“Of course not. That sly old fox prefers to let others do his hunting for him. But he was alarmed enough by Leicester’s defeat to agree to a truce and even to dismiss his own Flemish routiers. There will be no further outbreaks of violence in England, at least not this year.”
Taking the cup he was offering, she gave him a radiant smile. “What will you do with the Earl of Leicester? He is a wicked, loathsome man, Harry, ought to be punished severely for his treachery.”
Henry was amused and touched that the soft-hearted Rosamund was so fierce when it came to the rebel earl; she’d been utterly unforgiving from the moment she’d learned of his behavior at Gisors. “Richard de Lucy dispatched Leicester and his quarrelsome countess to Southampton, and from there they’ll be sent to keep Hugh of Chester company at Falaise.”
“When we return to England, it would be a godly act to make a pilgrimage to St Edmundsbury,” she murmured, for she’d just remembered that the Suffolk saint was known to show favor to barren wives.
“If you like,” he said absently, joining her on the bed where he set about unfastening her long blond braids. Rosamund leaned back against him with a contented sigh, thinking that this would be their first Christmas together. She’d always passed them alone, watching from afar as he celebrated his Christmas Court with his queen.
“Harry…St Edmundsbury is not the only pilgrimage we can make,” she ventured, and he paused in the act of running his fingers through her hair to say dryly that he hoped she was not going to suggest Canterbury. “I was thinking of Mont St Michel.” She looked at him hopefully, for she’d long yearned to visit the celebrated island abbey. “Now would be the perfect time for such a pilgrimage, beloved. The Breton rebels have been subdued and there’ll be no fighting elsewhere until the spring…”
She stopped in mid-sentence, feeling the sudden tension in the arm encircling her waist. When he sat up, she searched his face intently, worrying that she’d somehow offended. “Of course by next spring, I am sure peace will be restored and your sons will have come to their senses,” she said hastily. “I did not mean to imply that this wretched war will drag on into the new year.”
Henry did not seem to be listening, and when he rose and began to move restlessly around the chamber, she watched him in growing dismay. She’d always found his sudden mood swings to be disconcerting, and never more so than now, for his elation over Leicester’s defeat seemed to be vanishing before her very eyes.
“Harry…have I said something wrong?” she asked timidly. “If I did, it was not meant…”
He’d begun to stir the hearth logs with an iron poker. Straightening up, he was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. “Ah, no, love, you did nothing wrong. But I cannot take you to Mont St Michel now. My war is not yet done for the year.”
She was reassured by his use of an endearment, proof that he was not angry with her as she’d feared. She was baffled, though, by what he’d just said. She knew little of military matters, but even she knew that fighting ordinarily ended with the first frost, not to be resumed until the return of mild weather. “You mean to continue your campaign?”
“I was waiting till I got word from England, but I am free now to move south into Anjou. The Count of Vendome has been overthrown by his own son, who then threw in his lot with Hal and the French king, doubtless hoping that they’d help him hold on to his ill-gotten gains. I mean to reinstate the count and bring his ungrateful whelp to heel.”
Rosamund could understand why he’d feel so strongly about putting down a son’s outlaw rebellion; that was so obvious that it needed no discussion. She could understand, too, his determination to restore order in Anjou, for insurrection in the land of his birth had to be particularly galling. The tone of his voice, though, alerted her that there was more at stake than the Count of Vendome’s plight, and when he glanced in her direction, she was disquieted by the expression upon his face. His eyes were the color of smoke and yet cold enough to send a chill up her spine, reminding her that ice could burn.
“And then?” She whispered, shaken, even though she knew that this smoldering, implacable anger was not meant for her.
“And then,” Henry said grimly, “I think it is time I paid a visit to my loving wife.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
November 1173
Poitiers, Poitou
Madame, you are in grave peril. The English king’s army is poised like a dagger at the heart of Poitou. By week’s end, he could be at the very gates of the city and we will not be able to hold out against him.”
William de Maingot was Lord of Sugeres, brother by marriage of the powerful Geoffrey de Rancon, and one of Eleanor’s most trusted vassals. At the moment, though, she was hard pressed to be civil to the man. She expected such dramatic posturing from traveling players, not from one of her counselors. Nor was she impressed by his overwrought, portentous warning. Did he truly think she was unaware of her danger?
They’d all had their say by now-William de Maingot, Porteclie de Mauze, Guillaume de Parthenay, her steward, Herve le Panetier, and Sir Nicholas de Chauvigny, the head of her household knights. Only Saldebrueil had held his peace, knowing that she would never be bullied into making a decision. They were a pitifully small group, but this war of attrition had scattered her lords to the four winds. Her uncles were in Paris with her sons. Geoffrey de Rancon and the Count of Angouleme were making ready to defend their own lands from her husband’s routiers, as were the wily de Lusignan clan. Others, like the Viscount of Limoges, had deliberately stayed out of the fray, doubtless watching to see who’d prevail before committing themselves. Her inner circle was shrinking, as was her margin of safety.
“Madame, he is right,” Porteclie de Mauze exclaimed as soon as William de Maingot had stopped speaking. “Your husband has taken the castles of La Haye, Preuilly, and Champigny-”
“And your uncle’s castle at Faye Le Vineuse!” De Maingot made such a sweeping, theatrical gesture that he almost overturned his wine cup in Nicholas de Chauvigny’s lap; fortunately the knight had good reflexes and caught the cup just in time. Oblivious, de Maingot slammed his fist down upon the table. “He razed it to the ground, my lady, left nothing but smoldering ruins. We must be thankful that Raoul is in Paris. I would to God that you were, too, Madame! But it is not too late. There is still time to find safety at the French court.”
Eleanor said nothing. Nicholas de Chauvigny glanced in her direction, then scowled at de Maingot and Porteclie de Mauze. “I fear it is too late,” he said. “Better our lady should seek shelter with Geoffrey de Rancon at Taillebourg. It will not fall to the English king; there is no more formidable stronghold in all of Poitou.”
Both men began to argue with him, insisting Eleanor’s only chance lay in flight. She appeared to be listening, but it was a pose; her thoughts had begun to wander, for she knew how meaningless their argument was. Nicholas was right; she had waited too long. But she did not think Taillebourg was the sanctuary that Nicholas did. Yes, it was said to be impregnable, but she’d lost track of the impregnable castles taken by her husband over the years. Once he learned where she was-and he would, for she did not doubt his agents had her under surveillance-he would descend upon Taillebourg like the Wrath of God Almighty. Her chances were better on the back roads of Poitou. If she could slip undetected from Poitiers, she ought to be able to reach safety in French territory. It would be a stroke of incredibly bad luck to run into Harry’s men, and luck had always been on her side. But she did not want to flee. Not to the French court, never there.
“I will give you my decision on the morrow,” she said, pleasing no one, indifferent to their disapproval. They withdrew with obvious reluctance; only Saldebreuil de Sanzay dared to remain-as she’d known he would.
“I understand why you are loath to leave. Poitiers is your capital city, the very heartbeat of your realm. Yours has been a life in exile, my lady. Now that you’ve finally come home, it is only to be expected that you do not want to turn your back upo
n it.”
Eleanor turned, regarding him with the shadow of a smile. “You know me, Saldebreuil, mayhap too well. Scriptures say that the heart of kings should be unsearchable.”
“I know, too, Madame, that more than love of your homeland holds you here. Pride binds you as tightly as any chains could.”
Her eyes narrowed, taking on a warning glint of green. “Choose your words with care, my old friend. Even you can misspeak.”
“By speaking the truth?” he asked gently, and she was the first to look away, unable to deny the abiding affection in that quiet query. “I understand why you do not want to seek refuge at the French king’s court. Louis will make you welcome, and his smile will be so smug that you might well choke on it. It will be no easy thing to ask for his protection; I know that. But you must ask yourself what you have greater cause to fear: Louis Capet’s condescension or Harry Fitz Empress’s wrath.”
Eleanor did not reply. He had his answer, though, in the slumping of her shoulders, in her silence. “I will make the necessary arrangements for your departure,” he said, and if she could not bring herself to acquiesce, neither could she gainsay him. She did not move, listening to the familiar sound of his footsteps as he limped toward the door. Only after he’d gone did she sit down wearily upon the closest coffer.
“Damn you, Harry,” she whispered, “and damn you, Louis. Damn you both to Hell Everlasting.”
Constance had begun to drum her fingers on the table, but it did nothing to stir Alys into action. She continued to stare down at the chessboard, her brow furrowing. When she finally reached out, Constance gave an exasperated sigh. “You cannot do that, Alys. A queen can only move diagonally.”
Alys was unfazed by her error. “Sorry,” she said, pulling her queen back. “I forgot. I’d rather play queek or tables, anyway. Chess is boring.”
“Chess makes you think.” Since Constance believed that Alys thought as little as possible, she was not surprised that the other girl should find the game so unappealing. She kept the sarcasm to herself, though. She was only twelve, but she’d learned at an early age that candor was an indulgence she could ill afford.
Alys resumed her interminable study of the chessboard, and Constance sighed again. But the wait proved worth it, as Alys’s eventual move placed her queen in peril. Constance hid a smile, was making ready to pounce when the door opened and the flesh-and-blood queen entered.
Alys jumped up and ran to greet Eleanor. Fawning over her, Constance thought tartly, as she rose and dropped a perfunctory curtsy. Eleanor came forward into the chamber, her gaze sweeping past the girls to search the shadows. “I was hoping that Joanna would be here,” she said, sounding disappointed. “No one has been able to find her all afternoon. Do either of you know where she might have gone?”
Constance shook her head, but Alys was more helpful. “Try the gardens.”
“The gardens have already been searched.”
Alys smiled. “Did they search the yew tree? Joanna likes to climb into it and hide from the world.”
Eleanor smiled, too, for she’d climbed her share of trees in her own childhood. Constance watched in disapproval as she thanked Alys and departed. Alys reclaimed her seat at the chessboard, then glanced up and saw the other girl’s face. “What? Why are you glaring at me like that?”
“Why did you give away Joanna’s secret hideaway?”
Alys looked at the other girl in surprise. “Since when are you such friends with Joanna? You always say she is a pest, too young to bother with.”
Constance shrugged. Adults were the enemy, and children had so little power that their secrets were to be safeguarded at all costs. But she did not expect Alys to understand that. “It is my move,” she said, and captured Alys’s queen.
Alys did not seem to notice. She was regarding Constance with curiosity. “You do not like the queen, do you?” she said unexpectedly. “Why not? She’s always been kind to you.”
Constance’s temper flared and she had to bite her lip to keep the angry words from escaping. Kind? Only a fool like Alys would think she should be grateful to the people who’d stolen her birthright. Eleanor’s whoreson husband had made a puppet of her father, Duke Conan, then forced Conan to abdicate in her favor so she could be betrothed to his son Geoffrey. They meant to make Brittany an Angevin fief, staking their claims in her marriage bed. There was nothing she could do about it, but by the Rood, she did not have to like it.
Alys was still staring at her. “You do not like any of them, do you?” When Constance did not reply, she smiled. “Such a pity then, that you must marry Geoffrey, is it not?”
Constance stared back, for there was unmistakable malice in the other girl’s sugared sympathy, and she suddenly realized that Alys did not like her any more than she liked Alys.
A November garden was often a bleak place, but the Poitevin winter had been mild so far and there were still splashes of color, flowers still blooming in defiance of the season. Eleanor moved quietly along the pathway, one of her greyhounds trailing at her heels. The yew tree had been young when her grandfather had ruled in Poitou, and reached proudly toward the heavens; she had to tilt her head to see its top branches. Feeling a twinge of pride that her daughter dared to scale such heights, she gazed up into the cloud of evergreen and said, “Joanna? It is your mother. Climb down so we may talk.”
There was a moment of silence, and she began to doubt Alys’s information. But then Joanna’s head poked out, framed by lush greenery. She was twenty feet off the ground. She showed no unease, though, and nimbly scrambled down to lower branches, landing on her feet like a cat. Her coppery curls were dusted with needles and there was a dirt smear across her nose, another on her chin. Her eyes looked very green in the fading light as they searched her mother’s face. “Am I in trouble, Maman?”
Eleanor supposed she should be disciplined for risking broken bones and ripping her skirt, but she hadn’t the heart to scold the girl. Why should she be punished for having a boy’s spirit and daring? “No, lass. You do remember, though, that yew tree seeds are poisonous?”
“I know that,” Joanna said, and Eleanor stifled a smile, for that confident young voice could have been hers, forty years ago. Leading the child toward a nearby bench, she hesitated, for she’d been loath to have this conversation, had been putting it off as long as possible.
“I wanted to tell you, Joanna, that I will be going away for a while.”
“Where?”
“Paris.” Adding casually, “I want to see your brothers,” as if this would be a pleasure trip.
Joanna was not deceived, though. Keeping those green eyes on her mother’s face, she said, “You are running away from Papa.”
Eleanor was momentarily at a loss. She’d tried to shield Joanna from her involvement in the plot against Henry, warning servants and attendants and even Constance and Alys to guard their conversation in the child’s hearing. She’d known it was unrealistic to expect her daughter to remain in ignorance, but she’d been stung by Maud’s accusations that she’d turned their sons against Henry, and was determined that no such accusation could be made about Joanna. But even before she saw the reproach in Joanna’s eyes, she knew she’d made the wrong decision.
“I am sorry, Joanna, for trying to keep the truth from you. I ought to have been candid with you from the first, but you are so young-”
“I am eight now, Maman!”
“Yes, you are. But I know you love your father, and I did not want you to feel that you had to choose between us. You are very dear to us both, and nothing will change that.”
“I know Hal and Richard have been unhappy with Papa for a long time. Richard says he never listens, that he is as stubborn as a balky mule.” Joanna ducked her head, staring down at her lap, and Eleanor resisted the impulse to brush the yew needles from her hair. “So you…you took their side, Maman?”
“Yes, Joanna, I did. But your father has led an army into Poitou, and my council has advised me to leave Poitiers for
now.”
The girl looked up, then. “Would Papa hurt you?” She met Eleanor’s eyes steadily, but there was a quaver in her voice, and Eleanor reached out, covered her daughter’s hand with her own.
“No, he would not,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But he is very angry with me because I supported our sons in their quarrel, and I prefer not to have a confrontation just yet. We think it is for the best that I join your brothers in Paris. But I do not expect to be gone for long. I will be back here ere you know it, lass.”
Joanna had a disconcertingly direct gaze. “What will happen after that?”
“I expect that the French king and your brothers will prevail and your father will come to terms with them.” Eleanor studied Joanna closely, unable to tell if she believed it. But, then, Eleanor was not sure if she believed it herself.
“ Well?” Eleanor asked. “What do you think?” She turned in a circle and Saldebreuil smiled at her transformation. She was dressed as a knight, complete with sword and scabbard, her hair pinned up under a cowled hood.
“I’d not have recognized you,” he assured her, thinking that she still had very shapely legs, revealed now in close-fitting bright blue hose.
Eleanor was looking admiringly at her soft leather ankle boots. “We had trouble finding a man’s boots small enough to fit my feet until I tried on an old pair of Geoffrey’s.” She liked the freedom of her new clothes. It was much easier to move unhampered by long skirts. She would have to get used to the unaccustomed heft of the sword at her hip, but she would be spared the weight of chain mail since most knights did not wear their hauberks while on the road.
Saldebreuil’s smile had faded and his dark eyes were somber. Trying to reassure him, she evoked a smile of her own, saying playfully, “I think I make a rather handsome man, do I not? And this ought to be a foolproof way to sneak out of the city undetected by Harry’s spies. They’ll never expect me to don male disguise, after all.”
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