Captive Queen Read Online Free PDF Page B

it was cooler in the stone fastness of the castle. Then Geoffrey waved away the plump roasted fowl, saying that he seemed to have little appetite for food in this weather. A little later, Henry, wolfing down the last of his own dinner, felt the first stirring of concern as the count rejected a proffered bowl of fruit, then suddenly gripped the edge of the table, shuddering.
    “Are you ill, Father?” he asked anxiously. To his knowledge, Geoffrey had never known a day’s sickness in his life.
    “A touch of fever, my son. It is nothing.” He sounded breathless.
    Henry placed his callused palm on Geoffrey’s brow. It was burning.
    “I knew I should not have gone swimming in the heat,” his father said, attempting a smile. “I must have caught a chill. It has come on suddenly.”
    “You should go to bed, sire,” Henry advised.
    “I will,” Geoffrey agreed, but when he tried to get to his feet, he had not the strength, and slumped heavily against the table. Henry jumped up, in unison with four men-at-arms, and together they manhandled the sick man up the stone spiral staircase to the bedchamber above, where they laid him heavily on the fur coverlet spread across the wooden bed. By now he was shivering violently, his body hot to the touch, his hands icy.
    “He were a fool to go swimming in that river,” one soldier commented. Henry glared at him.
    “Strip him,” he commanded.
    “Are you bloody mad?” the soldier asked him. “He should be wrapped up warm.”
    “He’s warm enough. He needs to cool down,” Henry insisted. “Get his clothes off.” Begrudgingly, the men complied, leaving Geoffrey wearing only his
braies
for modesty’s sake.
    “Now, fetch a basin of water and cloths.” The men departed, muttering that their young lord had gone daft and would be the death of the count, but they complied with his orders nonetheless.
    Sponging down Geoffrey’s burning body, a task he took readily upon himself, for he loved his father, Henry willed him to get better.
    “You are strong, sire. You must hold fast!”
    Geoffrey lay there listlessly, his eyes glazed with fever. He was muttering something, and Henry bent an ear down to listen. Most of it was unintelligible, but he could make out the words “Don’t, I beseech you” and “Eleanor.” Grimly, he understood what his father was saying, and still he chose to ignore him. These were just the ramblings of a sick man.
    Henry watched beside Geoffrey all night as the fever raged; he did his best to keep him cool, and turned a deaf ear to his mumblings. In the shadows, the men-at-arms kept vigil also, shaking their heads at his unorthodox treatment. But Henry had learned his wisdom from his old tutor, Master Matthew of Loudun, a very sage man who had taught him much when he was living in England, at Bristol, not just from books, but all sorts of practical knowledge. These uneducated soldiers had never had the benefit of Master Matthew’s learning. His father would live, he knew it.
    But Geoffrey grew worse, not better, and Henry spent much of the second night bargaining with God. If He would spare his father, then he would renounce Eleanor. He meant it at the time, although he had no idea how he could bear to give her up. God, it seemed, was listening, though, and as the sun rose, Geoffrey opened his eyes, from which the wildness had fled, and spoke lucidly for the first time since his collapse.
    “My son,” he said, his face pale beneath the tan, “will you swear that, if and when you become King of England, you will give my counties of Anjou and Maine to your brother Geoffrey?”
    “Father!” cried Henry, alarmed and outraged, for he had little love for his younger siblings. “First, you are
not
dying, so this is no time for swearing such oaths. And second, you are asking me to swear away my patrimony. I cannot do it, nor should you require it of me.”
    “Boy, I
am
dying,” Geoffrey said hoarsely. “I feel it in my bones. And I order that my body