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.