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Geoffrey has other gifts. It is said he speaks with the Serpent's tongue, the Plantagenet inheritance manifest. As a boy, he knew every lai Eleanor's troubadours could teach him, the rhymes ringing out in his young, sweet voice as their deft fingers played on. He could read Latin with ease long before any of his brothers, and with a voracious appetite he consumed tome after tome of history and philosophy. He read the poets too, foolishly taking their sentimentalities to heart. He'd fancied himself a hero from a song, the proud son of a fabled dynasty destined for the light.
This was before Geoffrey realized the accident of his being, of course.
He'd long considered himself a scholar in deceit, but Philip had surprised him. It was a feat not easily accomplished. Geoffrey, who knows every angle, understands every petty jealousy and fatal vanity, had been outdone by the upstart boy-king. Geoffrey's barbs had been well placed, but even they were nothing in the devastating glare of revelation. It seemed almost miraculous.
Who truly began it? Ah, now there's a sweet tale. Geoffrey does not doubt that Richard longed for it. He does not doubt that Richard was a paragon of propriety with Philip in public, taciturn even, but in private how he fought and pleaded, shameless as a bare-headed wench. Yet, he knows that Philip was never so oblivious. He can guess how it was: a glance there, the brush of soft fingertips against the rough skin of Richard's neck, whispered gibes, Philip's full lips brushing ever-so-slightly against the Lionheart's ear. Richard never stood a chance. Philip's tawdry little scheme had worked so well, Geoffrey wondered that he'd never thought of it himself.
He knows now it will not be the surety of a dagger in a dark cellar that ends it. Nothing has changed, but Geoffrey sees the weapon now, clear and bright and ready.
-
"I know I do not inspire loyalty. It is not in my nature."
Philip smiles and takes a long drink from his goblet, his ringed forefinger clinking against the side. Swallows. Smiles again.
"I wonder what your nature is. You know, out of all your brothers, you have always intrigued me most. Your tongue twists everything so beautifully."
That's right, little king. A bit closer now.
"What I say to you now is no duplicity. Surely you cannot fault me for trying to protect my interests."
Philip laughs at that, his voice thick with drink. "It seems we are interested in many of the same things."
The young king rises. Still clutching the goblet, he moves to stand by the fire. Geoffrey watches him silently, intrigued but impatient. He is not a servant subject to Philip's whims, including this momentary fascination with the tall flames. The chamber is too overheated for Geoffrey's liking anyway--every plush cushion, every wall hanging, all deep shades, reds and purples, seeming to emanate their own warmth. The air is stifling, and Geoffrey can hear the blood rise and rush behind his ears. It reminds him of nothing so much as a great pulsing heart with Philip Augustus at its center. Blood is pulling them together. It could all go so wrong.
"Philip," he chokes out.
The king's dark head does not turn, still continuing to study the flames as if they were the only thing he could see. "Those are lands that should by rights belong to France. I will see my father's kingdom restored."
Geoffrey calms. He must not stop now. He must sow his poison carefully and keep still in his cold skin. "I do not contest that. Henry may think himself an emperor, but I am far more practical. I only seek what has wrongly been denied. Would you not help right that wrong?"
"Would you wear a crown, Geoffrey? I tell you, it is wonderful but so heavy sometimes."
"Thankfully, I have always been curiously resistant to headaches. Given my family, it is a blessing."
Philip is laughing again. Finally, he draws away from the hearth and approaches his guest. He's close enough now that Geoffrey could almost touch him, could almost take his hand, could almost finish it.
"Have you ever killed a man, Phillip? Even more, killed one of your own blood? Eleanor gave us the chance, you know. I could have committed patricide. I still can."
Philip regards him steadily. "Geoffrey Plantagenet, I think you may be the most treacherous man I've ever met."
"Well, we are descended from snakes. I should think I never need to apologize to you for that. Henry never has."
"And Eleanor?"
"Leave her to her weaving. She grows tiresome when not imprisoned."
Philip reaches for the stoppered decanter and refills the goblet. "Share this cup with me. In friendship. In covenant. Call it what you like. We will drink to Henry's downfall." He downs his share in one long, decadent gulp and passes the goblet to Geoffrey. The Duke of Brittany lifts it and drinks, watching Philip, seeing something in his eyes that Richard must have seen.
Geoffrey lips are wine-stained, a drop of liquid clinging to the corner of his mouth. Philip's thumb brushes across his lower lip, lets it rest there. And for one wild second, Geoffrey wants to bite.
-
They ride out into the frost, their horses' breath coming in great white clouds, their bows slung tight across their shoulders. It is morning, and the early winter sunlight casts an odd gray haze over the landscape, almost as if viewed through aged glass.
France has become familiar to him, and he has become many things to Philip over the past few years: adviser, conspirator, friend. There has been talk of making him the seneschal. But today he is only a hunting companion for the king, and nothing more is expected of him than a swift arrow and an eye for pheasant. A small price to pay.
As they crest the hill, Philip reins his horse to a stop. There is an odd copse of trees there, their branches hung low and twisting, tunneling back into a dense thicket. Geoffrey makes to urge his horse forward, but Philip is speaking, his voice low and deliberate.
"It was here that she spooked. Richard, great fool, went charging ahead of me and frightened a flock of birds. My mare reared, and I, green boy that I was, didn't hold on properly."
Geoffrey does not respond for once, only waits.
"Come," Philip says, and rides on.
It is later that night, much later that night, that Geoffrey wakes to soft breath at his temple and a hand on his chest. Ridiculous, but the very first thing he thinks of is the maiden from the song stealing away to meet her lover in the dead of night. But this is not one of Eleanor's songs, and he is no hero. He does not open his eyes.
"Is this how it was?"
"I'll show you."
He has become something else now. Skin slides against skin, their bodies coiling round each other like a pair of serpents. Philip sighs into his mouth, and Geoffrey knows he has won.