THOUGHTS ON THE DEVIL'S BROOD

Henry and Eleanor's fourth son was born on September 23rd in 1158. He was christened Geoffrey, after his grandfather, and from an early age, was destined to rule over Brittany through his marriage to the heiress, Constance. He is the forgotten son, ignored by historians and novelists alike, probably because he was the only one of the Devil's Brood never to wear a crown. Readers of my books and blogs know that Geoffrey is my personal favorite of the brothers, and I was very gratified when so many people felt that Geoffey was the most intriguing character in Devil's Brood. I've often recommended Judith Everard's book, Brittany and the Angevins, for anyone interested in learning more about Geoffrey, Constance, and Brittany; I honestly do not think I could have written Devil's Brood without it. Or if I did, it would have been a different book and a different Geoffrey, for she brought his Breton career into focus, showing us why he did what he did and totally repudiating the ridiculous notion that he acted from "mindless malice," as one reputable historian once claimed.

Geoffrey seems to have thrived on challenges. Wedding a woman hostile to the Angevins, he managed to win Constance over, and they had a good marriage. How do we know? For one thing, they were usually together; she was frequently at Geoffrey's side, both within and outside the duchy, convincing evidence that they enjoyed each other's company. And Geoffrey shrewdly involved Constance in the governance of Brittany, thus avoiding what I see as one of Henry's greatest marital mistakes, failing to make use of Eleanor's keen political skills or to recognize that Aquitaine was as dear to her heart as Anjou was to his. Constance's biographer in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography describes her forced marriage to the Earl of Chester after Geoffrey's death as follows: "In contrast to her first marriage, this appears to have been an unhappy and loveless affair." Geoffrey was equally successful in gaining the support of the suspicious Breton barons, no easy feat, and during his five year reign of the duchy, he showed himself to be a worthy if flawed son of two very gifted, flawed parents.

What were Geoffrey's flaws? I don't fault him for his rebellions against his father. He was only fifteen at the time of the Great Rebellion, and I think his age exonerates him under the circumstances. And he did not ally himself with the French king until Henry's mind games had pushed him to that point; it is hard to blame him for resenting the way his father withheld two-thirds of Constance's rightful inheritance as a means of keeping Geoffrey on a tight leash.

So what do I fault Geoffrey for? The answer is one that would have surprised me fifteen years ago. When I began to do serious research for Devil's Brood, the last thing I expected to find was that Richard would prove to be the brother most sinned against. Given his reputation for aggression, I'd assumed that he'd been to blame for his constant strife with his brothers. But I was wrong. It was Hal who connived with the lords of Poitou to usurp Richard's duchy, and Geoffrey threw in with him. If Henry hadn't come to Richard's rescue, they might have succeeded, too. Several years later, when Henry had an inexplicable "Becket moment" and foolishly told seventeen year old John that Aquitaine was his if he could take it from Richard, it was Geoffrey who provided the money and the men-at-arms for John's ill-fated invasion. Richard defended himself, but did not strike back at Geoffrey until Henry had refused to punish the culprits. And the pattern held in Richard's relationship with his youngest brother, John. He seems to have blamed Geoffrey more than John, and once he was king, he provided generously for John. With wonderful perversity, he scorned the men who'd deserted Henry in his last desperate months and rewarded those who'd stayed loyal to the bitter end—with one exception—John. John paid no price for betraying his father, instead got the wealthy heiress Henry had promised but never delivered, and an income of four thousand pounds a year. John, of course, repaid his brother by doing all in his power to make sure Richard rotted in a German dungeon.

I've sometimes joked that writing of the Angevins is like watching one of those horror films in which the foolish teenagers insist upon going down alone into the cellar even as the audience is screaming, "No! Don't go!" I was constantly trying to nudge my characters back onto the straight and narrow. Is this rebellion really a good idea, Eleanor? Are you sure you want to crown Hal in your lifetime, Henry? Why can't you see that Geoffrey and Richard are very different from Hal and that the only thing worse from not learning from your mistakes is learning the wrong lessons? Richard, can't you cut your father a little slack? Geoffrey, why must you go out of your way to poison your relationship with your brother Richard? Hal…where to begin with Hal? Or John, for that matter.

Above all, I wish I could have sat Henry and Eleanor down and showed them that parental mistakes can be forgiven, parental sins cannot—and they were guilty of two very serious sins. They had obvious favorites; with Eleanor, it seems to have been Richard, and with Henry, it was Hal and then John, with Geoffrey as neglected by his parents as he would later be by historians. And they failed to instill a sense of family solidarity, to teach their sons to care for one another. I find it very sad. Her brothers rallied around her when their sister Tilda followed her husband into exile, and Richard raised holy hell on Joanna's behalf when she found herself in dire straits after her husband's sudden death. But I suspect that if one of their brothers were drowning, the others would have thrown him an anchor as a lifeline. And it is hard not to blame Henry and Eleanor for that. I was recently discussing the Marriage from Hell that Henry's parents had endured, pointing out that it had gotten off to such a rocky start that the union was probably doomed, and as much as I sympathized with Maude—forced into a marriage she never wanted—I can't absolve her of blame, for when they wed, Geoffrey was fifteen and she was twenty-six. In other words, she was the adult. So were Henry and Eleanor.

One last thought about this dramatically dysfunctional family. I've always dismissed that theory espoused by the French historian, Philip Aries, that medieval parents did not allow themselves to become emotionally invested in their children, supposedly because the child mortality rate was so high. I think that is ridiculous, for the sources are filled with heartrending examples of parental love or grief. It is true that Edward I and his queen seem to have been more devoted to each other than to their children. But I do not believe they were typical of their times. Henry's love for his children was raw and real and there is no reason to doubt Eleanor when she told Pope Celestine that not a day passed that she did not mourn Hal and Geoffrey. And her grieving for Richard bleeds through the formal language of the charters she issued after his death. Whatever their failings as parents, they loved their children. Sadly, it was not enough.

Lastly, there is still time to enter the second Devil's Brood book giveaway; just post a comment on the blog titled "Richard and Ragusa," and when I return from the book tour, I'll send a signed copy to the winner of the drawing.

September 28, 2011

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