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Philip was not sure of the moment when their conversation (about Richard, of course, it was always Richard's fault somehow) passed from discussion into argument. Geoffrey was not one to raise his voice, did not storm and rage about the room, and so his anger was easy to miss. But argument there had certainly been, and Geoffrey did not come to the king's bed that night. Philip did not know where he slept - perhaps he did not sleep at all, by the hollows under his eyes the next morn. He spoke when politeness required it, but declined an offer to go hunting that afternoon, and was absent from the table at dinner as well.
After three days, the coldness between them felt insupportable, and had been enough to occasion comment from others of the court. Philip decided he could play the penitent, if that was what Geoffrey wanted; he would go down on his knees and ask for forgiveness, and put an end to this foolish rift.
He found Geoffrey in the chapel, alone but not praying, at least not in any way he could discern. "Shall I beg?" he asked.
"Perhaps, just to prove that you know how," Geoffrey replied indifferently.
Philip knelt, the stones cold and hard under his knees. "There is only you now," he said, resisting the urge to add "and you know it, you bastard." He reached up to touch Geoffrey's hip, drawing him closer. "Forgive me for cruel words spoken in carelessness and in anger."
Geoffrey ran his fingers through his hair, his thumb stroking the fine, soft gold of his circlet. "Absolution can only come after penance." Then he unfastened his belt. Philip looked up into his eyes and saw not the cold blankness of the past days, but something raw and aching. "Take off your tunic," Geoffrey instructed him, and Philip did as he was told, knowing that when his sins had been scourged away, the two of them would be whole again.