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them, his anger flaring that they wanted to think about anything else. He leaned toward his father, firing his words into his face. “You were wrong about dragging around that Frenchman, see. Getting Bernard on us like that, and then you come here and have to give in just to get out of the hall; that was stupid. You let that woman back you down. Pay heed to me. A peace with Louis means I can put every man I can raise into England.”
    On the far side of the brazier his brother’s face jutted out into the light, his eyes gleaming. “When you have England, surely, you can just then leave me heir to Anjou.” He nodded at the Count. “That’s what Father wants.”
    Henry said, “I’ll give you my fist.” He lunged at his father. “You swore Anjou to me.”
    He had to have England, but he needed Anjou, more than ever, the bridge in his empire, linking Normandy and England with Aquitaine. He saw the lands closing together as he closed with her, possessing her. He walked restlessly in a circle. What she had said still gripped his mind, the huge possibilities open before him. He would be the greatest king in Christendom, in liege to no one but God. For that he needed Anjou. And England, and for England he needed Normandy secured, as the ritual of the homage would secure it. He turned on his father again.
    “You agreed to this. You hung us up on the whims of this monk. Do what we have to do now and we can call it done. Give him Gisors. This is still Louis, who can’t make anything really happen, anyway.”
    Geoffrey said, “But I get Anjou.”
    “You don’t get anything but a mouthful of fist.”
    “Shut up,” the Count of Anjou said. He waved his arms between them. “Stop arguing. We have to get out of here anyway. And he’ll lift the ban.” For all his big talk, the excommunication obviously made him nervous. He found his cup and held it out, and a servant came for it. “We’ll give him Gisors.” He barely lifted his gaze toward Henry. Once again, he had given in to him; Henry was pleased with this. His father said, looking elsewhere, “As you said, it’s only Louis, anyway.” The servant came back with the filled cup, and he took it.
    “One more thing,” Henry said, remembering. “Tell him we want to have the rite celebrated in the new church, out at Saint Denis.” He thought, Let her take that for a message .
    His brother frowned. “Why there? Isn’t that off in the country somewhere?”
    “I’ve heard this church is interesting,” Henry said. She would know what he meant. Robert had come in, was waiting to talk to him. He went off toward the door to make sure all the knights were back.

Seven
    A few days later they went out to Saint Denis for the rite. The day was fine, sunny and hot. They rode out from the palace to cross the river over the Old Bridge; Joffre de Rançun and some knights of Louis’s led the way, and then Eleanor and Louis themselves, riding side by side. Anjou and his sons and retainers came after. Petronilla did not go, disliking crowds.
    They went out the palace gate into the city. Eleanor looked around her. When she and Louis were first married, the mere opening of the palace gate would have brought a crowd of people to watch. Now nobody seemed to notice.
    If she had been Louis, she would have made it all merry, brought out baskets of nuts and fruit to distribute, and started the parade with pipers and a drum. She would have had them glad to see their king. Louis made no display of himself, looked so unlike a king, in fact, with his plain gown and hood, that sometimes his own people didn’t recognize him.
    They went along the street past houses made of old stone, grown mossy and green in the shade, their thatches overgrown with flowers and squeaking with mice. Doves fluttered and cooed in the linden trees. The little market square beyond was already busy, and a cry went up at the sight of the procession, and a crowd rushed over to watch them ride by. Someone sent up a cheer,