Rainald still looked baffled, but Maud and Eleanor traded smiles, both well content with the role that the Countess of Chester had chosen to play: a surrogate sister for the queen who still grieved for her blood sister. Viscount Aimar was hovering close by, waiting to escort her to the table, and Eleanor was turning toward him when her uncle stepped between them, murmuring a deferential “A moment, if I may, my lady.”
Eleanor allowed Raoul to draw her aside, and as soon as they were out of the viscount’s hearing, he said, “Harry and Hal are likely to be arriving any day now, and we may not have many opportunities for private conversation. Do you think this time together has served to mend the rift between them?”
“No, I do not.”
“A pity,” Raoul said, because convention seemed to demand it; a father’s estrangement from his son would be considered tragic by most people. For him, it would be a blessing, a God-given chance that might never come again. His loathing for his niece’s Angevin husband was not personal. He’d not liked her French husband either. He wanted Aquitaine to be ruled by their own, wanted no more foreigners over them.
Eleanor was regarding him with a sardonic half smile. “You really ought to get Harry to teach you how to mask your thoughts, Uncle. If you were any more eager to see the breach widen between them, you’d be panting like yonder greyhounds.”
He shrugged. “I’ve never lied to you, lass. You know what I want and why I want it.”
She was the first to look away. “I just wish,” she said, so softly he barely heard her, “that you were not quite so happy watching the death throes of my marriage.”
It was then that the bearers shouted and a grey heron broke cover near the river, powerful wings taking it up into the sky over their heads. Most of the hunting party had already relinquished their falcons and were moving toward the tables. But Richard’s bird of prey still perched upon his leather glove. His reaction was instantaneous and his gyrfalcon exploded into the air with breathtaking speed. Like the peregrine, it rose rapidly, and then it was plunging earthward, its sleek white body blurring into a streak of light as it caught up with its quarry. They collided in midair and then plummeted to the ground, out of sight in the marsh grass.
“Release the dogs!” Richard yelled, but the greyhounds were already in motion, racing to subdue the heron before it could escape from the much smaller gyrfalcon. Richard had slid from his saddle and was running toward the death-struggle. When he and the bearers finally emerged from the reeds, he had the bloody heart of the heron in one hand and his beautiful, lethal hawk in the other. Eleanor had never seen him so excited, and she felt a surge of fierce pride as he headed straight for her, eager to share his triumph.
“Did you see her stoop, Maman? That was so fine a kill, well-nigh perfect!”
“Indeed it was, dearest,” she agreed, her own disappointment dispelled by Richard’s jubilation. Others were gathering around them, and Richard basked in the attention, feeding the heart to the gyrfalcon as he accepted their plaudits, whistling for the greyhounds so they could get their well-earned praise, too. Only Geoffrey stood apart, watching with an expression surprisingly jaundiced for a youngster of fourteen.
The men were as willing as Eleanor to prolong the moment, remembering the pride of their first kills. It was only with the arrival of a messenger for the Viscount of Limoges that they began to disperse, turning toward the tables now laid out with wine and food. Eleanor stayed where she was, though, flanked by her uncle and her son, for the expression on Aimar’s face was not that of a man who’d just received welcome news. After conferring briefly with the messenger, he moved hastily in her direction.
“Madame, I’ve just gotten word that King Henry has ridden into Limoges.”
That was no surprise, for Henry had sent word that he would reach Aimar’s city within a day or two of the start of Lent and this was Shrove Tuesday. Eleanor inclined her head, waiting for him to reveal what had disquieted him about her husband’s arrival.
“Your son the young king is with him, of course, as are the King of Aragon, the Count of Maurienne, and his daughter.” Aimar paused, obviously unhappy with what he would say next. “He is accompanied, as well, by the Count of Toulouse.”
No one spoke. Eleanor could see her suspicions mirrored on the faces of Richard and Raoul. She would sooner have broken bread with Lucifer than with Raimon St Gilles, and her husband well knew it. So why had he brought the count to Limoges?
Henry, Count Raimon, and the young King of Aragon had been ushered to the castle chambers set aside for them and were washing away the grime of the road. But Hal had remained in the great hall. His hair was tousled, there was a smear of dirt on his cheek, and his clothes and boots were mud-splattered, yet he still looked like one of the heroes in a troubadour’s song or geste, the handsome, dashing young knight who was without peer and existed only in a storyteller’s imagination. He was surrounded by those guests who’d not gone hawking, commanding their attention so completely that few at first noticed the hunting party had returned.
Following in Eleanor’s footsteps, Marguerite forgot etiquette and brushed past the queen in her haste to welcome her husband. At the sound of her voice, Hal sprang to his feet and swept her into a close embrace, a display of public affection that would have been considered unseemly in others but earned Hal indulgent smiles from even the most judgmental.
Hal showed more decorum in greeting his mother, his host, and their companions, but wasted no time in drawing Eleanor aside for a more private conversation. “I had an inspired idea,” he confided, “but I will need your help to bring it about, Maman. How often do so many of high birth gather together like this? We have no less than four kings, two queens, and a multitude of counts, earls, barons, and their ladies. What better setting could we have for a knighting ceremony? And what better time? We could do it next Wednesday…my eighteenth birthday,” he explained, as if Eleanor had been elsewhere on that auspicious occasion and needed reminding. “Will you talk to him, Maman? Will you make him see how perfect it would be to do it here, to do it now?”
As usual, Hal’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Eleanor found herself agreeing even though she did not think Henry would heed her. She knew she should remind Hal of his father’s stubborn insistence upon having him knighted by the French king, but she hadn’t the heart to interject reality into his dream. It was her son’s strength and his weakness that he could not conceive of defeat.
Having gotten what he wanted-his mother’s backing in this coming clash of wills with his father-Hal announced that he was greatly in need of a bath, and he and Marguerite exited the hall with an eagerness rarely shown for bathing. Eleanor turned to find her constable, Saldebreuil de Sanzay, at her side.
“You ought to have heard the lad, Madame,” he said, with the fond familiarity of one who’d known Hal all his life. “He was telling us some highly entertaining, if rather improbable, tales about past hunts. He claimed that one time he’d set a young gyrfalcon upon a crane, but the bird had a large fish in its beak and dropped it as the gyrfalcon began its stoop. His hawk shot right by the crane and went after the fish!”
The constable laughed so heartily that he began to wheeze, and Eleanor felt a pang, for this man had been her rock, her mainstay since her days as Queen of France. He’d always refused to reveal his exact age, and he’d gone to war against time with the same valor and fortitude he’d mustered against other foes, but it was a battle he was doomed to lose, and she was coming to understand that it would be sooner than either of them had anticipated. As their eyes met, his smile faded away.
“Have you heard, my lady? The Count of Toulouse rode in with your lord husband, the king. Do you know why he would bring the count here?”
“No,” she said grimly. “But I intend to find out.”
Henry had already bathed and changed his clothes and was getting his hair and beard trimmed when Eleanor entered his bedchamber. “Ah, there you are, love,” he said cheerfully. “How was the hawkin
g? I’d wager your hunting was nowhere near as successful as mine.”
Eleanor felt a prickle of foreboding, for he sounded much too smug for her liking. She gestured in dismissal and the servants emptying the bathing tub abandoned their buckets and withdrew. The barber hesitated, scissors poised in midair. When Henry nodded, he quickly retreated, flustered by his queen’s icy demeanor. Henry showed no such misgivings, though, holding the scissors out to Eleanor with a grin.
“If you are chasing my barber away, you’ll need to finish the task he began. I assume you want a private conversation, although I’d not be adverse if you intend to jump my bones.” When she reached for the scissors, he surprised her by catching her hand and pressing his mouth to her palm. Past experience had taught her to suspect such high spirits, a reliable indication that he was up to something, and as she began to clip the curly bright hair at the base of his neck, she stared at the back of his head, wishing she had the power to see into his skull, into the serpentine, convoluted byways of his brain. It was surely one of God’s inexplicable jests that she’d taken both a lamb and a fox to her marriage bed.
“Did you meet the Count of Maurienne yet? He’s a likable man, amiable and quite reasonable. We struck a very advantageous deal for Johnny. If Count Humbert dies without a male heir, Johnny and his daughter…Adela, I think, no, Alice…will inherit Maurienne and Savoy. If the count does manage to sire a son, then he’ll settle the principality of Rousillon upon our lad. So whatever the outcome, there’ll be no more talk of John Lackland.” Henry swung around in the chair, so abruptly that Eleanor nearly sliced his ear. “Maurienne controls the Alpine passes, the trade routes into Italy. We’re gaining so much for so little, Eleanor…just four thousand silver marks and the pledge of alliance.”
“I am familiar with the marriage terms, Harry, and with your ambitions in Italy. The count is not the guest I’ve come to discuss, and you well know it.”
Henry’s mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. “Ah, you mean the King of Aragon. A fine lad, although I do wish he were not so young. Once Hal discovered that Alfonso will be able to rule on his own when he turns sixteen next month, he pounced upon that like a starving hound upon a bone, and gave me no peace. I will say this of our son, he does not lack for perseverance!”
“I do not give a besan for the King of Aragon! Why did you not warn me that you’d be bringing that weasel St Gilles back with you?”
Not at all put out by her flare of temper, Henry turned in his seat so they were face-to-face. “If it is any consolation, Count Raimon is no happier to be here than you are to have him.”
“Need I remind you, Harry, that I have a weapon in my hand? If you do not speak soon, I will not be responsible for what I do.”
Laughing openly now, he claimed the scissors, tossing them into the floor rushes. “I’d not want to lead you into temptation.” Without warning, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her down onto his lap. “Thirteen years ago, I made you a promise that I was not able to keep. Now I grant you that I rarely lose sleep over broken promises, but this is one wrong I am delighted to right.”
“Just what are you saying?”
“What happened thirteen years ago, love?”
“You went to war against Raimon St Gilles, asserting my claim to Toulouse. And you failed…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening. “You cannot mean that he has agreed to do homage for Toulouse?”
She was staring at him incredulously, and it occurred to Henry that he’d never before seen her at such a loss for words. “That is exactly what I mean, Eleanor. Now you understand why I said Count Raimon is not overjoyed to be here.”
“What I do not understand, Harry, is how you did it. I’d not have thought even Merlin could have wrought such a miracle!”
“Actually, love, it was not so difficult. For all his vices, Raimon is no fool and is quite capable of reading a map. On one side lie the lands of King Alfonso, my young ally who loves Raimon not, and with good cause. On his other, lie the lands of Count Humbert, soon to be my kin by marriage. These alliances had begun to pinch Raimon in his most vulnerable male parts, for he was becoming convinced that I was aiming to encircle and isolate him, with God knows what mischief in mind.”
Henry laughed again. “I had no intention of waging war, but Raimon expects others to be as false and treacherous as he is. And he could not rely upon the French king to pull his chestnuts from the fire this time, since he is no longer wed to Louis’s sister. So he decided that homage was a cheaper price to pay than blood, and he-”
He got no further, for Eleanor stopped his words with a passionate kiss. “You ought to have told me,” she chided, “but I forgive you.” She could forgive a lot for Toulouse. It had long been the litany of her House that the St Gilles family had stolen Toulouse, disregarding her grandmother’s rightful claim, and she’d persuaded both husbands to assert her title to the county. Neither had succeeded and Maud had given her some mordant, incisive advice: resign herself to its loss unless she meant to try again with a third husband. But Toulouse was not just her inheritance, it was Richard’s.
She kissed Henry again and then slid off his lap. “You may just have made amends for giving Gascony away.”
“Gascony?” Henry was genuinely puzzled. “I did not give Gascony away. It was our daughter’s marriage portion, and I specified that it would not happen whilst you still lived.”
“I know.” He had taken care to preserve her rights, but what of Richard’s? Passing strange, but he’d never understood that the succession to Aquitaine mattered no less to her than the succession to the English Crown did to him. She’d wanted a generous dowry for her daughter in far-off Castile, just not at Richard’s expense. But Gascony was yesterday, Toulouse was today.
“I’d best find Richard and let him know.” At the door she paused to favor him with the sort of smile he’d not gotten from her in several years-utterly spontaneous, admiring, and affectionate. “I’d given up hope that the day would ever come when I’d see Raimon kneel to do homage to me,” she admitted. “I only wish my father were alive to witness it, for he died thinking that Toulouse was lost to us.”
Henry started to say something, then stopped. But his expression was suddenly so guarded that Eleanor froze, her hand on the door latch. “Harry?”
It was not so much a question as a demand, and he acknowledged it by exhaling a pent-up breath. “Well…the truth is that he has not agreed to do homage to you, Eleanor.”
“I see.” She leaned back against the door, regarding him in silence that threatened to stretch into infinity. “He does homage to you, but not to me. What about Richard?”
Henry was thankful that he could reassure her on that point, hoping it would allay her disappointment. “Of course he’ll do homage to Richard.”
After another uncomfortable silence, she said, “It gladdens me to hear it.” But once she was out in the stairwell, she sank down on the stone steps, not wanting to face others until she was sure her rage was under control. It did not surprise her that Raimon St Gilles would dare to insult her like this. He was not a man to humble his pride before a woman, not unless forced to it. But Harry had not done that. He’d chosen to accommodate the Count of Toulouse because it was easier that way, easier for him.
Standing up, she brushed the dust from her skirts. When Maud had urged her to relinquish her hopes of claiming Toulouse, she’d offered other advice as well, no less pragmatic and unsentimental. You cannot change a man, Harry least of all. You will always come second with him, for his kingship will come first. And there in the stairwell of the Viscount of Limoges’s castle, Eleanor could hear her own response echoing down through the years, and Maud’s uncompromising reply: So you are saying, then, that I must accept Harry as he is. But what if I cannot? Then learn to love him less.
The Viscount of Limoges had given Maud a tour of his kennels, where his favorite greyhound bitch had recently whelped. As he escorted her across the bailey afterward, he offered her th
e pick of the litter once the puppies were old enough to be weaned. When Maud demurred, he insisted, saying with a smile, “You have been a Godsend to my wife. Sarah’s nerves were on the raw at the prospect of entertaining so many highborn guests, and you and our duchess have gone out of your way to put her at ease, doing what you could to make sure that nothing went amiss.”
Maud thanked him, thinking that only in Aquitaine would a duchess outrank a queen. They were passing the open doors of the stables, and she came to a sudden halt, having caught sight of a familiar figure standing by one of the stalls. Excusing herself, she stepped into the shadows of the barn.
Hal was currying a beautiful white stallion, so occupied in his task that he did not hear Maud’s approach. He swung around in surprise when she spoke his name, and then smiled in recognition. “Cousin Maud! Come take a look at my new palfrey. Shield your eyes, though,” he added with a grin, “lest you be dazzled by his radiance.”
His jest was not far off the mark; the horse was as perfect a specimen as Maud had ever seen. Hal had begun to comb out its silky mane, saying that it was as soft as his wife’s hair, playfully begging her not to repeat that to Marguerite, and then declaring that he’d settled upon a name: Morel.
Maud was not surprised by his choice; that was a popular name for knightly steeds in chansons de geste. “Dare I ask how you could afford such a magnificent beast? Have you taken to banditry in your spare time?”
Hal laughed. “Do not think I have not been tempted, Cousin. But Morel did not cost me even a denier. He is the product of a benign conspiracy between my mother and King Alfonso. He’d visited her at Poitiers last summer to discuss their mutual enemy, Count Raimon, and she arranged for him to bring Morel to Limoges. Spanish horses are the best in Christendom,” he said happily, “so she could not have given me a finer birthday present!”
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