Pro Anima Dilecti Sui
Jul. 23rd, 2008 10:56 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rareslashFandom: The Lion in Winter
Title: Pro Anima Dilecti Sui
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shadow_truths
Pairing: Geoffrey/Philip
Rating: NC-17
Notes: originally written for Sweet Charity. A DVD commentary version is available at my journal, if you're interested in the historical details :)
"After this shall succeed two dragons, whereof one shall be killed with the sting of envy, but the other shall return under the shadow of a name… The castles of Venus shall be builded new, nor shall Cupid's arrows cease to wound." - Geoffrey of Monmouth, The History of the Kings of Britain, Book VII Chapter III, "The Prophecy of Merlin"
January 1186, Vincennes
"I thought this was a little hunting lodge, not a chateau. You've prettied the place up, Philip."
The king of France smiled as they rode along the path lined with barren trees, the late afternoon sun filtering weakly through clouds. There was a light dusting of snow, though less than usual for Epiphany. "I'm trying to impress you," he said cheerfully. "Is it working?"
"Ask me again once I've had a warm drink and a bite to eat," replied Geoffrey. "I'm not in the best frame of mind to appreciate it just now."
"Was the journey from Nantes difficult?"
"Just tiring. I'll be grateful for the chance to wash the mud off."
"That, I can certainly provide – the baths here are exquisite."
Geoff arched an eyebrow. "You are trying to impress me."
"Oh, believe me, I've barely begun," said Philip with a grin.
***
The bath was everything Philip had promised, a sunken marble-lined pool of water rather than the usual wooden tub, not huge but comfortably large enough for a half-dozen people, heated from beneath the floor after the Roman fashion and scattered with fresh-smelling herbs. The duke of Brittany luxuriated in the warm, steam-filled chamber and turned the situation over and over in his mind. Richard had given up the Aquitaine, true, but only in return for being recognized as the heir-apparent to the throne of England, Normandy, and Anjou. Whatever meagre hope Geoff had ever held of seeing his brother passed over in his own favour was dead; in any case, he would have no way to hold Brittany along with so many other territories in the face of his brothers' inevitable onslaught. No way, that is, without Philip's aid. The only question, then, was what Philip would desire in return.
Philip, seated across from him in the bath, dismissed the servants once the wine had been poured and the meal of bread, salted pork, cheese and dried apricots laid out on the board across the tub. He appraised Geoffrey with a look, knowing full well he was being scrutinized himself. "Thank you for coming," he began.
"My curiosity was piqued," said Geoffrey, helping himself to the food. "But come, let's do this properly. Ask after my wife, perhaps, or the weather – it's been such a dry winter the farmers are already afeared for their harvests."
"And how does your wife?"
"No dry spells there, thank God, though still no sons. Still, girl babies keep Constance just as occupied, and they'll prove useful when they're old enough to wed. And we got to curry some small favour with Eleanor by naming the eldest after her," he added with a half-smile. "And what of your bride?"
Philip grimaced involuntarily, setting down his goblet. "It's… unfortunate. We've been married nearly six years, and just as she's finally of an age to bed, it seems I may have to set her aside. Conflict with Flanders – Isabelle's uncle sides against me, and Burgundy threatens to cease their aid if I keep her – it's all very awkward. Believe me, I have no wish to go through the struggle of finding another suitable girl to marry, but if I must…" He shrugged.
"I shouldn't worry, if I were in your position. Fathers must be lining up their daughters for your inspection. And this time, you're old enough that you might actually get some say in the choice."
Philip chuckled. "It's just a question of the time one has to devote to these matters. My father took twenty-eight years and three wives to produce a son, after all – I'd like to do a little better than that."
"Still," Geoffrey mused, "there must be something worthwhile about it – being the only son. Dieudonné. Cherished. Never having to struggle just to be noticed amid a crowd of princes."
"There are men who would love to have your father's problem. It's rather nerve-wracking to have just one heir, as I'm sure my own dear departed sire would have told you."
"My great-grandfather, the first king Henry, died of a surfeit of lampreys. My own father looks liable to perish of a surfeit of heirs. He's had so many children, he had to start re-using their damned names. Well, mine, at least. The older Geoffrey's a bastard, mind you, but that hasn't stopped Henry making him a bishop, and his chancellor."
"That must sting."
"Philip, I've been stung so many times, I'm like a bloody hedgehog," said Geoffrey wearily, taking a sip of his wine. "Cupid would have to squint through a reading stone in order to find a bare inch to plunge his dart."
Philip chuckled at that. "A heart vulnerable to the pangs of love isn't an asset in a ruler, in any case."
They sat together in companionable, if not entirely comfortable, silence for a time, until the food was finished and the board pushed aside. Philip refilled their goblets with more of the pale golden wine, gone lukewarm in the heat of the bath but still delectable, and then leaned back, resting his arms on the tub's edge. "Your curiosity is still piquing you, I presume."
"Well, you haven't told me anything yet, so I'd have to say yes."
"Richard's in – you and John are out. Please do correct me if I haven't got the most up-to-date version of your family's seating arrangements." Geoff nodded, so Philip continued. "You know how Richard gets when he's on top."
"I do, but I suspect you know better," said Geoffrey, but there was little malice to the jibe, merely a mild bite that Philip ignored for the time being.
"He's finally signed the Aquitaine over to Eleanor – for all the good that does, it's still crawling with his troops – in exchange for the throne and everything that comes with it, Normandy, Anjou and all. You don't seriously think he'll wait until Henry dies to lay hold of that inheritance, do you?"
"It may not fall into his hands as easily as he dreams." It was obvious by now that they both desired an alliance – all that remained was to work out the terms, shape the stratagems that would bring them to victory.
"I heard that you asked your father for Anjou, the better to hold Richard back. And that you were denied."
"Henry's besotted with the idea of his dear, loyal son Richard. It's an old man's fantasy, nothing more." The bitterness underlying Geoff's words was plain. "He says that when God finally takes him, he'll leave behind an empire, not a collection of lands split between his sons. 'God works slowly; Richard is quick,' I told him, but of course he never listens to me."
"The seneschal of France is traditionally count of Anjou," Philip said conversationally, as though he'd just remarked on the weather or the price of cattle.
Geoffrey eyed him levelly. "And what would that entail, precisely?"
"You would act on my behalf in those territories you administer, wherever those might eventually be – Brittany, of course, and Nantes… perhaps also Normandy, if all went well. You would be… my lieutenant, if you will."
"Your subordinate."
"You already did homage to me for Brittany, at my coronation; it's not so very different. Do you remember that day?"
"I remember it was stinking hot for November. Young Henry carried your crown, and held your head while they put it on you. You were such a scrawny slip of a boy, we joked afterwards your neck might buckle under the weight."
"I was fourteen," said Philip mildly. "And I didn't buckle."
"I know," Geoff replied, giving credit where it was due. More wine was poured, more reminiscences exchanged. The combination of the unwatered wine, the heat of the bath, and the long day's ride were making him feel slightly light-headed.
"Blast," said Philip eventually. "I ought to call the servants to scrub and oil us, but it gets so tiresome having to watch what one says all the time. It's strangely pleasant, just talking with you, alone for once."
"Here," Geoffrey volunteered. "Let me." He slid along the bench until he was beside Philip, stretching an arm out to gather the bath attendant's tools, the sponge and scraper and the scented oils. Dipping the sponge in the steaming water, he motioned for Philip to turn away. The king did so, bending his neck down, and allowed Geoffrey to wash his back. He shut his eyes and let the water trickle over his skin, dampen the hair at the nape of his neck.
"That Christmas at Chinon," Geoffrey murmured, his strong hands working at Philip's shoulders. "Was that when you began to hate Richard?"
"'Hate' isn't the right word. 'Mistrust,' perhaps, but even then…" He shrugged, struggling for once to give voice to his thoughts. "It was when I truly recognized that, whatever I might think of him as a man, he was more than just that. That all of us were – are. Princes and kings and dukes and counts, every one of us locked away in our own little realms, our own cages of lies."
"So you did lie to Henry."
"Not about the details," Philip protested. "In the main, it was truth, just…garlanded a little for the holiday season."
"I'd never seen Richard cut to the quick like that. Nor Henry, for that matter. You're good, you know that? Very good indeed."
"Well, I try," said Philip modestly. "Not that, in the end, it accomplished much."
"I wouldn't say that," Geoffrey insisted. "Not at all. You drove a wedge in – not enough to split them completely, but it was a start." He didn't mention the cellars and the daggers and everything that came later, not certain how much Philip knew of those nocturne doings.
"I've never understood," Philip said, inclining his neck so that Geoffrey could rub it, "why they all discount you so easily."
Geoff shrugged. "I was a year younger than Richard, and grew up in his shadow, which, you may have noticed, is enormous. I was a third son, extraneous. By the time I became a second son, they'd grown used to overlooking me."
"How do you deal with it?"
"Well, in truth, being ignored has its advantages. But mainly, I pretend that I don't care. It works surprisingly well. Here, turn," he said, "let me wash your front."
Philip turned slowly to face him, but kept his eyes lowered. His lashes were so long, almost like a woman's, thought Geoffrey, and his lips verged dangerously on pretty. There was something reminiscent of Alais in his face, not the colouring so much as the underlying structure of the bones. It gave Geoff pause, put thoughts into his mind that hadn't been there before – or had lain dormant and unrecognized until that moment. A brief glance below the waterline suggested that Philip's mind had turned to such thoughts some time ago. "Richard's a damned fool," Geoff said, more to himself than to Philip, as the elements of a plan fell into place.
The king looked up, surprised, and found Geoffrey's crystal-blue eyes locked with his, curious and strangely trusting. "You deserve better than what they've given you," he heard himself saying. "I can offer you so much more."
"Normandy, Anjou, a seat at your right hand?"
"And this," said Philip, and kissed him softly on the lips. Geoff didn't start backward, but neither did he lean instantly into the embrace. Philip, not wanting to frighten him off, pulled back after the span of a heartbeat or two and waited, scared that he'd gone too far, too fast.
Geoffrey licked his lower lip, as if tasting the unfamiliar touch there. "I won't be another Richard for you," he said, low and cautious.
"I wouldn't ask you to be," said Philip. No one could, he didn't add.
Geoffrey simply nodded at that, and leaned forward to kiss his liege again, longer this time. Philip's hands curved smoothly around his back; their knees collided, awkward, before he drew one leg up to let them come into each others' space. He suddenly wanted more, too fast, to ravish and devour, but he let Geoffrey's slow reticence set the pace.
Philip's beard wasn't rough, though trimmed close, and Geoffrey, ridiculously, wished he'd been able to shave before this began. The way his stubble scratched against Philip's hands, rubbed harsh against his lips, seemed churlish, but the king raised no objection. Instead, he parted those lips, teasing and tonguing, drawing him further in. Geoff's hand came down on the sharp bone of his hip, thumb catching there as his fingers curled around and under, lifting Philip just enough to ease him onto his thigh so that he straddled him. Each could feel the other's heart pounding as their chests pressed against one another. Philip stretched eager fingers out to grasp Geoff's cock, but the prince stopped him, catching hold of his wrist. "Not here," he breathed, less out of embarrassment than a desire to keep control of the situation. "Later." Philip's stifled moan against his mouth tasted sweet as victory, sweet as vengeance.
"You'll sleep in my chamber," Philip insisted as they dressed. "It's only proper." Geoffrey could no more deny him than he could deny the thrill of excitement that nestled in his stomach. If this was all his triumph would cost, he was more than willing to pay the price.
***
The king's body servants had turned down the blankets on the great bed, strewn fresh rushes on the floor, and made everything as comfortable as possible for their lord's guest before retiring to the antechamber where they would sleep. If any thought the noblemen had rushed through dinner or fidgeted during vespers, no one remarked on it. Now Geoffrey waited, idly fingering the bed's thick woolen curtains, for Philip to make his move.
Instead of disrobing immediately, Philip circled the bed to stand before him. Geoff thought he detected more than a hint of tension in the set of the king's shoulders, the way he stood, hip braced against hand. "Do you truly want this?" he asked, shy and defensive all at once. "You're not playing some game here, are you?"
"We both want the same thing," Geoffrey prevaricated. "An alliance. A strong one. I'm not Richard – I don't lie with boys by preference, but…"
"I'm not a boy," Philip said, but without the anger it would have held for him even a year or two ago. He was growing into his power, so that he no longer felt slighted quite so easily. John could learn a thing or two from him, Geoffrey thought.
"No, you're a king," he replied. "You're my lord, and I submit myself to you in whatever way you prefer."
Philip turned, frustrated. "I don't want submission. I don't want your fealty sworn on your back. Here, of all places, we ought to be equals."
"I'm not your equal, Philip, and if I came anywhere close to being your equal, you wouldn't want me any longer. You can never love any of us once we get too powerful. Right now, I'm just weak enough that you can trust me – I wouldn't be able to deal you a mortal wound even if I wanted to."
"And does that work both ways? How can you trust me?"
Geoffrey shrugged. I can trust you because I'm smarter than you, and I know how to make you the more foolish, he didn't say. "What other choice do I have? John lacks the resources to support me in anything but name, Henry's made it clear who he favours, and Eleanor's hands are as tied as ever. You invited me; I came. Your offer's a good one. I'm accepting it. I'll give you what you want. You do want me, don't you? You seemed keen enough before…"
He stretched out a hand to catch Philip by the arm and pull him close. The king's green eyes stared up at him, wide and all too willing. "You're beautiful, Geoff," he said, as levelly as he could manage. "I've always thought so. Beautiful and terrifying. We can all see the wheels turning behind your eyes, faster than any of us can follow. You tell me I can trust you, and the first thing that says to me is, I shouldn't."
"Good," Geoffrey said calmly. "Let's neither of us trust the other, then. We'll be wise and cautious together." Hands still hard on Philip's arms, he kissed him, lion-fierce. Philip struggled a moment, not to escape but to force him back against the bed. They tumbled together onto the down-filled mattress, sharp corners of elbows and hips sinking into softness.
"Have you done this before?" Philip asked as he worked his hands up under Geoffrey's loose tunic, feeling the strong muscles of his back shift as he moved.
"Why? Is it important to you to be the first?" he replied, teasing along Philip's collarbone with kisses.
"It doesn't matter, I just wasn't certain how much, ah, guidance you might require."
"I know what I'm doing well enough," Geoff told him, gripping Philip's prick over his robe, hard enough to make him gasp. "Get this off," he said with a tug at the rich fabric that also rubbed harsh against the skin beneath. Philip quickly obliged. Unclothed, the king was slim, taut with barely-bridled energy, and hard as iron. Geoff planted one hand against his chest to press him back down onto the bed, bending his head over his eager rod. He took him in his mouth none too gingerly, stroking and caressing with his clever tongue, and Philip couldn't help groaning softly, biting down on his finger to keep from disturbing the men in the adjoining chamber.
One of Geoffrey's hands curled around the base of his cock, grasping firmly, and the other lay across Philip's stomach, steadying himself as he sucked him. Each quiver of his muscles let Geoff know what to do next, whether to speed up or slow down, light flicks of the tongue or greedy swallows. Richard sucked cock for his own pleasure as much as for his partner's, sometimes drawing out the process to the point of exasperation, but Geoff seemed completely intent on rousing and then assuaging Philip's need. It would be over too quickly if he didn't stop soon. "Enough," Philip managed to gasp out. "Stop, let me…"
"Catch your breath?" Geoffrey raised his head, smiling astutely.
"Let me fuck you," Philip finished, a smile of his own playing about his lips as Geoff's controlled composure faded into uncertainty for once.
"But you… I thought you would…"
"Turn over for you?" Philip shrugged, arched one sardonic eyebrow. "Be your boy? No, I don't think I shall."
"But Richard… I thought you preferred it that way."
"I was young then. I let him take charge. He never inquired much about my preferences, to be honest."
"He forced you?"
"I wouldn't go that far. Encouraged, perhaps. Molded. But you're not Richard, as you've taken pains to point out." Philip twisted beneath him, pushing his thigh between Geoff's legs and finding him flagging, but still half-hard and already twitching back to life at his touch. "I thought you said you'd submit yourself to me," he teased gently. "In whatever way I prefer." He tangled his fingers in Geoff's hair, stroking along his cheek with his thumb, watched as those blue eyes flickered closed and open again. "For me, Geoffrey."
Geoff persisted in his show of reticence until he deemed it had served its purpose: letting Philip believe he was in control. "Only for you," he agreed reluctantly. "But I won't roll over."
Philip was gentle, as much as he could be, slicking them both with oils and going slowly at first. Legs bent to his chest, Geoff was surprised to find that, after the initial shock of invasion, it was actually quite enjoyable. Better, though, was watching Philip's face slacken and tense, contort and gasp in pleasure, blush and sweat until his hair was plastered to his brow and he was moaning aloud, no longer caring whether they were overheard. That power, to reduce a king to such a desperate, bestial state, aroused him as much as the hard cock being eagerly pounded into him. "More," he begged, "yes, harder," pulling Philip down for a kiss so rough it left his lip swollen and bleeding.
No longer able to make himself be careful, Philip thrust relentlessly, digging his fingers into Geoff's shoulders deep enough to bruise. Geoff's cries were unfeigned as he bucked his hips back against Philip, clutching him close with arms and legs, etching his back and sides with frantic fingernails. Philip's hand fumbled between them, grasping Geoff's cock and giving it a series of quick, hard strokes that brought him to the edge and then over, coating their bellies with his seed. Moments later Philip gasped something incoherent and came with a violent shudder, slowly stilling to a quiet trembling as he collapsed to the mattress and let Geoff encircle him in his arms.
They held each other close, recovering. "How did you learn that?" Philip asked softly. "To use your mouth that way, I mean."
"Practice. Much the same way you did, I imagine," Geoffrey replied with a dismissive shrug.
Philip frowned, uncertain. "With…"
"I worshipped him once too, you know," Geoff said softly, looking away. He'd never told anyone before, didn't know why he told Philip at that moment, but for a vague sense that here was the one person who might possibly understand.
"Geoffrey, I didn't know…"
"Never mind. Ancient history. Forget it." He half-wished he hadn't said anything, but the part of himself he could never shut off, the part that schemed and calculated and judged, whispered that it had been well-played, that Philip, having seen that moment of vulnerability, would trust him the more deeply. "Sleep now," he told him.
Without uncoiling themselves from one another, they did just that, though Geoff's slumber was restless. In the early hours before dawn, Philip nuzzled close to him, still mostly asleep, and murmured "Love you, Richard." Geoff didn't begrudge him whatever small comfort he could take in his dreams, but neither did he shut his eyes again that night.
***
February 1186, Paris
How, afterwards, can one ever remember what it feels like to fall in love? Is it in the haze of long days spent together, sun dappling everything in gold and green? In the instant when the sound of your lover's laugh suddenly gains the power to pierce you to the core? In the cool of spring's nightfall, and the warmth you make together? Those moments pass all too fleetingly, and yet while living them, it feels as if they will never end.
Geoffrey didn't mean to fall in love, never expected it. His feelings for Constance were dutiful at best, indifferent at worst – so long as Brittany was hers, it was his, and there it stopped. His love for Alais seemed now to him a boy's infatuation, out of reach and futile. He thought perhaps he had loved his nursemaid when he was a child, and he could certainly remember adoring Richard, the taste bitter as ashes in his mouth. His small daughters he found perplexing, and though he wanted to believe that when he had a son he would love him, privately he doubted if such a thing were possible. People were tools, people were the gears of the machine – people didn't exist to please him, they existed to be dissected until they were understood, and then used as necessary to reach his ends.
He had hoped – expected, in his cockier moments – that Philip would come to love him; he'd had no intention of doing the same. If Philip had tried to command his love, he would have retreated into his armor and feigned the emotion as best as he could, if that was what seemed most likely to gain him what he wanted. But instead Philip merely shared his space with him, allowing him time to grow less cautious, more comfortable. They talked for long hours, and Geoffrey came to know the mind of his liege as well as he soon knew his body. They plotted together, scheming against Richard, and pieced together a plan that Geoff knew surpassed anything he could have come up with on his own. One Sunday at Mass, he realized that he couldn't stop looking at the back of Philip's neck, the faint shadowed hollow that appeared when he bowed his head in prayer, and knew that the dart had, however improbably, hit home. It was as startling as if the cathedral's roof had opened up to the clear blue sky, and as terrifying.
"I have to leave," he told Philip after, as they rode back to the old palace on the Ile de la Cité. "I've neglected my responsibilities in Brittany too long." It was only partly true – he did need to see to his duchy, but he also felt an overwhelming urge to get away before he became inextricably trapped.
Philip half-turned, and gave that smile that made his heart clench. "Of course, I understand," he said. "But couldn't you stay until after I've concluded the treaty with Flanders? Come to Amiens with me, then return to Brittany from there. You can be home by Easter."
"Of course," said Geoff, feeling the snare closing around him, tighter than a noose. That night, he made Philip peak again and again, until they begged one another for mercy, as though trying to fit a lifetime's worth of love into a single night.
***
March 1186, Amiens
"I do believe your wife dislikes me," said Geoffrey, idly lounging in Philip's bed.
"Nonsense," Philip replied. "If Isabelle dislikes anyone, it's me. She's spent these months we've been apart in her uncle's tender care, and he… well, he's the reason we're here." After a bitter struggle, the count of Flanders had finally surrendered control over Vermandois and Valois, which cost him dearly but went some measure to restoring his family's influence at the royal court of France.
"You have to go to her tonight, Philip," Geoffrey told him sternly. "Fill her belly and she'll soon realize where her allegiance lies."
"I know," the king sighed. "Loyalty, duty, fecundity, and so on. I just don't enjoy it very much."
"You only have to enjoy it sufficiently to spend. Get her with child, and then you can do as you please for a year, maybe longer. Come, it can't be as bad as that."
"She just lies there," said Philip dismally. "The first time, she prayed through the entire business."
"So make her call on God in a more enjoyable way. You know how to use your mouth well enough, surely. And these fingers…" He kissed each tip in turn.
"I'd rather use them on you," said Philip, smiling wanly. "You'll be gone so soon…"
"Yes, well, I'm not likely to give you an heir, so be a man and ply your skills on your wife this night," Geoff said, more sharply than he meant to. "Come to me afterwards if you wish," he added, weakening as Philip's face fell. "Let me taste her on you. It's been months since I've had a woman, I can live vicariously through you at least."
"By the lance of St. James, you're shameless."
"It's most uncharacteristic, I assure you. It must be you who makes me so," Geoff replied, kissing him.
"You could come with me," Philip suggested slyly when they finally broke away from one another.
Geoffrey laughed, uncomfortable, only half-certain that the king was joking. "No, I think your bride despises me quite enough without you prostituting her to me. Go, pay your marital debt. Dream of me while you're in her."
"I shall do both, by your leave."
After he departed, Geoffrey lay back in bed and summoned up memories of women he'd fucked, whores and highborn ladies, indistinguishable in the dark. The thoughts still roused him, which was something of a relief. When he was home again with Constance, perhaps things would return to normal and the enchantment Philip had laid on him would be broken. He felt off-balance, and though part of him delighted in the foreign sensations, much as his body had grown to crave the once-unfamiliar touch of Philip's hands, the urgent press of his length into him, another part of his mind was in a constant state of panic at this unacceptable loss of control.
He tried to hide those feelings from Philip, retreating behind a brittle veneer of innuendo and sarcasm whenever they threatened to break free, but he thought the king suspected the truth – he was too perceptive to be easily fooled, and knew Geoff too well by this point. It puzzled him that Philip didn't seem to be bothered by his moments of reticence, but he had often observed how people were capable of ignoring the most glaring faults in those they loved. He could only assume that this was such a situation. In a way, it demonstrated how clever his plan had been – so brilliant that it had ensnared both of them.
***
Geoffrey was asleep when Philip slipped into bed beside him. It was past midnight, and it would have been unreasonable for him to expect Geoff to keep vigil for him. He didn't intend to wake him, but the weight of his body shifted the mattress enough that Geoff rolled over to face him. Anyone else's eyes might have been bleary, just wakened from sleep in the middle of the night, but by the light of the candle Geoff was alert as ever. "How was it?" he asked, curious.
"It went about as well as could be expected," said Philip, propping his head up on his hand. "Isabelle didn't pray this time, at least."
Geoffrey entwined his fingers with Philip's. "Good."
"Are you too tired to…?" Philip asked. He was already stirring, half-hard against Geoff's leg.
"Never."
"Do you want to hear how I had her?"
"Mm," nodded Geoffrey, stroking himself to readiness. "Tell me what you did."
"She needed some encouragement before she'd allow me to tongue her. She protested that it was a waste of time, since it wouldn't get her with child, but I convinced her that the more she enjoyed it, the more likely she would be to conceive."
"Is that true?"
"How should I know? I'm no midwife. It worked, anyway. Soon she was wet as a spring shower, salt-slick and pleading with me to mount her- oh God, Geoff," he gasped as his cock was smoothly swallowed to the root in a single motion. It was hard to carry on with his story when he was being ministered to so thoroughly, but he persisted as best as he could. "She's still tight, but she was ready and eager for it this time…mnnh, yes, do that again… Can you taste her on me like you wanted to?"
Neither of them heard the footsteps approach Philip's chamber, pause to listen for some time, and then just as quietly depart again.
When they were finished, lying sweat-soaked and drained, Geoff cleared his throat. "I ought to set off tomorrow," he told him. "The treaty's signed and concluded, and our plans are falling into place. I need to make sure the fortifications are coming along properly at Nantes, if I'm to hold it against Richard and Henry when the time comes. And," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "I should see to my own heir-making too. Maud is almost nine months old; Constance ought to be ready to bear again. A son this time, with any luck."
"I wish you didn't have to go," said Philip softly. "I wish this wasn't so hard."
"So do I," Geoff replied by rote, before realizing, to his surprise, that he meant it. "But I'll see you again in a few months. Before the summer's out, if all goes according to plan."
"Will I burn in hell if I say I love you?" Philip asked, not meeting his eyes.
"The only hell is leaving. I'll be burning right there beside you."
***
April 1186, Nantes
The fortifications were rising according to schedule, perhaps even more rapidly than he'd expected. Geoffrey was pleased. He took the steps two at a time and embraced Constance formally but warmly, conscious of the many onlookers who would always judge him according to how she reacted to him. His Breton subjects were still more strongly attached to their duchess than to him, despite his best efforts to win them over.
Constance smiled up at him, her dark chestnut hair burnished bright by the sunlight. "Husband, my heart is gladdened to see you once more."
"And I you, my love. It seems you've been busy in my absence."
"I hope you'll be pleased by the changes here," she said. "Do you wish to tour the works now, or…?"
"Tomorrow, perhaps," he said, taking her by the arm with a smile he didn't feel. "It's been too long since we've been together."
It wasn't purely duty that bore him to her bed. He had missed the feeling of lying with a woman, and Constance knew him well enough after five years of marriage to wake his desire with the rough scratches and bites he preferred. But he was unsettled to find that now her lips felt too soft against his, her skin strangely smooth. He had told himself all along that he wasn't a sodomite, not like Richard – never like Richard, he'd sworn that to himself years ago – that this was about Philip in particular, not men in general. That when he was back with his wife, things would be normal once more. But now, in her arms, he wasn't so certain. He shut his eyes and thrust into her harder, trying to drive away the ache and the doubt, but it wasn't working. Finally, in frustration, he rolled off her unsated and lay, chest heaving, on the mattress.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked, sounding nervous. "It's been so long, I…I'm sorry, my lord." Her voice quivered, as if she might burst into tears.
For a moment he contemplated asking her to suck him, then to lick her slim fingers and shove them up his arse, but he knew she'd be horrified. He might as well ask her to fuck him with the crucifix from her prie-dieu, it would be about as likely to happen. It wouldn't be the same, in any case. "Everything's fine," he told her, trying to sound kind. "I'm just more tired from the journey than I realized. Tomorrow, sweetheart." He kissed her cheek and then rolled over to wrestle with a sleep that wouldn't come either.
***
August 1186, Paris
It was hard to keep from leaving Nantes and riding straight back to Paris, whether to try and free himself from the chains he'd bound himself with or simply to see Philip again, but Geoffrey managed to shame himself into staying for the summer. Things got better with Constance, at least sufficiently so that by July she'd gone off her food and would fall asleep over her embroidery in the middle of the day, just as she'd done in the early months of her other two pregnancies. Despite the similarities, she swore she felt different this time, and said surely that meant it would be the longed-for son. He smiled fondly and pretended to believe that she could tell.
With that particular duty no longer weighing him down so heavily, Geoffrey could turn his undivided attention to building up his forces, slowly and subtly, so as not to draw too much attention to his efforts and bring Richard down on him before they were ready. His messengers to potential allies were dispatched, his vassals quietly alerted to prepare themselves. It was the sort of work Geoffrey had been born for, the part of the job he loved best. Still, when he could turn his horse's head east and know that in a few short days he would see Philip again, he felt unexpectedly happier than he had in weeks.
The ostensible reason for his visit was a tournament. His long stay with Philip earlier in the year had caused talk, of course, and some of it had reached Richard's ears. In order to allay those suspicions, Philip had concocted this scheme to give Geoff a harmless reason to travel to Paris. In truth, Geoffrey did not much enjoy tournaments, finding their stylized violence senseless except insofar as it kept knights busy when they weren't occupied with more fruitful slaughter. But his men were glad of the exercise, and Geoffrey was glad of the chance to see Philip again. He imagined he would tilt once or twice and have done with it, then spend the rest of his time with the king.
He was mildly surprised to be greeted upon his arrival, not by Philip, but by his young queen. Isabelle of Hainaut, slim and pretty, barely sixteen but still regal in her bearing, offered him her hand. "Welcome, your grace. I am sorry to say the king is yet absent, but he is expected to return tomorrow. I know he wished to be here when you arrived in order to greet you himself, but I shall have to serve in his stead."
Geoffrey forced a smile. "There is no need to be sorry, dear lady. You honour me with your welcome." Another day was not so long to wait, after five months.
"You must be parched after your ride. The roads are so dusty this time of year, are they not?" She took a cup of wine from a waiting page and offered it to him, smiling warmly. It was slightly bitter, and the dregs were harsh, but he drank it nevertheless, as much to be polite as because he was thirsty.
"Come," she said after he'd drained the drink, "let me show you to your chambers. I knew you would want to be close to the king, so I've given you the adjoining room. I hope it will be to your satisfaction," she added, giving him a glance so sly he wondered how much she knew. He didn't think Philip would have confessed all his indiscretions to her, any more than he himself would have told Constance the truth, but perhaps the queen had learned of the affair through other channels. It was possible; Philip hadn't always been as discreet as he should have been. He debated with himself whether to say something to her, but settled for simply agreeing that the quarters he'd been assigned were more than adequate and thanking her once more for her hospitality.
In the early hours of the morning, he woke with a sharp pain in his gut. He put it down to the rich food at dinner – the duck stuffed with mushrooms and doused with wine and mustard sauce had been exceptionally good, sharp and flavourful, and he'd likely eaten more of it than he should have. Dawn only served to illuminate his agony, but after some time the cramps diminished and he felt sufficiently recovered to eat the thin porridge his servants pressed upon him.
He was still abed when Philip's horse cantered into the courtyard that afternoon, though he could hear the inevitable commotion that accompanied the king's return. It wasn't long before Philip was at his side. "You're ill," he said, stating the obvious in his worry.
"I noticed," said Geoff dryly. "It wasn't my intent, I assure you."
"Stop it," Philip chided him. "Forgive me for being concerned. I'm going to have my physicians examine you."
"God's blood, spare me the leeches and purgatives. I'm already feeling slightly less awful. I'll be back on my feet in no time. I'll probably even be well enough to ride in a few days."
Philip looked unconvinced. "Don't feel as though you have to. It's only a tournament, it's not as though it matters."
"But I ought to put on a good show," he said, dragging himself wearily up to a seated position, leaning back against the bed's carved headboard. "Richard will soon have news of my doings here, and I'd rather he hear I've been jousting than that I've been lying abed for days at a time. Where have you been?" he asked, changing the subject.
"The Vexin." He could hardly say more with servants milling about to overhear, but he didn't need to. Geoffrey knew the small but crucial territory would be the venue from which Philip would launch their eventual attack on Normandy. From Philip's satisfied tone, it seemed that plans were falling into place nicely. He nodded, pleased despite his discomfort.
"I ought to let you rest," Philip said. "You still look pale. Drink some wine, even if you can't keep food down." With a kiss on the brow, the king departed. For once Geoffrey found sleep easily, and barely stirred until the next morning.
***
The wind whipped the banners above the field, and the canvas walls of Geoffrey's pavilion alternately billowed and collapsed with each gust. He was still not completely recovered from his illness, but despite a lingering unease and Philip's cautions he had elected to ride nonetheless. The noise of the preparations outside was almost deafening, with armored men and horses clattering about, together with the cries of heralds, raucous music, and the boisterous onlookers who were already gathering, lining the upper stories of nearby houses or clambering atop carts for a better view of the lists.
"Just in the great charge," he told the king. "For the appearance of things. Who do I ride against?"
"William des Barres and his men."
"Christ, Philip, you couldn't have given me someone easy to defeat?" Geoff said, smiling crookedly.
"Blame the serjeant of arms – he drew up the lists." Philip stepped aside so that Geoffrey's squire could bring in his mail, but then turned to the lad. "Run along," he told him, "I'll arm your master." The boy's eyes widened to see the king abase himself so, but he did as he was bidden.
"Well, now they'll have something to talk about," said Geoffrey laconically.
"Let them," Philip replied, drawing the tent's flaps closed and tying them securely. "I haven't had a moment alone with you since I arrived." He advanced on Geoff, who retreated to the low-slung cot and drew the king down onto it with him, hastily pulling aside clothes that suddenly seemed like nothing but obstacles, almost tearing a strip from his liege's robe in his haste. "Go easy," said Philip, only half-teasing, "you've been ill."
"I'm well enough," Geoff insisted, as his hands fumbled under Philip's tunic, skin against fever-warm skin. "We ought to hurry, though, or my men will go leaderless into the lists."
"I doubt it'll take long." Philip bent down, bringing that full, familiar weight to bear on him. Geoff could already feel the insistent heat pooling in his groin, and knew that he was right: it would be over far too quickly. He nipped the full, soft flesh of Philip's lower lip, making him gasp. The king retaliated in kind, scoring a matched set of four red lines down his side and across his belly. Geoff's hips bucked, any pretense of control lost, and his wanton groans were drowned in the trumpet blasts that pierced the air. They were both soon soaked, the warmth of the summer competing with their own heat. Philip's hand sought his cock, his grip firm and steady, and Geoff turned, twisted, reaching for the hard length that pressed against his hip, finally finding it. He watched the way Philip's face screwed itself up at his simple touch, the heavy-lidded eyes slumping to half-mast, the tension held quivering all along his jaw, throbbing with each stroke he delivered. He traced that taut line with one finger until he felt it give way into a shuddering moan. Philip bit down on the ball of Geoffrey's thumb as he spurted over his knuckles, and the sudden sharp jolt of pain was enough to bring Geoff off as well, frantic pulses gradually diminishing together into a languid, sultry stillness.
"Up," he told Philip after too short a time. "I need to be out there, and soon. I'll call my squire back if you wish."
"I meant it when I said I'd dress you," Philip retorted, rising and smoothing his clothes back into some semblance of decency. He helped Geoffrey into his padding, then slid the heavy hauberk on over his head. Geoff shrugged until the weight hung properly off his shoulders, as Philip knelt before him to help tie his chausses to his legs.
"It seems wrong, having you kneel before me," Geoffrey said, adjusting his belt and scabbard. Everything felt just a little heavier than it should have, a little too warm – no doubt a lingering effect of his illness.
"I wouldn't do it for anyone else," Philip told him, "believe me." He stood, brushing himself off, and handed Geoffrey his helm and shield. "You're ready," he told him, and planted a kiss firmly on his lips.
"You could give me a token to wear," Geoff said lightly, not expecting anything other than laughter in response.
Philip looked dubious, but completed the tear Geoff had begun in their passion, removing a thin shred of embroidered trim from his rich blue robe and tying it securely at his lover's wrist. "There," he told him. "Never say I haven't done you enough honour."
"I could never say such a thing," Geoff replied softly, and returned his kiss before setting out across the muddy field.
***
Later, when Philip tried to replay the events in his memory, all he could conjure up were a series of sharp flashes, and a dull grey haze in between. The brazen blare of horns and the steam of the horses' flanks, the crash of the two lines meeting and the joyful screams of the crowd rising over the din of combat. He couldn't see who had fallen at first, until he recognized Geoffrey's white mare running riderless across the field, reins flying loose, and his heart seemed to freeze. Beside him, Isabelle was saying something, telling him to sit down perhaps, but he could barely hear her. He breathed again when Geoffrey managed to gain his feet, but then cried out as he saw him stagger and fall a second time before he was finally dragged from the field. Philip's memory failed him at that point – he was told he collapsed, but couldn't remember doing so.
He had his best physicians tend to Geoffrey during the two days he held on. There was little they could do, however. Roger de Fournival told him in confidence afterward that the prince ought to have been able to recover from his wounds – a broken leg, several ribs shattered: serious, yes, but not usually fatal. But Geoffrey kept falling in and out of consciousness, his skin took on a sickly yellow hue, and his bleeding continued long past the point when his wounds should have clotted. The doctor, baffled, suspected that either he was injured internally in some way they could not detect, or that his bout of illness had left his humours so out of balance he was simply unable to heal himself.
And he recalled the pathetic scene at Notre Dame but dimly, as if it had happened to someone else and he had only observed it from a distance: the lead coffin lowered into the hole before the high altar, and a grief-stricken king trying to follow it in and being pulled back, struggling against fate as much as against the arms of those who restrained him.
One moment out of the whole awful period, though, he always remembered with a painful, jagged clarity. "I'm dying," Geoff told him on the evening of the second day.
Philip had barely left his side, and was running on nothing but shock and desperation. "Don't say that," he told him, more sharply than he meant to.
Geoff shook his head feebly. "Don't tell me what I can and can't say – if a dying man can't speak his mind, who can? Listen to me now. You can't attack Richard and Henry on your own…"
Philip sent the useless doctors and priests scurrying away with a fierce glare. "I know that, don't you think I know that?" he hissed once they were alone. "This isn't the time to talk about war, damn it!"
"It's the only time we've got left. You'll get your chance to thrash things out with Richard one day, just not now. Constance is with child, and she'll need your help once I'm gone. If it's a boy…" He paused for a long moment, racked with pain, before he was able to continue. "Richard looks likely to produce no heirs, at this rate – a son of mine could succeed him. The child will have to be protected, especially from John."
Philip nodded, eyes threatening to overflow. "I swear it, all right? Now stop thinking so bloody much."
Geoff smiled weakly, the wheels in his mind making their last turn. "I can't help it, Philip. It's all I am."
"Damn you, Geoffrey, it is not! There's more to you than that armor you wear. I know there is. I've seen it, however much you've tried to hide it. If you're dying, then for God's sake, spend your last moments in this world as a human being." He paused, a heartbeat, two. "I love you." He'd never said the words so openly before, not since he was a boy with Richard, but he couldn't find it within himself to dance around the subject at that instant.
Geoff looked up at him, his jaundiced eyes bleak and hollow. "And I love you too. If it means burning in Hell…"
"…then I'll be there beside you," Philip said with a desolate smile. He sat clutching Geoffrey's hand long after it fell limp.
Title: Pro Anima Dilecti Sui
Author:
shadow_truthsPairing: Geoffrey/Philip
Rating: NC-17
Notes: originally written for Sweet Charity. A DVD commentary version is available at my journal, if you're interested in the historical details :)
"After this shall succeed two dragons, whereof one shall be killed with the sting of envy, but the other shall return under the shadow of a name… The castles of Venus shall be builded new, nor shall Cupid's arrows cease to wound." - Geoffrey of Monmouth, The History of the Kings of Britain, Book VII Chapter III, "The Prophecy of Merlin"
January 1186, Vincennes
"I thought this was a little hunting lodge, not a chateau. You've prettied the place up, Philip."
The king of France smiled as they rode along the path lined with barren trees, the late afternoon sun filtering weakly through clouds. There was a light dusting of snow, though less than usual for Epiphany. "I'm trying to impress you," he said cheerfully. "Is it working?"
"Ask me again once I've had a warm drink and a bite to eat," replied Geoffrey. "I'm not in the best frame of mind to appreciate it just now."
"Was the journey from Nantes difficult?"
"Just tiring. I'll be grateful for the chance to wash the mud off."
"That, I can certainly provide – the baths here are exquisite."
Geoff arched an eyebrow. "You are trying to impress me."
"Oh, believe me, I've barely begun," said Philip with a grin.
***
The bath was everything Philip had promised, a sunken marble-lined pool of water rather than the usual wooden tub, not huge but comfortably large enough for a half-dozen people, heated from beneath the floor after the Roman fashion and scattered with fresh-smelling herbs. The duke of Brittany luxuriated in the warm, steam-filled chamber and turned the situation over and over in his mind. Richard had given up the Aquitaine, true, but only in return for being recognized as the heir-apparent to the throne of England, Normandy, and Anjou. Whatever meagre hope Geoff had ever held of seeing his brother passed over in his own favour was dead; in any case, he would have no way to hold Brittany along with so many other territories in the face of his brothers' inevitable onslaught. No way, that is, without Philip's aid. The only question, then, was what Philip would desire in return.
Philip, seated across from him in the bath, dismissed the servants once the wine had been poured and the meal of bread, salted pork, cheese and dried apricots laid out on the board across the tub. He appraised Geoffrey with a look, knowing full well he was being scrutinized himself. "Thank you for coming," he began.
"My curiosity was piqued," said Geoffrey, helping himself to the food. "But come, let's do this properly. Ask after my wife, perhaps, or the weather – it's been such a dry winter the farmers are already afeared for their harvests."
"And how does your wife?"
"No dry spells there, thank God, though still no sons. Still, girl babies keep Constance just as occupied, and they'll prove useful when they're old enough to wed. And we got to curry some small favour with Eleanor by naming the eldest after her," he added with a half-smile. "And what of your bride?"
Philip grimaced involuntarily, setting down his goblet. "It's… unfortunate. We've been married nearly six years, and just as she's finally of an age to bed, it seems I may have to set her aside. Conflict with Flanders – Isabelle's uncle sides against me, and Burgundy threatens to cease their aid if I keep her – it's all very awkward. Believe me, I have no wish to go through the struggle of finding another suitable girl to marry, but if I must…" He shrugged.
"I shouldn't worry, if I were in your position. Fathers must be lining up their daughters for your inspection. And this time, you're old enough that you might actually get some say in the choice."
Philip chuckled. "It's just a question of the time one has to devote to these matters. My father took twenty-eight years and three wives to produce a son, after all – I'd like to do a little better than that."
"Still," Geoffrey mused, "there must be something worthwhile about it – being the only son. Dieudonné. Cherished. Never having to struggle just to be noticed amid a crowd of princes."
"There are men who would love to have your father's problem. It's rather nerve-wracking to have just one heir, as I'm sure my own dear departed sire would have told you."
"My great-grandfather, the first king Henry, died of a surfeit of lampreys. My own father looks liable to perish of a surfeit of heirs. He's had so many children, he had to start re-using their damned names. Well, mine, at least. The older Geoffrey's a bastard, mind you, but that hasn't stopped Henry making him a bishop, and his chancellor."
"That must sting."
"Philip, I've been stung so many times, I'm like a bloody hedgehog," said Geoffrey wearily, taking a sip of his wine. "Cupid would have to squint through a reading stone in order to find a bare inch to plunge his dart."
Philip chuckled at that. "A heart vulnerable to the pangs of love isn't an asset in a ruler, in any case."
They sat together in companionable, if not entirely comfortable, silence for a time, until the food was finished and the board pushed aside. Philip refilled their goblets with more of the pale golden wine, gone lukewarm in the heat of the bath but still delectable, and then leaned back, resting his arms on the tub's edge. "Your curiosity is still piquing you, I presume."
"Well, you haven't told me anything yet, so I'd have to say yes."
"Richard's in – you and John are out. Please do correct me if I haven't got the most up-to-date version of your family's seating arrangements." Geoff nodded, so Philip continued. "You know how Richard gets when he's on top."
"I do, but I suspect you know better," said Geoffrey, but there was little malice to the jibe, merely a mild bite that Philip ignored for the time being.
"He's finally signed the Aquitaine over to Eleanor – for all the good that does, it's still crawling with his troops – in exchange for the throne and everything that comes with it, Normandy, Anjou and all. You don't seriously think he'll wait until Henry dies to lay hold of that inheritance, do you?"
"It may not fall into his hands as easily as he dreams." It was obvious by now that they both desired an alliance – all that remained was to work out the terms, shape the stratagems that would bring them to victory.
"I heard that you asked your father for Anjou, the better to hold Richard back. And that you were denied."
"Henry's besotted with the idea of his dear, loyal son Richard. It's an old man's fantasy, nothing more." The bitterness underlying Geoff's words was plain. "He says that when God finally takes him, he'll leave behind an empire, not a collection of lands split between his sons. 'God works slowly; Richard is quick,' I told him, but of course he never listens to me."
"The seneschal of France is traditionally count of Anjou," Philip said conversationally, as though he'd just remarked on the weather or the price of cattle.
Geoffrey eyed him levelly. "And what would that entail, precisely?"
"You would act on my behalf in those territories you administer, wherever those might eventually be – Brittany, of course, and Nantes… perhaps also Normandy, if all went well. You would be… my lieutenant, if you will."
"Your subordinate."
"You already did homage to me for Brittany, at my coronation; it's not so very different. Do you remember that day?"
"I remember it was stinking hot for November. Young Henry carried your crown, and held your head while they put it on you. You were such a scrawny slip of a boy, we joked afterwards your neck might buckle under the weight."
"I was fourteen," said Philip mildly. "And I didn't buckle."
"I know," Geoff replied, giving credit where it was due. More wine was poured, more reminiscences exchanged. The combination of the unwatered wine, the heat of the bath, and the long day's ride were making him feel slightly light-headed.
"Blast," said Philip eventually. "I ought to call the servants to scrub and oil us, but it gets so tiresome having to watch what one says all the time. It's strangely pleasant, just talking with you, alone for once."
"Here," Geoffrey volunteered. "Let me." He slid along the bench until he was beside Philip, stretching an arm out to gather the bath attendant's tools, the sponge and scraper and the scented oils. Dipping the sponge in the steaming water, he motioned for Philip to turn away. The king did so, bending his neck down, and allowed Geoffrey to wash his back. He shut his eyes and let the water trickle over his skin, dampen the hair at the nape of his neck.
"That Christmas at Chinon," Geoffrey murmured, his strong hands working at Philip's shoulders. "Was that when you began to hate Richard?"
"'Hate' isn't the right word. 'Mistrust,' perhaps, but even then…" He shrugged, struggling for once to give voice to his thoughts. "It was when I truly recognized that, whatever I might think of him as a man, he was more than just that. That all of us were – are. Princes and kings and dukes and counts, every one of us locked away in our own little realms, our own cages of lies."
"So you did lie to Henry."
"Not about the details," Philip protested. "In the main, it was truth, just…garlanded a little for the holiday season."
"I'd never seen Richard cut to the quick like that. Nor Henry, for that matter. You're good, you know that? Very good indeed."
"Well, I try," said Philip modestly. "Not that, in the end, it accomplished much."
"I wouldn't say that," Geoffrey insisted. "Not at all. You drove a wedge in – not enough to split them completely, but it was a start." He didn't mention the cellars and the daggers and everything that came later, not certain how much Philip knew of those nocturne doings.
"I've never understood," Philip said, inclining his neck so that Geoffrey could rub it, "why they all discount you so easily."
Geoff shrugged. "I was a year younger than Richard, and grew up in his shadow, which, you may have noticed, is enormous. I was a third son, extraneous. By the time I became a second son, they'd grown used to overlooking me."
"How do you deal with it?"
"Well, in truth, being ignored has its advantages. But mainly, I pretend that I don't care. It works surprisingly well. Here, turn," he said, "let me wash your front."
Philip turned slowly to face him, but kept his eyes lowered. His lashes were so long, almost like a woman's, thought Geoffrey, and his lips verged dangerously on pretty. There was something reminiscent of Alais in his face, not the colouring so much as the underlying structure of the bones. It gave Geoff pause, put thoughts into his mind that hadn't been there before – or had lain dormant and unrecognized until that moment. A brief glance below the waterline suggested that Philip's mind had turned to such thoughts some time ago. "Richard's a damned fool," Geoff said, more to himself than to Philip, as the elements of a plan fell into place.
The king looked up, surprised, and found Geoffrey's crystal-blue eyes locked with his, curious and strangely trusting. "You deserve better than what they've given you," he heard himself saying. "I can offer you so much more."
"Normandy, Anjou, a seat at your right hand?"
"And this," said Philip, and kissed him softly on the lips. Geoff didn't start backward, but neither did he lean instantly into the embrace. Philip, not wanting to frighten him off, pulled back after the span of a heartbeat or two and waited, scared that he'd gone too far, too fast.
Geoffrey licked his lower lip, as if tasting the unfamiliar touch there. "I won't be another Richard for you," he said, low and cautious.
"I wouldn't ask you to be," said Philip. No one could, he didn't add.
Geoffrey simply nodded at that, and leaned forward to kiss his liege again, longer this time. Philip's hands curved smoothly around his back; their knees collided, awkward, before he drew one leg up to let them come into each others' space. He suddenly wanted more, too fast, to ravish and devour, but he let Geoffrey's slow reticence set the pace.
Philip's beard wasn't rough, though trimmed close, and Geoffrey, ridiculously, wished he'd been able to shave before this began. The way his stubble scratched against Philip's hands, rubbed harsh against his lips, seemed churlish, but the king raised no objection. Instead, he parted those lips, teasing and tonguing, drawing him further in. Geoff's hand came down on the sharp bone of his hip, thumb catching there as his fingers curled around and under, lifting Philip just enough to ease him onto his thigh so that he straddled him. Each could feel the other's heart pounding as their chests pressed against one another. Philip stretched eager fingers out to grasp Geoff's cock, but the prince stopped him, catching hold of his wrist. "Not here," he breathed, less out of embarrassment than a desire to keep control of the situation. "Later." Philip's stifled moan against his mouth tasted sweet as victory, sweet as vengeance.
"You'll sleep in my chamber," Philip insisted as they dressed. "It's only proper." Geoffrey could no more deny him than he could deny the thrill of excitement that nestled in his stomach. If this was all his triumph would cost, he was more than willing to pay the price.
***
The king's body servants had turned down the blankets on the great bed, strewn fresh rushes on the floor, and made everything as comfortable as possible for their lord's guest before retiring to the antechamber where they would sleep. If any thought the noblemen had rushed through dinner or fidgeted during vespers, no one remarked on it. Now Geoffrey waited, idly fingering the bed's thick woolen curtains, for Philip to make his move.
Instead of disrobing immediately, Philip circled the bed to stand before him. Geoff thought he detected more than a hint of tension in the set of the king's shoulders, the way he stood, hip braced against hand. "Do you truly want this?" he asked, shy and defensive all at once. "You're not playing some game here, are you?"
"We both want the same thing," Geoffrey prevaricated. "An alliance. A strong one. I'm not Richard – I don't lie with boys by preference, but…"
"I'm not a boy," Philip said, but without the anger it would have held for him even a year or two ago. He was growing into his power, so that he no longer felt slighted quite so easily. John could learn a thing or two from him, Geoffrey thought.
"No, you're a king," he replied. "You're my lord, and I submit myself to you in whatever way you prefer."
Philip turned, frustrated. "I don't want submission. I don't want your fealty sworn on your back. Here, of all places, we ought to be equals."
"I'm not your equal, Philip, and if I came anywhere close to being your equal, you wouldn't want me any longer. You can never love any of us once we get too powerful. Right now, I'm just weak enough that you can trust me – I wouldn't be able to deal you a mortal wound even if I wanted to."
"And does that work both ways? How can you trust me?"
Geoffrey shrugged. I can trust you because I'm smarter than you, and I know how to make you the more foolish, he didn't say. "What other choice do I have? John lacks the resources to support me in anything but name, Henry's made it clear who he favours, and Eleanor's hands are as tied as ever. You invited me; I came. Your offer's a good one. I'm accepting it. I'll give you what you want. You do want me, don't you? You seemed keen enough before…"
He stretched out a hand to catch Philip by the arm and pull him close. The king's green eyes stared up at him, wide and all too willing. "You're beautiful, Geoff," he said, as levelly as he could manage. "I've always thought so. Beautiful and terrifying. We can all see the wheels turning behind your eyes, faster than any of us can follow. You tell me I can trust you, and the first thing that says to me is, I shouldn't."
"Good," Geoffrey said calmly. "Let's neither of us trust the other, then. We'll be wise and cautious together." Hands still hard on Philip's arms, he kissed him, lion-fierce. Philip struggled a moment, not to escape but to force him back against the bed. They tumbled together onto the down-filled mattress, sharp corners of elbows and hips sinking into softness.
"Have you done this before?" Philip asked as he worked his hands up under Geoffrey's loose tunic, feeling the strong muscles of his back shift as he moved.
"Why? Is it important to you to be the first?" he replied, teasing along Philip's collarbone with kisses.
"It doesn't matter, I just wasn't certain how much, ah, guidance you might require."
"I know what I'm doing well enough," Geoff told him, gripping Philip's prick over his robe, hard enough to make him gasp. "Get this off," he said with a tug at the rich fabric that also rubbed harsh against the skin beneath. Philip quickly obliged. Unclothed, the king was slim, taut with barely-bridled energy, and hard as iron. Geoff planted one hand against his chest to press him back down onto the bed, bending his head over his eager rod. He took him in his mouth none too gingerly, stroking and caressing with his clever tongue, and Philip couldn't help groaning softly, biting down on his finger to keep from disturbing the men in the adjoining chamber.
One of Geoffrey's hands curled around the base of his cock, grasping firmly, and the other lay across Philip's stomach, steadying himself as he sucked him. Each quiver of his muscles let Geoff know what to do next, whether to speed up or slow down, light flicks of the tongue or greedy swallows. Richard sucked cock for his own pleasure as much as for his partner's, sometimes drawing out the process to the point of exasperation, but Geoff seemed completely intent on rousing and then assuaging Philip's need. It would be over too quickly if he didn't stop soon. "Enough," Philip managed to gasp out. "Stop, let me…"
"Catch your breath?" Geoffrey raised his head, smiling astutely.
"Let me fuck you," Philip finished, a smile of his own playing about his lips as Geoff's controlled composure faded into uncertainty for once.
"But you… I thought you would…"
"Turn over for you?" Philip shrugged, arched one sardonic eyebrow. "Be your boy? No, I don't think I shall."
"But Richard… I thought you preferred it that way."
"I was young then. I let him take charge. He never inquired much about my preferences, to be honest."
"He forced you?"
"I wouldn't go that far. Encouraged, perhaps. Molded. But you're not Richard, as you've taken pains to point out." Philip twisted beneath him, pushing his thigh between Geoff's legs and finding him flagging, but still half-hard and already twitching back to life at his touch. "I thought you said you'd submit yourself to me," he teased gently. "In whatever way I prefer." He tangled his fingers in Geoff's hair, stroking along his cheek with his thumb, watched as those blue eyes flickered closed and open again. "For me, Geoffrey."
Geoff persisted in his show of reticence until he deemed it had served its purpose: letting Philip believe he was in control. "Only for you," he agreed reluctantly. "But I won't roll over."
Philip was gentle, as much as he could be, slicking them both with oils and going slowly at first. Legs bent to his chest, Geoff was surprised to find that, after the initial shock of invasion, it was actually quite enjoyable. Better, though, was watching Philip's face slacken and tense, contort and gasp in pleasure, blush and sweat until his hair was plastered to his brow and he was moaning aloud, no longer caring whether they were overheard. That power, to reduce a king to such a desperate, bestial state, aroused him as much as the hard cock being eagerly pounded into him. "More," he begged, "yes, harder," pulling Philip down for a kiss so rough it left his lip swollen and bleeding.
No longer able to make himself be careful, Philip thrust relentlessly, digging his fingers into Geoff's shoulders deep enough to bruise. Geoff's cries were unfeigned as he bucked his hips back against Philip, clutching him close with arms and legs, etching his back and sides with frantic fingernails. Philip's hand fumbled between them, grasping Geoff's cock and giving it a series of quick, hard strokes that brought him to the edge and then over, coating their bellies with his seed. Moments later Philip gasped something incoherent and came with a violent shudder, slowly stilling to a quiet trembling as he collapsed to the mattress and let Geoff encircle him in his arms.
They held each other close, recovering. "How did you learn that?" Philip asked softly. "To use your mouth that way, I mean."
"Practice. Much the same way you did, I imagine," Geoffrey replied with a dismissive shrug.
Philip frowned, uncertain. "With…"
"I worshipped him once too, you know," Geoff said softly, looking away. He'd never told anyone before, didn't know why he told Philip at that moment, but for a vague sense that here was the one person who might possibly understand.
"Geoffrey, I didn't know…"
"Never mind. Ancient history. Forget it." He half-wished he hadn't said anything, but the part of himself he could never shut off, the part that schemed and calculated and judged, whispered that it had been well-played, that Philip, having seen that moment of vulnerability, would trust him the more deeply. "Sleep now," he told him.
Without uncoiling themselves from one another, they did just that, though Geoff's slumber was restless. In the early hours before dawn, Philip nuzzled close to him, still mostly asleep, and murmured "Love you, Richard." Geoff didn't begrudge him whatever small comfort he could take in his dreams, but neither did he shut his eyes again that night.
***
February 1186, Paris
How, afterwards, can one ever remember what it feels like to fall in love? Is it in the haze of long days spent together, sun dappling everything in gold and green? In the instant when the sound of your lover's laugh suddenly gains the power to pierce you to the core? In the cool of spring's nightfall, and the warmth you make together? Those moments pass all too fleetingly, and yet while living them, it feels as if they will never end.
Geoffrey didn't mean to fall in love, never expected it. His feelings for Constance were dutiful at best, indifferent at worst – so long as Brittany was hers, it was his, and there it stopped. His love for Alais seemed now to him a boy's infatuation, out of reach and futile. He thought perhaps he had loved his nursemaid when he was a child, and he could certainly remember adoring Richard, the taste bitter as ashes in his mouth. His small daughters he found perplexing, and though he wanted to believe that when he had a son he would love him, privately he doubted if such a thing were possible. People were tools, people were the gears of the machine – people didn't exist to please him, they existed to be dissected until they were understood, and then used as necessary to reach his ends.
He had hoped – expected, in his cockier moments – that Philip would come to love him; he'd had no intention of doing the same. If Philip had tried to command his love, he would have retreated into his armor and feigned the emotion as best as he could, if that was what seemed most likely to gain him what he wanted. But instead Philip merely shared his space with him, allowing him time to grow less cautious, more comfortable. They talked for long hours, and Geoffrey came to know the mind of his liege as well as he soon knew his body. They plotted together, scheming against Richard, and pieced together a plan that Geoff knew surpassed anything he could have come up with on his own. One Sunday at Mass, he realized that he couldn't stop looking at the back of Philip's neck, the faint shadowed hollow that appeared when he bowed his head in prayer, and knew that the dart had, however improbably, hit home. It was as startling as if the cathedral's roof had opened up to the clear blue sky, and as terrifying.
"I have to leave," he told Philip after, as they rode back to the old palace on the Ile de la Cité. "I've neglected my responsibilities in Brittany too long." It was only partly true – he did need to see to his duchy, but he also felt an overwhelming urge to get away before he became inextricably trapped.
Philip half-turned, and gave that smile that made his heart clench. "Of course, I understand," he said. "But couldn't you stay until after I've concluded the treaty with Flanders? Come to Amiens with me, then return to Brittany from there. You can be home by Easter."
"Of course," said Geoff, feeling the snare closing around him, tighter than a noose. That night, he made Philip peak again and again, until they begged one another for mercy, as though trying to fit a lifetime's worth of love into a single night.
***
March 1186, Amiens
"I do believe your wife dislikes me," said Geoffrey, idly lounging in Philip's bed.
"Nonsense," Philip replied. "If Isabelle dislikes anyone, it's me. She's spent these months we've been apart in her uncle's tender care, and he… well, he's the reason we're here." After a bitter struggle, the count of Flanders had finally surrendered control over Vermandois and Valois, which cost him dearly but went some measure to restoring his family's influence at the royal court of France.
"You have to go to her tonight, Philip," Geoffrey told him sternly. "Fill her belly and she'll soon realize where her allegiance lies."
"I know," the king sighed. "Loyalty, duty, fecundity, and so on. I just don't enjoy it very much."
"You only have to enjoy it sufficiently to spend. Get her with child, and then you can do as you please for a year, maybe longer. Come, it can't be as bad as that."
"She just lies there," said Philip dismally. "The first time, she prayed through the entire business."
"So make her call on God in a more enjoyable way. You know how to use your mouth well enough, surely. And these fingers…" He kissed each tip in turn.
"I'd rather use them on you," said Philip, smiling wanly. "You'll be gone so soon…"
"Yes, well, I'm not likely to give you an heir, so be a man and ply your skills on your wife this night," Geoff said, more sharply than he meant to. "Come to me afterwards if you wish," he added, weakening as Philip's face fell. "Let me taste her on you. It's been months since I've had a woman, I can live vicariously through you at least."
"By the lance of St. James, you're shameless."
"It's most uncharacteristic, I assure you. It must be you who makes me so," Geoff replied, kissing him.
"You could come with me," Philip suggested slyly when they finally broke away from one another.
Geoffrey laughed, uncomfortable, only half-certain that the king was joking. "No, I think your bride despises me quite enough without you prostituting her to me. Go, pay your marital debt. Dream of me while you're in her."
"I shall do both, by your leave."
After he departed, Geoffrey lay back in bed and summoned up memories of women he'd fucked, whores and highborn ladies, indistinguishable in the dark. The thoughts still roused him, which was something of a relief. When he was home again with Constance, perhaps things would return to normal and the enchantment Philip had laid on him would be broken. He felt off-balance, and though part of him delighted in the foreign sensations, much as his body had grown to crave the once-unfamiliar touch of Philip's hands, the urgent press of his length into him, another part of his mind was in a constant state of panic at this unacceptable loss of control.
He tried to hide those feelings from Philip, retreating behind a brittle veneer of innuendo and sarcasm whenever they threatened to break free, but he thought the king suspected the truth – he was too perceptive to be easily fooled, and knew Geoff too well by this point. It puzzled him that Philip didn't seem to be bothered by his moments of reticence, but he had often observed how people were capable of ignoring the most glaring faults in those they loved. He could only assume that this was such a situation. In a way, it demonstrated how clever his plan had been – so brilliant that it had ensnared both of them.
***
Geoffrey was asleep when Philip slipped into bed beside him. It was past midnight, and it would have been unreasonable for him to expect Geoff to keep vigil for him. He didn't intend to wake him, but the weight of his body shifted the mattress enough that Geoff rolled over to face him. Anyone else's eyes might have been bleary, just wakened from sleep in the middle of the night, but by the light of the candle Geoff was alert as ever. "How was it?" he asked, curious.
"It went about as well as could be expected," said Philip, propping his head up on his hand. "Isabelle didn't pray this time, at least."
Geoffrey entwined his fingers with Philip's. "Good."
"Are you too tired to…?" Philip asked. He was already stirring, half-hard against Geoff's leg.
"Never."
"Do you want to hear how I had her?"
"Mm," nodded Geoffrey, stroking himself to readiness. "Tell me what you did."
"She needed some encouragement before she'd allow me to tongue her. She protested that it was a waste of time, since it wouldn't get her with child, but I convinced her that the more she enjoyed it, the more likely she would be to conceive."
"Is that true?"
"How should I know? I'm no midwife. It worked, anyway. Soon she was wet as a spring shower, salt-slick and pleading with me to mount her- oh God, Geoff," he gasped as his cock was smoothly swallowed to the root in a single motion. It was hard to carry on with his story when he was being ministered to so thoroughly, but he persisted as best as he could. "She's still tight, but she was ready and eager for it this time…mnnh, yes, do that again… Can you taste her on me like you wanted to?"
Neither of them heard the footsteps approach Philip's chamber, pause to listen for some time, and then just as quietly depart again.
When they were finished, lying sweat-soaked and drained, Geoff cleared his throat. "I ought to set off tomorrow," he told him. "The treaty's signed and concluded, and our plans are falling into place. I need to make sure the fortifications are coming along properly at Nantes, if I'm to hold it against Richard and Henry when the time comes. And," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "I should see to my own heir-making too. Maud is almost nine months old; Constance ought to be ready to bear again. A son this time, with any luck."
"I wish you didn't have to go," said Philip softly. "I wish this wasn't so hard."
"So do I," Geoff replied by rote, before realizing, to his surprise, that he meant it. "But I'll see you again in a few months. Before the summer's out, if all goes according to plan."
"Will I burn in hell if I say I love you?" Philip asked, not meeting his eyes.
"The only hell is leaving. I'll be burning right there beside you."
***
April 1186, Nantes
The fortifications were rising according to schedule, perhaps even more rapidly than he'd expected. Geoffrey was pleased. He took the steps two at a time and embraced Constance formally but warmly, conscious of the many onlookers who would always judge him according to how she reacted to him. His Breton subjects were still more strongly attached to their duchess than to him, despite his best efforts to win them over.
Constance smiled up at him, her dark chestnut hair burnished bright by the sunlight. "Husband, my heart is gladdened to see you once more."
"And I you, my love. It seems you've been busy in my absence."
"I hope you'll be pleased by the changes here," she said. "Do you wish to tour the works now, or…?"
"Tomorrow, perhaps," he said, taking her by the arm with a smile he didn't feel. "It's been too long since we've been together."
It wasn't purely duty that bore him to her bed. He had missed the feeling of lying with a woman, and Constance knew him well enough after five years of marriage to wake his desire with the rough scratches and bites he preferred. But he was unsettled to find that now her lips felt too soft against his, her skin strangely smooth. He had told himself all along that he wasn't a sodomite, not like Richard – never like Richard, he'd sworn that to himself years ago – that this was about Philip in particular, not men in general. That when he was back with his wife, things would be normal once more. But now, in her arms, he wasn't so certain. He shut his eyes and thrust into her harder, trying to drive away the ache and the doubt, but it wasn't working. Finally, in frustration, he rolled off her unsated and lay, chest heaving, on the mattress.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked, sounding nervous. "It's been so long, I…I'm sorry, my lord." Her voice quivered, as if she might burst into tears.
For a moment he contemplated asking her to suck him, then to lick her slim fingers and shove them up his arse, but he knew she'd be horrified. He might as well ask her to fuck him with the crucifix from her prie-dieu, it would be about as likely to happen. It wouldn't be the same, in any case. "Everything's fine," he told her, trying to sound kind. "I'm just more tired from the journey than I realized. Tomorrow, sweetheart." He kissed her cheek and then rolled over to wrestle with a sleep that wouldn't come either.
***
August 1186, Paris
It was hard to keep from leaving Nantes and riding straight back to Paris, whether to try and free himself from the chains he'd bound himself with or simply to see Philip again, but Geoffrey managed to shame himself into staying for the summer. Things got better with Constance, at least sufficiently so that by July she'd gone off her food and would fall asleep over her embroidery in the middle of the day, just as she'd done in the early months of her other two pregnancies. Despite the similarities, she swore she felt different this time, and said surely that meant it would be the longed-for son. He smiled fondly and pretended to believe that she could tell.
With that particular duty no longer weighing him down so heavily, Geoffrey could turn his undivided attention to building up his forces, slowly and subtly, so as not to draw too much attention to his efforts and bring Richard down on him before they were ready. His messengers to potential allies were dispatched, his vassals quietly alerted to prepare themselves. It was the sort of work Geoffrey had been born for, the part of the job he loved best. Still, when he could turn his horse's head east and know that in a few short days he would see Philip again, he felt unexpectedly happier than he had in weeks.
The ostensible reason for his visit was a tournament. His long stay with Philip earlier in the year had caused talk, of course, and some of it had reached Richard's ears. In order to allay those suspicions, Philip had concocted this scheme to give Geoff a harmless reason to travel to Paris. In truth, Geoffrey did not much enjoy tournaments, finding their stylized violence senseless except insofar as it kept knights busy when they weren't occupied with more fruitful slaughter. But his men were glad of the exercise, and Geoffrey was glad of the chance to see Philip again. He imagined he would tilt once or twice and have done with it, then spend the rest of his time with the king.
He was mildly surprised to be greeted upon his arrival, not by Philip, but by his young queen. Isabelle of Hainaut, slim and pretty, barely sixteen but still regal in her bearing, offered him her hand. "Welcome, your grace. I am sorry to say the king is yet absent, but he is expected to return tomorrow. I know he wished to be here when you arrived in order to greet you himself, but I shall have to serve in his stead."
Geoffrey forced a smile. "There is no need to be sorry, dear lady. You honour me with your welcome." Another day was not so long to wait, after five months.
"You must be parched after your ride. The roads are so dusty this time of year, are they not?" She took a cup of wine from a waiting page and offered it to him, smiling warmly. It was slightly bitter, and the dregs were harsh, but he drank it nevertheless, as much to be polite as because he was thirsty.
"Come," she said after he'd drained the drink, "let me show you to your chambers. I knew you would want to be close to the king, so I've given you the adjoining room. I hope it will be to your satisfaction," she added, giving him a glance so sly he wondered how much she knew. He didn't think Philip would have confessed all his indiscretions to her, any more than he himself would have told Constance the truth, but perhaps the queen had learned of the affair through other channels. It was possible; Philip hadn't always been as discreet as he should have been. He debated with himself whether to say something to her, but settled for simply agreeing that the quarters he'd been assigned were more than adequate and thanking her once more for her hospitality.
In the early hours of the morning, he woke with a sharp pain in his gut. He put it down to the rich food at dinner – the duck stuffed with mushrooms and doused with wine and mustard sauce had been exceptionally good, sharp and flavourful, and he'd likely eaten more of it than he should have. Dawn only served to illuminate his agony, but after some time the cramps diminished and he felt sufficiently recovered to eat the thin porridge his servants pressed upon him.
He was still abed when Philip's horse cantered into the courtyard that afternoon, though he could hear the inevitable commotion that accompanied the king's return. It wasn't long before Philip was at his side. "You're ill," he said, stating the obvious in his worry.
"I noticed," said Geoff dryly. "It wasn't my intent, I assure you."
"Stop it," Philip chided him. "Forgive me for being concerned. I'm going to have my physicians examine you."
"God's blood, spare me the leeches and purgatives. I'm already feeling slightly less awful. I'll be back on my feet in no time. I'll probably even be well enough to ride in a few days."
Philip looked unconvinced. "Don't feel as though you have to. It's only a tournament, it's not as though it matters."
"But I ought to put on a good show," he said, dragging himself wearily up to a seated position, leaning back against the bed's carved headboard. "Richard will soon have news of my doings here, and I'd rather he hear I've been jousting than that I've been lying abed for days at a time. Where have you been?" he asked, changing the subject.
"The Vexin." He could hardly say more with servants milling about to overhear, but he didn't need to. Geoffrey knew the small but crucial territory would be the venue from which Philip would launch their eventual attack on Normandy. From Philip's satisfied tone, it seemed that plans were falling into place nicely. He nodded, pleased despite his discomfort.
"I ought to let you rest," Philip said. "You still look pale. Drink some wine, even if you can't keep food down." With a kiss on the brow, the king departed. For once Geoffrey found sleep easily, and barely stirred until the next morning.
***
The wind whipped the banners above the field, and the canvas walls of Geoffrey's pavilion alternately billowed and collapsed with each gust. He was still not completely recovered from his illness, but despite a lingering unease and Philip's cautions he had elected to ride nonetheless. The noise of the preparations outside was almost deafening, with armored men and horses clattering about, together with the cries of heralds, raucous music, and the boisterous onlookers who were already gathering, lining the upper stories of nearby houses or clambering atop carts for a better view of the lists.
"Just in the great charge," he told the king. "For the appearance of things. Who do I ride against?"
"William des Barres and his men."
"Christ, Philip, you couldn't have given me someone easy to defeat?" Geoff said, smiling crookedly.
"Blame the serjeant of arms – he drew up the lists." Philip stepped aside so that Geoffrey's squire could bring in his mail, but then turned to the lad. "Run along," he told him, "I'll arm your master." The boy's eyes widened to see the king abase himself so, but he did as he was bidden.
"Well, now they'll have something to talk about," said Geoffrey laconically.
"Let them," Philip replied, drawing the tent's flaps closed and tying them securely. "I haven't had a moment alone with you since I arrived." He advanced on Geoff, who retreated to the low-slung cot and drew the king down onto it with him, hastily pulling aside clothes that suddenly seemed like nothing but obstacles, almost tearing a strip from his liege's robe in his haste. "Go easy," said Philip, only half-teasing, "you've been ill."
"I'm well enough," Geoff insisted, as his hands fumbled under Philip's tunic, skin against fever-warm skin. "We ought to hurry, though, or my men will go leaderless into the lists."
"I doubt it'll take long." Philip bent down, bringing that full, familiar weight to bear on him. Geoff could already feel the insistent heat pooling in his groin, and knew that he was right: it would be over far too quickly. He nipped the full, soft flesh of Philip's lower lip, making him gasp. The king retaliated in kind, scoring a matched set of four red lines down his side and across his belly. Geoff's hips bucked, any pretense of control lost, and his wanton groans were drowned in the trumpet blasts that pierced the air. They were both soon soaked, the warmth of the summer competing with their own heat. Philip's hand sought his cock, his grip firm and steady, and Geoff turned, twisted, reaching for the hard length that pressed against his hip, finally finding it. He watched the way Philip's face screwed itself up at his simple touch, the heavy-lidded eyes slumping to half-mast, the tension held quivering all along his jaw, throbbing with each stroke he delivered. He traced that taut line with one finger until he felt it give way into a shuddering moan. Philip bit down on the ball of Geoffrey's thumb as he spurted over his knuckles, and the sudden sharp jolt of pain was enough to bring Geoff off as well, frantic pulses gradually diminishing together into a languid, sultry stillness.
"Up," he told Philip after too short a time. "I need to be out there, and soon. I'll call my squire back if you wish."
"I meant it when I said I'd dress you," Philip retorted, rising and smoothing his clothes back into some semblance of decency. He helped Geoffrey into his padding, then slid the heavy hauberk on over his head. Geoff shrugged until the weight hung properly off his shoulders, as Philip knelt before him to help tie his chausses to his legs.
"It seems wrong, having you kneel before me," Geoffrey said, adjusting his belt and scabbard. Everything felt just a little heavier than it should have, a little too warm – no doubt a lingering effect of his illness.
"I wouldn't do it for anyone else," Philip told him, "believe me." He stood, brushing himself off, and handed Geoffrey his helm and shield. "You're ready," he told him, and planted a kiss firmly on his lips.
"You could give me a token to wear," Geoff said lightly, not expecting anything other than laughter in response.
Philip looked dubious, but completed the tear Geoff had begun in their passion, removing a thin shred of embroidered trim from his rich blue robe and tying it securely at his lover's wrist. "There," he told him. "Never say I haven't done you enough honour."
"I could never say such a thing," Geoff replied softly, and returned his kiss before setting out across the muddy field.
***
Later, when Philip tried to replay the events in his memory, all he could conjure up were a series of sharp flashes, and a dull grey haze in between. The brazen blare of horns and the steam of the horses' flanks, the crash of the two lines meeting and the joyful screams of the crowd rising over the din of combat. He couldn't see who had fallen at first, until he recognized Geoffrey's white mare running riderless across the field, reins flying loose, and his heart seemed to freeze. Beside him, Isabelle was saying something, telling him to sit down perhaps, but he could barely hear her. He breathed again when Geoffrey managed to gain his feet, but then cried out as he saw him stagger and fall a second time before he was finally dragged from the field. Philip's memory failed him at that point – he was told he collapsed, but couldn't remember doing so.
He had his best physicians tend to Geoffrey during the two days he held on. There was little they could do, however. Roger de Fournival told him in confidence afterward that the prince ought to have been able to recover from his wounds – a broken leg, several ribs shattered: serious, yes, but not usually fatal. But Geoffrey kept falling in and out of consciousness, his skin took on a sickly yellow hue, and his bleeding continued long past the point when his wounds should have clotted. The doctor, baffled, suspected that either he was injured internally in some way they could not detect, or that his bout of illness had left his humours so out of balance he was simply unable to heal himself.
And he recalled the pathetic scene at Notre Dame but dimly, as if it had happened to someone else and he had only observed it from a distance: the lead coffin lowered into the hole before the high altar, and a grief-stricken king trying to follow it in and being pulled back, struggling against fate as much as against the arms of those who restrained him.
One moment out of the whole awful period, though, he always remembered with a painful, jagged clarity. "I'm dying," Geoff told him on the evening of the second day.
Philip had barely left his side, and was running on nothing but shock and desperation. "Don't say that," he told him, more sharply than he meant to.
Geoff shook his head feebly. "Don't tell me what I can and can't say – if a dying man can't speak his mind, who can? Listen to me now. You can't attack Richard and Henry on your own…"
Philip sent the useless doctors and priests scurrying away with a fierce glare. "I know that, don't you think I know that?" he hissed once they were alone. "This isn't the time to talk about war, damn it!"
"It's the only time we've got left. You'll get your chance to thrash things out with Richard one day, just not now. Constance is with child, and she'll need your help once I'm gone. If it's a boy…" He paused for a long moment, racked with pain, before he was able to continue. "Richard looks likely to produce no heirs, at this rate – a son of mine could succeed him. The child will have to be protected, especially from John."
Philip nodded, eyes threatening to overflow. "I swear it, all right? Now stop thinking so bloody much."
Geoff smiled weakly, the wheels in his mind making their last turn. "I can't help it, Philip. It's all I am."
"Damn you, Geoffrey, it is not! There's more to you than that armor you wear. I know there is. I've seen it, however much you've tried to hide it. If you're dying, then for God's sake, spend your last moments in this world as a human being." He paused, a heartbeat, two. "I love you." He'd never said the words so openly before, not since he was a boy with Richard, but he couldn't find it within himself to dance around the subject at that instant.
Geoff looked up at him, his jaundiced eyes bleak and hollow. "And I love you too. If it means burning in Hell…"
"…then I'll be there beside you," Philip said with a desolate smile. He sat clutching Geoffrey's hand long after it fell limp.
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