Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  He surprised her then by saying, “As it happens, I did. We talked about this ere he returned to Poitou last summer. He showed very little interest in the subject, was much more interested in discussing the aid I’d provide against the Poitevin rebels.”

  That rang true to Eleanor. She knew Richard had never indicated the slightest desire to wed Alys; she doubted that he’d ever given much thought to the girl at all. “So you are saying that Richard is indifferent, cares little whether he weds her or not.”

  “That sums it up rather well. For certes, he is not burning to take a wife. Unlike Geoffrey, who keeps dropping hints heavier than anvils, reminding me that he is in his nineteenth year now and Constance is sixteen, more than old enough for the holy state of matrimony.”

  That rang true, too, for Richard had nothing to gain by wedding Alys and Geoffrey had a great deal to gain by wedding Constance. Their marriage would validate his claim to Brittany, and he’d no longer be dependent upon Henry’s good will, would have power of his own. Eleanor suspected that the very reasons which made the marriage so attracttive to Geoffrey were why Henry seemed in no hurry for it to happen. But that was a worry for a later time, and more Geoffrey’s concern than hers. The hardest part of confinement was accepting the fact that she could no longer influence the course of events or even the interactions in her own family.

  “It sounds,” she said, “as if you have the situation well in hand.”

  He shot her a suspicious look. “And that sounds as if you are actually supporting me in this.”

  “Why would I not? I agree that we can do better for Richard than Alys, and I’d like nothing better than to see Louis discomfited and humbled. He proved to be an even worse ally than he was a husband.”

  “As you ought to have known,” he pointed out, and she acknowledged the truth of that with a rueful smile. He had propped himself up on his elbow and was regarding her so impassively that she realized she had not the slightest idea what he was thinking. “So,” he said, after a brief silence, “you’d raise no objections if I disavowed the plight-troth. But what if Richard truly wanted to wed the girl?”

  “In that case, I would fight for the marriage till my last breath,” she murmured and saw that she’d finally managed to startle him.

  “Your honesty is commendable, if rather reckless, for you’ve hardly reassured me of your good faith should I set you free.”

  “Could you ever trust me again, Harry?”

  He did not even pause for breath. “No, never.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “So what would be the point of telling you what I thought you’d want to hear? I know marriage is not usually fertile ground for the truth, but mayhap a little truth-telling might have helped us avoid some of the grief of recent years.”

  He was openly skeptical. “Are you saying that you’re going to forswear lies from now on, speak only God’s truth? I’ll believe that when unicorns roam the English countryside.”

  “Go ahead,” she challenged, “ask me a question, then. But I ought to warn you that the rules of the game apply to you, too.”

  He considered it, but she knew he was never one to refuse a challenge. “Very well. Do you regret the rebellion?”

  “You can do better than that, Harry. Of course I do. Ask me something less obvious.”

  “What do you regret? That you set my sons against me? Or that you lost?”

  “Better,” she conceded. “Both. Now…your turn. Answer me honestly. If I’d demanded that you put Rosamund Clifford aside, would you have done so?”

  “No.”

  “And if I’d asked it of you?”

  That gave him pause. “I am not sure,” he admitted. “I just do not know, Eleanor.”

  “Fair enough. Your turn.”

  She’d expected a question about Rosamund, for she knew he still thought jealousy was at the root of their estrangement. But what he asked was far more dangerous. “That day at Falaise…why did you not seek my forgiveness?”

  She exhaled a soft breath. “Ah, Harry, we are getting into deep waters here.”

  “An honest answer. Your rules, remember.”

  “Very well. I did not want your forgiveness, not then.”

  “And now?”

  “Yes, I would ask your forgiveness now. But only if you asked mine in return.”

  “Are we back to Rosamund again?” he said wearily. “So if I said I was sorry for taking her to my bed, that would have satisfied you? That would have been enough?”

  “Indeed not! If you truly think I would rebel because you had a sugar-sop on the side, you do not know me at all and you never have.”

  He frowned, but kept to the rules of the game, saying honestly, “Then I do not understand. But whatever answer you offer for your betrayal, it can neither explain nor justify your treachery. You were my wife. You owed loyalty to me above all others.”

  “Obviously I did not see it like that,” she said coolly. “And if you’d wanted a meek little dormouse for a wife, you ought to have married your Rosamund. You cannot have it both ways, Harry. You wanted Aquitaine, enough to overlook that I was nine years older than you and had not given Louis a son and had a reputation that was frayed around the edges. You used my lands as a stepping-stone to the English throne. It seems hypocritical to bemoan the fact that I was not and would never be a docile, gentle creature without an independent thought in her head. You knew what you were getting with me. I was never one for sailing under false colors.”

  “Yes, I wanted Aquitaine. But I also wanted you, and you know it. Do not make our marriage sound like such a one-sided bargain. You got what you wanted, too, Madame. I gave you a crown, and a better life than ever you’d had with Louis Capet. And you repaid me with the worst sort of betrayal. My sons would never have rebelled against me if not for you!”

  “And you wonder why I did not seek your forgiveness? Because you blamed me for all and yourself for nothing! The mistakes were always mine, never yours. And nothing has changed, has it? You still see yourself as the innocent one, the victim. Well, I have just one last question for you, my lord husband. Come December, it will begin my fifth year as your prisoner. When you are forced to face the fact that our sons are still chafing under your stranglehold, what then? Who will you blame when they rebel again, Harry? And they will, for you seem utterly unable to learn from your mistakes!”

  Henry started to swing off the bed, grimaced in pain, and fell back against the pillows. “I want you gone from this chamber, would to God I could have you gone from my life!”

  Infuriated at being dismissed as if she were a servant, Eleanor got to her feet without haste, defiantly taking her time. “I never thought I’d be saying this, but you are a fool, Harry Fitz Empress, as much of a fool as Louis. You are the one who is alienating our sons, not me. I said you could not learn from your mistakes. Worse than that, you cannot even acknowledge them!”

  “I’ll acknowledge one mistake right now. I ought to have pressured the Pope to annul our marriage, ought to have insisted that I would no longer tolerate you as my wife or queen. Had I done that, you’d be cloistered in some remote Irish nunnery today and I’d be rid of you for good!”

  Eleanor strode to the door, then turned back to face him. “You are not only blind to the truth about our sons. You are equally blind to the truth about us. We’ve been wed for twenty-five years, have shared a bed for more than twenty of those years. I bore you eight children and we buried one together. We’ve schemed and fought and loved until we are so entangled in hearts and minds that there is no way to set us free. God help us both, Harry, for we will never be rid of each other. Not even death will do that.” And confident that she’d had the final word for once, she walked out and closed the door quietly behind her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  August 1178

  Winchester, England

  Eleanor was playing the harp and Amaria working on her embroidery when Turold sought admittance to their chamber. Surprised by his appearance, for
it was not mealtime, Eleanor gave him an encouraging smile. Although the youth had been at the castle only a fortnight, she felt confident that she could mold him into another Perrin, for he was cheerful, innocently cheeky, and always eager to please.

  Turold was panting; he’d taken the stairs three at a time. “Madame,” he gasped, “men just rode into the bailey, and a groom said one of them is your son!”

  Eleanor came hastily to her feet. “Which one?”

  Turold flushed. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “I wanted to tell you straight away…”

  He looked so crestfallen that Eleanor hid a smile. “It does not matter, Turold. I’ll know soon enough.”

  Reassured, Turold promised to find out more, and bolted from the chamber. Amaria lay down her sewing and moved to Eleanor’s side. “Who do you think it might be, my lady?”

  “I am not sure, Amaria. As far as I know, John is the only one presently in England, and we can safely say it will not be him.”

  They did not have long to wait. Soon there were footsteps, followed by a perfunctory knock, and then Eleanor’s third son entered. “Geoffrey!” Eleanor came quickly toward him, the warmth of her greeting fueled by a twinge of guilt; her initial reaction had been a muted sense of disappointment that it was not Richard.

  “Sorry,” Geoffrey murmured, “it is only me,” and she gave him a startled look of appraisal; did he have second sight?

  “You are more than enough,” she insisted and embraced him affectionately. “This is a delightful surprise. I had no idea that you were back in England.”

  Geoffrey kissed her on the cheek and then sauntered over to kiss Amaria’s hand with a gallant flourish that would have done Hal credit. “Papa and I crossed from Normandy last month,” he explained as he moved to the table and poured wine for them. “He knighted me on Sunday at Woodstock.”

  Accepting a cup, Eleanor studied him carefully. “You do not seem all that pleased about it.”

  “A man hungering for meat is not likely to be satisfied with bread.” Geoffrey sprawled in the window-seat with the boneless abandon of youth. “I asked him again to let me wed Constance. Instead, he gave me a knighthood.”

  She was clearly being invited to join in his criticism, but she resisted the temptation; it would serve none of their interests to prolong their family’s strife. “Well…I grant you that a knighthood is not worth a duchy. But you’ve the right to half the revenues of Brittany, no?”

  “No, not the ‘right,’” Geoffrey corrected her quickly, “the privilege. And privileges, as we know, Maman, can be revoked at any time.” He paused expectantly, and when his mother did not comment, he heaved a theatrical sigh. “Hal and I have a wager going; how many more years can he postpone the wedding? I just hope that when he finally relents, I am not too old to totter to the altar.”

  Eleanor decided it would be best to change the subject, for she truly did not want to worsen Henry’s estrangement from his sons. Winchester’s castellan had kept her informed about much of the political happenings in Henry’s domains, for he’d assumed that her greater visibility meant she was no longer in such deep disgrace. She knew, therefore, that Henry and Louis had forged another tentative truce when they’d met with the papal legate; both kings had pledged to take the cross, and Henry had grudgingly agreed that Richard and Alys would eventually be wed, although he’d refused to commit himself to a specific date. But she’d not seen Henry for almost a year, and she took the opportunity now to interrogate Geoffrey about family matters.

  “How is your father faring these days? Does his bad leg continue to pain him?”

  “He said nothing about it and is no longer limping, so I’d say he’s well enough. His temper is as quick to kindle as it ever was, though, and he is starting to go grey. I think he is beginning to feel his years, for he’s been fretting that his hair is thinning and he’s taken to cutting it even shorter than usual.”

  Geoffrey grinned at that, for he was still a month from his twentieth birthday and had a handsome head of luxuriant brownish-blond hair. Eleanor was not as amused, for she, too, was feeling her years. “And what of your brothers?”

  “I did not see John. Ralf de Glanville-the one who captured the Scots king, remember-has taken charge of his education. Richard is off spilling blood somewhere in Poitou, and Hal is chasing after glory on the tournament circuit. In fact, I will be joining him upon my return to Normandy, for why should he have all the fun? Brittany is reasonably quiet at the moment, so I might as well enjoy the peace whilst it lasts.”

  Eleanor knew, of course, about Hal’s abiding passion for tourneys. “I thought that he had not been very successful?”

  “At first, he was not. But Will Marshal noticed a ruse that the Count of Flanders was employing at tournaments. He would hold back from the first assault, wait until the other participants were milling about in small groups, wearied, battered, and bruised. Then he and his men would rush in and take advantage of the confusion, sweeping all before them. Marshal confided this to Hal, who adopted the same tactics, and since then, he has been winning more often than not.”

  “Then why was Harry grumbling so about the expenses of Hal’s tourneys? If he is winning, Hal must be reaping a goodly profit from the ransoms and captured horses.”

  Geoffrey laughed. “True enough, but Hal’s spending could put a drunken sailor to shame. He outfits his knights in the very best armor and weapons, using his largesse to lure skilled fighters into his service, and he buys the finest horses, of course, and he loves to lavish gifts upon Marguerite, and he never refuses a friend, and his alms-giving is open-handed, and-”

  Eleanor held up her hand, laughing, too. “Enough! Do you have any other family news for me?”

  “Indeed, I do. Tilda had another son last year. They named the poor lad Otto, but that is not as bad as the name they burdened his brother with-Lothair!”

  Eleanor felt a pang, remembering how Joanna had laughed, too, at Lothair’s name; the last she’d heard, Joanna was faring well in her new land and her new life, but Sicily seemed so far away.

  Geoffrey was regarding her with an enigmatic expression. “I am not sure if I ought to tell you this, Maman. Papa has sired another bastard. Ida de Tosny, the Lord of Conches’s daughter, gave birth to a son last year.”

  Eleanor’s shrug of unconcern was not feigned. “I am pleased to hear that he has acknowledged the child as his. Not all men do, sad to say. What name did Harry bestow on the baby?” But when he told her it was William, her indifference ebbed away, replaced by a prickle of resentful anger. Why must Harry choose the name of her dead son? Their Will had been cheated of so much-a long and healthy life, a king’s crown, love and lust and sons of his own. He ought not to have to share his name with one of Harry’s by-blows.

  Geoffrey got to his feet and stretched. “I am loath to go, Maman, but I hope to reach Southampton by dark. I’ve been told the winds are favorable, and I want to take advantage of them ere they shift. There is something else, though, that you need to know. It concerns your vassal, the Count of La Marche.”

  Eleanor already knew what he was about to tell her, for Maud had shared the story of the count’s scandal. Not wanting to deprive Geoffrey of the pleasure of relating such lurid gossip, she smiled innocently. “What has Audebert done now?”

  “He thought he had reason to suspect his wife of infidelity. With his usual rashness, he acted upon the suspicion without waiting for proof. The wife was cast off, and the unfortunate lover was put to death. But then his son and heir died of a sudden, and the count began to fear the Almighty was punishing him for slaying an innocent man. He plunged into a deep melancholy, vowing to do all he could to make amends and regain God’s Grace.”

  “Somehow I doubt that involved taking back his wronged wife,” Eleanor said tartly. “Has he taken to sackcloth and ashes, forsaken the world for the serenity of the cloister?”

  She was being sarcastic, but to her surprise, Geoffrey nodded. “Close, Maman, close. He decided to t
ake the cross, to expiate his sins by a hallowed death in the Holy Land. But ere he departed on his pilgrimage of atonement, he sold the county of La Marche to Papa for fifteen thousand Angevin livres.”

  “He did what?”

  Eleanor had not raised her voice, but there was something in her tone that attracted the attention of Amaria, who’d retreated across the chamber to give them the semblance of privacy. One glance at the queen’s glittering green eyes, burning all the more brightly against the sudden pallor of her face, and Amaria jumped to her feet in alarm. “Madame, are you ill? What is wrong?”

  Eleanor did not appear to hear her. “Count Audebert,” Geoffrey said, “is the vassal of the Duchess of Aquitaine, liegeman of my lady mother and my brother Richard. At least he was until my father snatched La Marche from under their noses.”

  Eleanor was on her feet now, too, stalking to the window and back before whirling to face Geoffrey again in a flurry of silken skirts. “Does Richard know this?”

  “He knows. Papa struck this deal last December, boasted of it to Richard, Hal, and me when we gathered for his Christmas Court at Angers. He was right pleased with the bargain he’d made, and well he should be, for La Marche must be worth three times what he paid for it.”

  “His pleasure be damned! What did he say to Richard about his piracy?”

  “Oh, he explained it as too good a deal to pass up, and assured Richard that there was no need for concern, that he could still consider La Marche as part and parcel of Aquitaine.” Geoffrey had been fighting back a smile, but at that it broke free. “Richard found that very reassuring.”

  Eleanor said something under her breath, but Amaria did not catch it, for she did not speak the lengua romana of the queen’s homeland. She needed no translation, though, not after looking at the other woman’s face. “Might not the king have spoken the truth?” she ventured cautiously, wanting to offer comfort but well aware of the shakiness of her footing. “Mayhap he truly does mean to pass it on to Richard?”