Eaglet - the reign of King Henry III

Chapter One
Before we start, a brief note: this timeline will be narrative in style, and will focus on a late 12th century Europe in which Henry the Young King of England does not die of dysentry in June 1183, as he did in OTL. I won't spoil the exact POD, as it should become clear as you read on. This is my first TL, so feedback and comments are very welcome. Enjoy!


CHAPTER ONE –


15th February 1183, Le Château Limoges, the Viscount’s castle

“Brooding, again?” Adam d'Yquebeuf addressed the young king, who sat staring at the wall.

“Yes.” Henry paused for a moment, then smiled, sardonic, and turned his head to face Adam. “And I shall keep brooding until this war ends.”

“It’s not like to end if you keep spending your time idle in here.”

Henry’s face twitched, almost imperceptibly. Adam could see that he’d struck a nerve, as he’d hoped he would. He pushed further.

“At least, not like to end in our favour.”

There, again, another twitch, this time a slight flare of the nostrils. Had he riled Henry into action? But then, no, Henry’s eyes turned down, his expression turned sombre. Internally, Adam cursed – push a bit further, then, try to provoke him.

“Of course, if you’re happy to see your brother gloating as he crushes the rebels, and us alongside them… Well, just keep on brooding.”

Henry rose from his chair, moved violently towards Adam, raised his voice. “You know…” Henry, realising he was shouting, stopped speaking, took a moment to calm his breathing. “You know full well there is little I can do.”

Finally, progress. Still, Adam proceeded tentatively - a single misjudged comment could very easily send Henry back to unresponsive gloominess.

“Eh? Little you can do? No.” During his outburst, Henry had moved to within inches of Adam; now, Adam kept that distance, stayed as close as was reasonable. Henry’s skin was pale, and he was tall, tall enough that Adam had to turn his head upwards to look him in the eyes. This was good, Adam thought. Towering over him would keep Henry feeling powerful, and make him more open to believing he was a man of great stature and influence.

“Don’t tease, Adam,” Henry admonished. “What exactly would you have me do?”

“You are a king, are you not? I would have you rule.”

This was a mistake. The reminder of his royal status seemed a blow to Henry, made him turn from Adam to lean against the wall.

“A king? Ha! In name, perhaps. I have the title, but none of the trappings.”

“All you need is the title.”

“Oh? Will the title alone pay for the mercenaries I need? For the lands and rewards that you and your fellows remind me at every opportunity that you are owed? How foolish of me, in my thirteen years as ‘king’, to overlook my title’s ability to conjure up whatever I desire – there I was, angry at being denied again and again by father, when all I need have done is begged my title for help! If this is the best counsel you can offer, perhaps I ought to dismiss you.”

Adam ignored the slight. He stayed silent, watched as Henry muttered curses to himself. For months, even before the war with his brother Richard had begun, Henry had seemed riven with indecision and doubt. Even the war itself had not been planned, though it was not completely unforeseen. Since the summer, Henry had been building alliances in Aquitaine with those who resented his brother’s rule. But it was only when, in a moment of spontaneity, Henry chose to reject good sense in favour of a misguided chivalry that war had begun. Richard, though angry and bitter, had been prevailed on by their father to put aside his pride and do homage to his elder brother. Henry rejected him, announced that he could not accept Richard’s homage because he had already pledged to support the barons of Aquitaine against Richard. This, effectively, was a declaration of war. Since then, there had been a few minor exchanges, but no major altercation or victory for either side. Henry himself had rarely left the castle in Limoges.

Henry maintained that he had waited until the last possible moment to refuse Richard’s homage because he had been agonising over the decision constantly, and was unable to decide until he was forced to. Adam did not doubt that Henry believed that. He also did not doubt that the real reason for Henry’s tardiness was an overdeveloped sense for drama.

Adam decided he had let Henry be for long enough.

“Enough, Henry.” Before Henry could rage at being interrupted, he continued, “Your title will pay for mercenaries, at least for a short while. You have funds enough to pay for one month, two?”

Henry nodded.

“Enough to start off the campaign, then. And beyond that… Well, from a lesser lord a promise of further payment might mean little, but from a king… I’ve no doubt they’d stay in your service for some months, on a promise alone. And by the time those months are nearing their end, we ought to have made gains enough to be in an excellent position to make good on that promise!” Adam frowned; Henry did not look as impressed as he had hoped for.

“Stop, Adam. I will not have myself beholden to promises I might not be able to keep. It was ill-considered promises that started this war, I’ll not make the mistake again.”

“We can win this war, Henry, but not if you don’t start taking action.”

“We can win this war, Adam, if we gain my father’s support.”

“Then perhaps you had best persuade the castle guard not to shoot at him next time he comes riding by.”

Henry hit him.

Adam flushed.

Henry stared at Adam; Adam looked to the floor, away from Henry. Adam chastised himself. The comment had been foolish, he had forgotten all sense of tact because of his frustration. Still, the damage was done now. He would have no more luck today in persuading Henry to act.

Then, both men, hearing hurried footsteps outside the room, turned to look for their source. A young boy burst in, panting with exertion.

“Outside… the king… struck down…” the boy gabbled, barely intelligible. Adam, the side of his face still stinging, moved to the boy, placed a hand on his shoulder, held it there until his breathing calmed. The boy was sweating, panic etched on his face.

“Tell us what happened, slowly.”

The boy started on hearing the knight speak, cringed under the pressure of relaying what had happened. “I was on the east wall, sir, watching out for the Duke’s men, when I heard a bolt loosed, you know the sound, sir, of a bolt hitting flesh, it is not pleasant, not at all, so I turned away, it is a terrible thing this, to have to tell you, I…”

Adam grabbed the boy again, looked him in the eyes. “Don’t gabble.”

“Of course, sir, I’m sorry sir, it’s just…” At a glance from the king the boy quieted, composed himself. He turned to address Henry directly. “Your father has been shot, sir, by a bolt loosed by a crossbowman on the walls. From his men’s reaction, it seems the bolt struck flesh. They’ve taken him back towards the Cité, sir. We’re not sure what to do.” At the young king’s reaction, the boy turned pale, panicked again. “I don’t know why sir, they just sent me to tell you what happened, please.”

Before Henry could respond with anger, Adam guided the boy out of the room, thanking him for bringing them the information. Turning back to Henry, he grimaced. “To the Cité, then?”

“I need to see my father.”

“And if they don’t let us in? For all we know, they’ll think we had him shot on purpose and want to make sure he’s dead.”

“Then we’ll break the walls down."

***
Henry rode east towards the wall of the Cité, flanked on either side by a trusted friend – Adam d'Yquebeuf on his right, Robert de Tresgoz on his left. He had wanted to bring more men, to force entry if the inhabitants of the Cité refused them, but had been convinced to ride in a smaller party by Robert. Why risk a misunderstanding about their intent – it would be hard to argue they were not assaulting the Cité if they came with an army – when they could just as easily bring the army over later if they were denied entry? Robert had also counselled that Henry would be wise to let him and Adam go alone, in case a vindictive bowman decided to retaliate to the Old King’s wound in kind. Henry had ignored him. He’d be damned if he sat idle while his father might lay dying.

The cold was bitter, and harsh winds and rain chafed their faces as they rode, turning south-east to take the path out of the Château. The three riders passed the makeshift defences at the edge of the Château, hastily constructed to replace the walls torn down by Duke Richard two years prior, not stopping to justify their movements to the men standing guard.

“Ho!” one called, not recognising the young King and seeking an explanation. The riders ignored him. They focussed on driving their horses onwards, each, for their own reasons, reluctant to contemplate the enormity of what was happening. Should the king’s wound prove fatal… A rock flew up, knocked back by the kick of a horse’s hoof, and struck Henry on the cheek. He shuddered. The pain was welcome, a burst of sensation to keep back the deadness that threatened to overwhelm, brought on by the fear of being, at least indirectly, responsible for his father’s death. The path turned left, eastwards, and each spurred their horse to follow it. Robert glanced at the young king, his lord and friend, then turned his eyes back to the path with a new resolve. Of late, Henry had seemed wracked with uncertainty, with little of his former vigour, and Robert was determined not to let this new disaster overwhelm him.

“Stay!”

The three riders, now only fifty yards from the Cité, looked to the source of the shout – a guard, one of Henry’s father’s men, standing outside the walls to watch over the gate. He pointed his bow towards them, notched and pulled back an arrow.

“Open the gates!” Henry called out, “I must see my father!”

Adam and Robert, wary of the drawn arrow, brought their horses to a stop, now thirty yards from the walls, expecting Henry to do likewise. Henry rode on, up to the gate, now but ten feet away.

“I demand entry.” Henry dismounted his horse, moving now towards the guard on foot.

“Go back, rebel. The Cité is closed to you.”

Henry’s hand went to his sword, the guard pulled the bowstring back further, the string now taut, ready to be loosed.

“Henry!” Robert and Adam shouted together.

Henry took a further step forward, for now keeping his sword sheathed, his hand still at its hilt. “I will gain entry, and I will see my father, and if your physicians let him die you will find his son has little forgiveness and much wrath.”

“It was not our physicians who shot him, rebel.” The guard was sweating. Could he loose an arrow against an anointed king of England? He would have to, if that king looked likely to attack him, but it was not a welcoming prospect – whatever choice he made would almost certainly lead to his death.

Henry’s jaw clenched. Then, realising his position, he held up his hands away from his sword. A flash of his formerly customary charm returned, a grin to the clearly nervous guard. “I’ll leave you be then, as you don’t seem given to budging.” A step closer, the guard, nervous, tensed his arms around the bow, a grin from Henry, a threatening note entered his voice. “But you had best be sure they keep my father in his normal robust health, eh?” With that, Henry turned, back to his horse, then rode back to Robert and Adam, gestured for them to dismount from their horses.

“I want to storm the Cité.”

“That would be rash, there’s no sense in acting so hastily” Robert interjected.

“It’s not rash. We should have taken the damned place when this rebellion started, it’s not fitting having enemies right on our doorstep. We’ve let them be because they weren’t a threat, but now they’re actively opposing us.”

“Aimery won’t agree to it,” added Adam. “He’ll be panicking now, he knows that if the Old King dies he’ll get the blame, it was his guardsman who shot him. To storm the Cité now, with Henry inside, it would look like he’s committing to the attack, not regretting what’s happened.”

“Then how do I see my father.” Henry’s voice was calm, but edged with threat.

“You can’t. We must wait. Perhaps, if we can get a message through, the abbot in Le Reglé might consider letting you in, if you plead for a reconciliation with your father for your soul’s sake. But I fear that is the best we can hope for.”

“Get me into the Cité.”

***​

Henry paced. He was not generally given to pacing, but the situation at hand seemed to call for it. After his failure to gain access to the Cité, he had withdrawn to the Château, given Adam his instructions, then retired to the abbey of St Martial, hoping the monks might provide a sedate environment in which to calm his nerves. His intent had been to pray, but any attempt at silent reflection brought with it only agitation, and so he had taken to pacing, resisting the urge to strike out at his surroundings. The monks of St Martial were good to him, gave him room, offered counsel should he require it. He had thanked them, but kept to himself; he was not responsible for his father’s wound, but monks had an uncanny way of convincing you into guilt, and adding guilt to his other troubles could do him no good.

His mind was cluttered, an angry mess of contradicting thoughts and sensations. Was there more he could do, to help his father, to help himself? He’d trusted much to Adam, given him only the barest of instructions. First, and most important, gain access to the Cité. If his father was to die, Henry needed assurance that he was forgiven; an assurance most likely to come if he was by his father’s side. It would be kind to let the Old King see his eldest son before he died, Henry thought. The old man has been a bother, Henry thought, why should I care to give him peace in his final moments? No more a bother than I have been to him, Henry thought. Second, he had instructed Adam to make sure no rider left the Cité. Henry had no desire for Richard to catch wind of their father’s condition and turn up outside Limoges with an army. For all the world knew, the Old King had arrived successfully to the Château and was now in conference with his sons.

As the day ended, Henry moved to the altar table situated at the west end of the Church, wrought from gold and topped with the reliquary casket of St Austriclinianus. Briefly, Henry considered making some sort of appeal to the saint – he was forced to dismiss the idea when he realised he knew nothing at all about the man. The setting of the sun brought with it a certain calmness, and Henry found himself able to, not settle his nerves completely, but push them to the back of his mind so that he might have a few moments of undisturbed peace.

The rain had continued unabated all day, and it now absorbed Henry’s focus. Amplified by the abbey’s structure, the constancy of water striking on stone was soothing, reassuring, provided a release from the instability of war and politics. Before him was the altar, around him was the sound of the rain – these he let engulf him.

Further afield, in the Cathedral of St Etienne, at the heart of the Cité of Limoges, a king coughed blood.

***​

Ten days passed with no news from the Cité. The rain lightened after two, then stopped with the third, replaced with a biting gale that, after the fourth, gave way to a simple harsh coldness. On the second, Henry had withdrawn from the Abbey to his rooms in the castle, hunger and discomfort having taken hold. Twice, Henry met with his brother, Geoffrey, also lodging in the castle. Twice, they had sat in near-silence, Geoffrey’s attempts to plan various courses of action meeting a wall of disapproval from Henry. Aimery, the viscount of Limoges and chief amongst the Aquitanian rebels, had coordinated with Adam d’Yquebeuf to attempt to gain access to the Cité, with no success. Each day, Adam made a report to Henry on their progress, and on any news that had come from the Cité. At first, reports of failure had been met with anger, but by the fifth day this turned to resignation; Henry, the Young King of England, now accepted that all was in the hands of fate.

On the eleventh day, Henry met once more with his brother.

“Henry.”

Henry glanced upwards, then back down to the floor. “Geoffrey.”

“It is time to decide what comes next. If father survives, he’ll…” Geoffrey stopped, glanced back to make sure nobody was in the corridor outside the room, then sat down next to his brother. Then, quieter, more urgent. “If he lives, and we keep on supporting the rebels, he won’t forgive us. It will look like tacit support of the attack on him.”

“How can it? We’ve already had the man who did it hanged – it was an unfortunate accident, but that’s all.”

“Don’t be so dense, Henry, if we stick with the rebels then the hanging becomes a token gesture at best.”

“I gave them my word, I will not break it. And nor will I let father think I tried to have him killed!”

“Quiet!” Geoffrey hissed. “When you gave your word, were you expecting them to try to murder our father? Of course not! There’s no shame in breaking with the rebels, given what they’ve done!”

“Those are weak grounds for going back on my oath, it was a lone idiot of a soldier, you know that as well as I. I can’t try to pin the whole thing on Aimery!”

“Of course you can. A disgruntled rebel snapping up an opportunity to kill off his over-bearing overlord? Seems plausible to me. Everyone of importance will accept that you can’t stay bound to people who’d try to kill their overlord, and if a few backwater rebels protest, what does it matter? You won’t need to support Richard, just refrain from opposing him. And yes, it means you’ll have to wait for another chance to get some real power off father, but the rebellion’s a lost cause now anyway. Think on it.”

Geoffrey stood and left the room.

***​

Later the same day, just after noon, Henry stood in the castle’s main hall, along with Aimery, Adam, Robert, and a messenger from the Cité. The meeting was to be as private as possible. The messenger had arrived half an hour earlier, and had been made to wait while the various recipients of his message were retrieved – Aimery from his rooms in the castle, Adam and Robert from the grounds outside it, Henry from the abbey. They still waited for Geoffrey, whose whereabouts had been uncertain. There was a sound of movement outside, then Geoffrey entered, and walked over to his brother.

“Your message, then?,” Aimery took charge. “The King has recovered?”

The messenger, from his dress clearly a monk from the Cité, lifted his face, looked at each man in the room in turn, then stared Aimery in the eyes. “I am not a bearer of good news. The king is dead. His wound turned foul, and he suffered greatly before he died.” His words had bite.

Henry blanched, felt a hand on his shoulder, Robert reaching out to him. Geoffrey looked at him, then turned and left the room; Adam reached out, mimicking Robert; Aimery flushed impotent. Bile rose in Henry’s throat. His father, Henry FitzEmpress, ruler of territories stretching from Britain to the Pyrenees, was dead.
 
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A brief explanation of the POD:
Most of the situation described is accurate to OTL - Henry the Young King supported rebels in Aquitaine against his brother Richard, and in mid-February his father, Henry II, twice rode up to Limoges to meet with him. On the first occasion, Henry II's party was attacked and retreated to the nearby Cité of Limoges. On the second, a crossbow bolt was fired at him, with his life being saved by his horse rearing up, and so being struck by the bolt instead. Here, his horse fails to save him, and so Henry II is struck by a crossbow bolt in 1183, and dies six years earlier than OTL. From here, things will start to diverge markedly from OTL, as we explore the ramifications of Henry II's death.

I've written a few updates ahead, so should be sticking to a schedule of one update every week.
 
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Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO –


26th February 1183, Aquitaine, Limoges

Lament dirges filled the Cité that evening, their anguish keen and genuine. Outside, the air was calm, the rain of the past week having given way to clear sun, though the cold remained. A distant horse could be heard braying – the last of Aimery’s soldiers withdrawing to the Château, no longer needed to stop men leaving the Cité. The Viscount could conceal a dying king, for a short while at least, but to hide a dead one would be folly.

Hours passed; the southern gate opened. A lone rider, plain iron sword sheathed at his side, his garb simple, rode out. His body pressed down, tight, as he drove the horse forwards, intent on speed, the horse’s rhythm jarring, uncomfortable, ignored by the rider. He turned right when the path forked, south-west.

The dirge continued.
***
27th February 1183, before sunrise, Aquitaine, the fortress of Aïxe

Duke Richard of Aquitaine sat. He rose, paced about. Then, down on his cot, laid prone, closed his eyes. Up again, hammered his hands on the walls, shouting. Sleep was not forthcoming.

His father had been gone for over a week now, in conference with that damned brother of his, holed up in Limoges. To spend so much time in discussions surely meant that their father had not simply denied Henry his support, nor dutifully reminded him that Richard held Aquitaine by rights and should continue to do so. No, at the very least he must be attempting to make some deal – perhaps to support his eldest son’s cause, perhaps to remain neutral…

No possibility seemed palatable. And if their father did decide to lend support to his namesake’s cause? Neutrality Richard could cope with, though it would displease him greatly; the rebels were largely disorganised, had been put down in the past, and would very likely soon run low on funds if they did not soon gain support from outside of Aquitaine. That his brother Henry supported them was a boon for them, but an empty one. Henry’s skill lay in charm and tournaments, not in true campaigns. But if their father lent money, troops, personal support to the rebel cause, to appease his eldest son, then the rebels’ chance of success would increase dramatically.

Richard seethed.​

***
Nearing Aïxe, Walter Map pulled his horse to stop. He had slowed his pace once away from Limoges, lest he exhaust his horse before reaching his destination, but still the journey was not a long one – perhaps just over an hour had passed, certainly no more than two. Still, it had tired him. While the initial tension, that Viscount Aimery might be so fool as to accost him to keep news from spreading, had faded once Limoges moved out of sight, Aquitaine was still a county at war and any travel was dangerous.

Richard’s response to the news of his father’s death would be vital, so Map paused to collect himself. Then, his mind set, he pushed his horse forwards, up to the fortress at Aïxe.​

***​

Later, inside the castle, Map stood before Duke Richard, looked him over. The Duke looked tired, but invigorated, not haggard, keenly aware that Map arriving alone suggested he must be carrying important news.

“News from my father? Will he support me?”

Map winced, Richard frowned.

“No? I suppose not, or he’d be here himself. Out with it, then.”

Map seemed to consider something for a moment, then decided it against it, shook his head.

“He’s dead, Richard, killed by your brother.” Map paused, gauging Richard’s reaction. When Richard didn’t respond, Map continued. “Your father rode up to Limoges, accompanied by myself and a few others. We found ourselves being attacked by the garrison. We retreated to the Cité, unsure what to do. After communicating with the young Henry, your father believed his story that the attack had been a simple mistake, a failure of the guards to recognise the king’s party. Accordingly, we rode out to the Château again, assuming that this time there would be no issues.” Map looked Richard in the eyes. “We were wrong. A guard on the walls fired a bolt that entered your father’s chest. He died from the wound a few hours ago. No doubt now your brother is celebrating with the rebel lords, planning how best to exploit the advantages gained by their cruel murder.”

Shock showed in Richard’s eyes. He did not respond for a moment, still absorbing the news of his father’s death. “My brother, the murderer. He was always vain and impetuous, but this…” Richard seemed to be struggling, caught between grief’s insistence that he rage and cry and scream, and the enormity of what was transpiring. Tears filled his eyes. For now, he restrained his temper enough to continue the conversation. “Why not come sooner, and why now alone?”

“Viscount Aimery and your brother had men guarding the exits of the Cité, and we were too few to fight our way out. Even if we had, little would have changed – the monks that tended to your father were skilled physicians. I came alone so that the rest of your father’s party could stay to guard his body from the jealous avarice of thieves, and from any predations that the Viscount or your brother might attempt.”

“My thanks, Walter.”

“It was my duty to my lord Henry, to rush to his truest son so that I might offer counsel.”

Richard looked mollified by the description. “And what counsel would you offer?”

“We cannot allow your brother to usurp your father’s position. Henry now will move to make good his claim over his father’s territories, helped by your brother Geoffrey. England, Normandy, Anjou, Brittany… No doubt he shall attempt to make use of his reputation to paint the truth of his murder as a lie. Our best hope to deny him his stolen inheritance is to spread wide the news that he slayed his own kin, encourage discontent and uprising. Your brother has war in his heart – we must make sure he suffers for it.”

***​

8th March 1183, Paris, the Île de la Cité

King Philip of France was not given to deep thought and reflection. He was a plain man, lacking in humour, grace, and intellectual inclinations. That said, he was politically astute and frequently intelligent; standing on the bank of the Seine, he put those traits to use. Behind him stood armed men, swords drawn and eyes keen on the lookout – Philip would not venture outside without protection – but he ignored them, focussed entirely on what he had learnt from the two messages. Each message concerned the same events, but their two accounts were each startlingly opposed to the other’s.

The first, received the previous day, had come from Duke Richard of Aquitaine. Its revelations had stunned Philip, promised to overturn politics in France. Henry FitzEmpress, the message claimed, was dead, murdered at the hands of his eldest son. It begged for royal justice, demanded Philip renounce the Young Henry’s homage and force him out of France, then do the same for his brother Geoffrey. On the matter of who should replace them as rulers of Brittany, Normandy, and Anjou, the message remained tactfully vague. No doubt Richard would expect some territorial gain, but, as the letter loudly hinted, there would still be much opportunity for Philip to expand the royal demesne. Philip had been sorely tempted by Richard’s propositions. An opportunity to disrupt the swathe of lands built up by Henry fitzEmpress, to supplant his dynasty’s political influence and claim it for the French crown – Philip desired this greatly. But one letter would not be enough to destroy Henry’s sons: if the Young Henry quickly took his father’s place, and secured all his territories, then any coalition against him would need more support than just the French monarchy and a single Duke.

The second message, received earlier on the 8th, complicated things further. Like the first, it described the death of Henry FitzEmpress. Unlike the first, it claimed that his death was the result of a plot amongst the Aquitanian rebels, led by Viscount Aimery of Limoges, who, unbeknownst to the Young Henry and his brother Geoffrey, had stationed a crossbowman on the walls with commands to shoot and kill Henry FitzEmpress. The message acknowledged that Henry and Geoffrey had been in support of the rebels, but pleaded ignorance about their ‘vile plot to slay a king’, condemned them and declared great sorrow at having ever supported them. It went on to beg Philip to allow Henry and Geoffrey to renew their homage for their lands in France, and then to join them in a grand coalition to enact retribution on the rebels, reminding Philip of the support and friendship Henry had shown him since his coronation in 1180.

Philip was both pleased and perturbed. At a stroke, a major potential threat to French royal authority had been removed, without any exertion from himself. Yes, in recent years King Henry had proven to be a friend to the French crown, but no more than in the past he had been its enemy. More than this, it afforded Philip an opportunity to strengthen that authority, to strike while King Henry’s sons were divided and make sure those divisions remained. But to do so successfully would take great care and tact. Philip had been planning to lend support to the rebels in Aquitaine by sending them mercenary forces – a new approach would now have to be devised. But how best to exploit King Henry’s death? He could lend his support to Duke Richard, but if their coalition failed it would be a humiliation that would secure the Young Henry’s authority in France, and degrade the French crown. Conversely, he could elect to support the Young Henry. This would be safer, and taking Henry’s submission would be a symbolic victory, but practically it would leave much unchanged. Worse, if the Church chose to believe Duke Richard’s version of events, Philip could easily get caught up in an unnecessary conflict with it over his failure to punish an act of royal patricide. At a time when the Count of Flanders was proving troublesome, and concerns about the Holy Roman Emperor were growing, this was not an attractive prospect.

What, then, to do? Perhaps, for now, neutrality was the best course. Delay, and let King Henry’s sons squabble between themselves. Act enough to ensure they remain divided, but not so much that he got caught up in a lengthy war. The longer the brothers remained in conflict the more resources they would use up in fighting each other, and the easier it would be for Philip to assert himself when he felt the time had come.

Philip smiled. So, the count of Anjou who had so vexed his father was dead! This would mark an age of decline for the Crown’s enemies, and glory for the Crown itself, he was sure of it.

Starting, he wondered for how long he had been absorbed in thoughts. Too long, he decided – a man caught up in his own head is a man vulnerable to attack. He looked around, panicking.

“Inside!” he screeched to his guards. They formed a barrier around him, and began the walk back to the castle of Paris.

***​

2nd April 1183, Cologne

The casket had little illumination – some crude sculpture, wrought in gold and silver; some carvings, etched into the gold that coated the casket’s stone walls, images of the Three Magi whose bones the casket contained. About it were candles, flickering, placed there by pilgrims and local monks alike. The shadows cast by their light gave the casket the illusion of transcendence. To the pilgrims arrayed about the casket, this illusion was unnecessary, unnoticed, their need for beatific beauty satisfied by simple proximity to holy past.

William Marshall, knelt beside his friend and fellow pilgrim James of Avesnes, considered the casket. First, the whole: striking, certainly, but no more ornate than any he had seen in France. The shape inspired no special sense of beauty, plain and square. Still, the casket managed to stir a certain reverence, made a man suitably ashamed to be sitting in front of it laden with his sins. Then, the details. The sculpted images adorning the top half of the wall of the casket facing Marshall, the casket’s main source of texture beyond flat surface. The scene depicted was simple, had only one part. Three men, the Magi, wrought in silver. Above them, a star, gold. Marshall disapproved – did the Magi’s majesty not warrant that they too be depicted in gold? Beneath them, thin carvings of more detailed scenes. Some were Biblical parables, some were narratives of the life of Christ, others yet were lone figures: prophets, sinners, disciples, worshipers, infidels. Combined, they held Christ’s future contrasted against Christ’s past, the whole grounded by the Magi. Individually, the carvings inspired no great awe – some were clearly skilfully shaped, others were of almost mediocre craft. Unity gave them their quality, reliant on the pilgrim’s willingness to overlook worldly flaws and embrace spiritual significance.

Marshall embraced.

Marshall lapsed.

Too many worldly concerns, too much to dwell on. A notch in the gold, there on the left Magi’s brow; wax, spilt from a candle, obscuring a rendering of the Virgin Mary. These disturbed his embrace.

No matter – this was only Marshall’s second day in Cologne. There would be ample more opportunity to reach spiritual detachment from his incessant concerns.

Giving up his attempt to reach spiritual transcendence, Marshall’s thoughts turned to those things which had driven him to pilgrimage to Cologne. Foremost among them was the collapse in his relationship with his former mentee and friend, Henry the Young King. Months had passed since the rift, but still it played on his mind, had driven him to beg leave from his service to Count Philip of Flanders. Accused of flaunting his own glory at the expense of his lord’s, of attempting to usurp honour and renown due to his lord, even of bedding his lord’s wife! All were untrue, though the latter rankled most. Never had he denied his lord Henry any of the honour due to him; yes, he had taken whatever opportunities presented themselves to enhance his own renown and honour, but he would hardly have been a knight if he did not. And never had it been at the expense of his lord. As to the notion that he had turned Queen Marguerite to adultery… Yes, the Queen was beautiful, and of course the romantic notions of a hero knight wooing the fair Queen had some appeal, but he had never laid a hand on his lord’s wife.

How, then, had his lord come to believe that Marshall had so transgressed against him? Marshall had heard rumours, passed around the Young King’s mesnie, of conspiracies to turn his lord against him, so that his favoured position could be usurped. Adam d’Yquebeuf, Peter FitzGuy, Thomas de Coulonces – Marshall had heard all these names given as the sources behind the accusations against him. Did he believe that these men who should be his closest companions could turn against him for a chance of furthering their own positions? Of course, and he did not begrudge them it. That Henry, though, who Marshall had known, tutored, and befriended since 1170, would so easily believe that Marshall could betray him caused Marshall great distress.

Bitter memories of Christmas, the court at Caen, rose to Marshall’s mind. His lord, the Young King Henry, had not simply been open to the accusations lavished on Marshall; he had embraced them. Marshall had shown tact, kept away from his lord until an opportunity to clear his name had presented itself, and when that opportunity arose he had grasped it. A grand Christmas court, hosted by King Henry II, attended by all the great men of France – what better place to request a trial by combat to prove his innocence? The Young King had denied him. Again, Marshall tried: offered to best every one of the men who had accused him. Again he was denied. His old friend, now clearly no such thing, had refused to even contemplate Marshall’s innocence. The betrayal had stung. Fearing for his freedom, Marshall had fled to eastern France, eventually to Flanders where he had entered the service of the Count.

“William,” a hushed voice, next to Marshall. James, rising from his kneeled reflection before the casket’s shrine. How much time had passed? “Come away from the shrine, I have news.”

***​
A short while later, just outside the city, the two men stood together.

“Why all the way out here, James? News not suitable where it might be overheard?”

“Not that, William. I was worried your reaction might cause an incident if you heard the news in a crowded place.”

“Something more than the usual chatter?”

“No, bluntly. I overheard it last night, thought at first it might be the normal nonsense gossip you get from merchants. But I kept hearing it, and, frankly, even if it isn’t true, you ought to know that it’s being rumoured. Your old lord, Henry?”

“Yes?” Marshall responded, eager for news of his old friend, any change in situation that might give him an opportunity to redeem himself.

“Murdered his father. Details are hazy, but the general picture is that the boy did it himself, either challenged the old man to combat and ran him through, or offered him hospitality and then suffocated him while he slept, or poisoned his meal.”

“Oh.” Marshall ran through the expected response of shock, but the rage that James had feared, rage that the ambition of his fellow knights, and the suspicion of his former lord had denied him the chance to be at Henry’s side at this momentous time, would not come until later.

***​

Extract from a letter from Peter of Blois to Henry the Young King, written between late February and early March 1183

Where is your filial affection, your reverence, the law of Nature? Where is your fear of God? They all have fled, and left your avarice plain for honest men to see. To slay your father, then presume to take all he held dear, his lands, his jewels, the love owed him by his subjects, betrays your cruelty. See sense! Forgo pride and her jealous friends, and take up her more virtuous cousins. Take up regret, take up repentance, take up proper submission to punishment for your sins. Else know that you will suffer, your reign will be blighted, as are the reigns of all who transgress against God and seek to gain by it.
 
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Great start!

I will folow it.

I see Henry in a very bad spot... Philip Augustus will rip appart the Plantagenet Empire as a hungry wolf a flock of sheep.
Where is John?
 
Great start!

I will folow it.

I see Henry in a very bad spot... Philip Augustus will rip appart the Plantagenet Empire as a hungry wolf a flock of sheep.
Where is John?

Glad you're enjoying it! Yes, Philip is going to prove a major issue for Henry, though you'll see in the next few updates that Henry realises this fairly early on.

I had a bit of trouble finding out exactly where John was in early 1183; in OTL he joined his father in Aquitaine after Young Henry's death, so I've got him somewhere in Northern France at the moment (though if I'm wrong about this and a reader has a more precise location for him, feel free to let me know). He'll come into play in a couple of update's time.

Indeed, where is John?

Note also you have a "duke of Flanders" in the Phillip section.

Ah, thanks for catching that, I'll change it to 'Count'.
 
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