lord Brittany, I thank you for bringing us this news. I am sorry for your loss.”
Geoffrey nodded. “My liege.”
“Philip,” I said, by way of farewell.
“Richard,” he responded. Then he frowned slightly, as if angry that he had done so. As he left, he neglected to close the door behind him, and it slammed shut.
I stood also. Geoffrey frowned. “Shall we not speak?”
“We have spoken.”
“Not without the king present.”
“I have nothing more to say to you,” I told him. I ran my hand through my hair, tugging hard enough to sting my scalp. “Do you have anything of any importance to tell me, or may I leave?”
“Nothing that you would deem important, regardless of how important it is.”
“So, you do not.”
Geoffrey waved his hand dismissively in a swift, practiced movement. “Leave, then,” he replied. “But answer me one question.”
“What is it?”
“We are family, Richard,” he said. “We have shared history, shared interests. Will that count for something, in this alliance?”
“What would you have me say, Geoffrey? We are brothers in blood only.”
“And Philip?” he asked. “You would trust him more than me?”
“Trust him? Perhaps not. But I like him better, certainly.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Geoffrey replied, with all the weight of his derision, and all the implication that came with it.
