Time and Chance eoa-2

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “The decision has been made. The discussion is done.” His eyes roamed the tent, challenging the other men to protest. None did, for they either shared Henry’s qualms about a vassal’s attack upon his liege lord or they were daunted by even that brief glimpse of royal rage.

  The tent was lit by smoky, reeking torches that seemed to suck out the last of the air. Suddenly Henry could not abide another moment in that stifling, crowded space. Turning on his heel, he shoved his way out into the encampment.

  The sun was in full retreat. The day’s oppressive heat still lingered, though; even the westerly wind felt hot upon his skin. The soldiers he passed seemed to sense his mood and backed off. Only a slat-thin stray dog dared to trail after him, hopeful for a handout. Lights had begun to flicker in the city, glimmering in the twilight like his lost hopes for victory. Picking up a stone, he squeezed it absently, keeping his gaze upon Toulouse as the sky darkened above his head.

  “Harry?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, then waited for Ranulf to catch up. “Once I was gone, did the rest of them start singing Thomas’s song?”

  “A few may have been humming it under their breath, but the Count of Barcelona backed your decision so emphatically that he quelled dissent. The Viscount of Carcassonne shares Becket’s indignation. He would, since he is in rebellion against his own liege lord, Count Raymond. As for the others, they either agree or they understand.”

  “Then why does Thomas not understand?” Henry sounded more baffled now than angry. “Why cannot he see that I have no choice? If I attack the man to whom I’ve sworn homage, how can I expect my own vassals to keep faith with me?”

  Ranulf felt laughter welling up and stifled it with difficulty. He should have known that his nephew’s decision would be an utterly pragmatic one, based upon practical considerations of common sense. He was more of an idealist himself, but he could still appreciate Henry’s stripped-to-the-bone realism, for he did not think England had been well served by its last chivalrous king, the gallant, sentimental Stephen.

  “Moreover,” Henry continued with an aggrieved frown, “what would I have done with Louis if we’d seized the town? Send him off to Eleanor for safekeeping? It would be damnably awkward, to say the least. Kings do not take other kings captive.”

  “Especially not if they hope to marry off their children.” Ranulf’s mockery was gentle and coaxed a reluctant half-smile from Henry.

  “Well, there is that, too,” he acknowledged. After a moment, he returned to his primary concern. “For the life of me, Ranulf, I cannot see why Thomas is being so troublesome about this. He is usually so clear-sighted and sensible.”

  “You mean he is usually in full agreement with you,” Ranulf teased. “I’m sure he’ll come around once his anger cools down.”

  “Thomas does have a temper, for certes. Most times he keeps it under tighter rein. I suppose I was so vexed with his bullheadedness because we’ve always been of the same mind.” Henry paused and then conceded with a sardonic smile, “Mine.”

  When he moved to get a better look at Toulouse’s russet-red walls, Ranulf followed. They stood in silence for a time, staring at the French king’s safe haven. Opening his fist, Henry glanced down at the forgotten stone, then threw it into the shadows.

  “You remember, Uncle, when the Archbishop of Canterbury urged me to invade Ireland and give it over to my brother Will?”

  “I remember. I was never sure how serious you were about it, but I thought it was for the best when you abandoned the idea.”

  “My mother talked me out of it. She felt that I’d be overreaching and that Will would be better off with English estates rather than a precarious hold upon a far-off, foreign isle as prone to rebellion as Ireland.”

  Ranulf felt a surge of admiration for his sister’s shrewd assessment of her youngest son. For all his fine qualities, Will was never meant to carve out an empire, still less to hold on to it afterward. “I’d say Maude gave you sound advice.”

  Henry nodded, and then startled Ranulf with an abrupt, mirthless laugh. “I am beginning to wish,” he said, “that she’d talked me out of this accursed venture, too.”

  Henry’s attempts to lure the Count of Toulouse out to do battle were futile. He ravaged the count’s lands and soon had all of the province of Quercy under his control. But Raymond refused to stir beyond the city walls, and Louis seemed determined to stay as long as his sister had need of him. By September, Henry’s supplies were running low and his men had begun to sicken. Turning command over to Becket, he headed north to deal with the French king’s brothers, who’d taken advantage of his absence to raid into Normandy. His war with Toulouse sputtered to an inconsequential end.

  “I cannot believe it!” Eleanor spun around, a letter crumpled in her hand. “Harry has withdrawn his army from Toulouse. He has ridden away, leaving Louis in possession of the city.”

  Petronilla gasped. “He has given up? It is over?”

  “So it would seem.” Eleanor glanced again at the letter, then flung it from her with an oath. “How could he, Petra? He knew how much this meant to me, to my family. My grandmother was cheated of her rightful inheritance. My father was born in Toulouse’s great castle, walked its streets as a child, and loved it almost as much as Poitiers. The city is mine!”

  Petronilla hastened over to commiserate with her sister, but Maud, Countess of Chester, stayed where she was in the window seat. It was unshuttered and the October sun was warm upon her face. She wondered if autumn was always this mild in Poitou. If so, little wonder that Eleanor yearned for her homeland and complained of the harshness of English winters, the suffocating grey dampness of English fogs. Reaching for her cup, Maud sipped one of Aquitaine’s robust red wines and listened as Eleanor berated her husband for his failure to take Toulouse.

  “When I learned that he would not lay siege to the city, I was dumbfounded. I sought to convince myself that he must have some other strategy in mind, for Harry can be quite cunning. I refused to lose faith in him, even though I did not understand. And this… this is my reward. He lets himself be outwitted by Louis, Louis of all men!”

  “Do not despair, Eleanor. I daresay you can coax him into making another attempt.”

  “I am not so sure of that, Petra.” Eleanor had begun to pace restlessly. “Harry can be stubborn beyond all belief. He is not easily coaxed into anything, except into bed.”

  “Well, then, make that your battlefield. Give him your body if you must, but not your passion. Indifference is a most effective weapon, Sister. It always won me victory in my skirmishes with Raoul.” Petronilla added a conventional “May God assoil him” for her late husband that was also heartfelt; hers had been that rarest of marriages, one made for love. Turning aside to pour more wine, she frowned upon finding the flagon empty, and frowned again when no servant came in response to her summons. “I will be back straightaway,” she promised, “as soon as I put the fear of God into those laggards down in the hall.”

  Once she had gone, Maud set her wine cup down, rose to her feet, and crossed to the queen. “I know you are very fond of your sister,” she said, “but she gives you poor advice. I would hope you not heed her.”

  Eleanor’s eyes glinted, green to gold and then green again. “You are Harry’s cousin. Defend him if you must, but not this day, not to me. I am entitled to my anger, will not let you rob me of it.”

  “I speak as your friend. If you reject what I say, do so because you like not the message. But doubt not the messenger, Eleanor. My loyalty is not given only to blood-kin. It is yours, too, if you want it.”

  Eleanor searched the other woman’s face. “You think I am in the wrong? That I have no right to feel disappointed, even betrayed?”

  “I think that your anger has been a long-smoldering fire, feeding on grievances that lie far from the borders of Toulouse. I am not saying you have no cause for it. But let that fire kindle in your marriage bed and your marriage itself could be left in charred ruins. Think long and
hard ere you let that happen, Eleanor. You may not have found all you hoped to gain in wedlock with Harry, but surely what you do have is worth holding on to.”

  “So you’d have me swallow my pride and play the role of submissive, compliant wife? Is that the best you can do, Maud? What very ordinary advice. If I wanted a tiresome lecture about my duty to obey my husband, I could get that from my confessor!”

  “You misread me, Madame. I preach no sermons. Heed me or not, as you will. But at least hear me out.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because,” Maud said, “I know more than you of a woman’s lot. I know more, too, about compromise and caution and survival. These were lessons I had to learn, and at a very early age.”

  “I know your marriage was not a happy one, Maud, but-”

  “No, you do not know, Eleanor. You could not possibly know.” Maud’s usual insouciance was utterly gone; her dark eyes held only shadows and secrets she’d never before shared. “You see,” she said, “my husband was quite mad.”

  Eleanor was momentarily startled into silence. “I’ve heard stories about Randolph,” she said, “stories about his ungodly rages and his treachery. Harry said he’d sooner have trusted Judas than Chester. I know he was so hated that when he was poisoned, the only surprise was that it had not happened earlier. But Harry and Ranulf led me to believe that you did not fear him as others did, that you-”

  “I learned not to show him my fear. And in time, the fear did lessen, for I found that my boldness was the best shield I could have against Randolph’s cruelty. He scented out weakness, the way they say wolves can smell blood for miles. Because I never cowered, because I never let him see my tears, he grudgingly gave me a reluctant respect. So few people ever dared to stand up to him that I suppose the novelty of it disarmed him. And it helped greatly, of course, that he was always so hot to share my bed.”

  “Did you never think to leave him?”

  “I was seventeen when we wed, too young and too proud to be scorned for a failed marriage. For I knew that I’d be blamed, just as my aunt Maude was when her marriage to Geoffrey of Anjou foundered on the rocks of their mutual loathing. Geoffrey was more brutal to her than Randolph was to me, yet that counted for naught. People still saw the failure as hers. So I knew what I could expect. I did not want to disappoint my parents, to bring dishonor upon our family. And so I chose to make the best of it.”

  “Jesu, Maud, your life must have been hellish!”

  “No… surprisingly, it was not. I learned to take my pleasures where I could find them, even in Randolph’s bed. I also enjoyed the privileges that came to me as Countess of Chester. And in time, I had my sons to love. I suppose ours was not the worst of marriages, given how wretched some of them can be. But when Randolph died,” she concluded coolly, “I felt like a prisoner suddenly shoved from the dark up into the light of day.”

  Eleanor turned abruptly toward the bed, sat down, and beckoned for Maud to join her. “So what would you have me do? Follow in your footsteps?”

  “No, there is no need for you to go down that rock-strewn road.” Maud grinned suddenly. “You could not even if you wanted to, for it is not in your nature to make ‘the best’ of things. If it were, you’d still be Queen of France.”

  “God forbid,” Eleanor said, and they both smiled.

  “As for Toulouse, I think you must resign yourself to its loss.”

  Eleanor arched an elegant brow. “Must I, indeed?” she said, but with none of her earlier asperity, and Maud nodded.

  “If two men as utterly unlike as Harry and Louis could not win it, does that not tell you something about your chances?” Maud paused, unable to resist adding, “Unless you mean to try again with a third husband?”

  “Do not tempt me,” Eleanor retorted, but there was a hint of amusement hovering in the corners of her mouth. “A pity I could not ride against Toulouse myself. If only women were not so damnably dependent upon men to get what we want in this life!”

  “Amen,” Maud said fervently. “But you cannot in fairness blame Harry for that, Eleanor. It is not his fault that men get to soar high and wide whilst we are earthbound, birds with clipped wings.”

  “Ah, here it comes, the loyal kinswoman rallying to her cousin’s defense,” Eleanor mocked, and Maud grinned again.

  “A defense, yes, but a qualified one. For all that I think the world of Harry, I am not blind to his flaws. He is stubborn and single-minded and surely not the easiest of men to live with. But he is also a man who does love you deeply… if reluctantly.”

  Eleanor stared at her and then burst out laughing. “You do understand Harry,” she said, “much better than I realized! Harry was prepared, even eager, to give me his name, his body, his crown, but not his heart. That caught him by surprise, and even now I suspect that he is not entirely easy about it.”

  “Harry has good reason to be mistrustful of love. His parents’ union was not so much a marriage as a war, and he was their hostage, for he was unlucky enough to love them both.”

  “He rarely talks to me of his childhood, usually shrugging off my questions with one of his jokes. I suspect that you know more than I do, Maud, about his family’s bloodletting.”

  “What I know comes mainly from Ranulf and from my own parents. My father was very protective of Maude and felt strongly that she was ill-used by Geoffrey. Of course there are those to argue that she was equally to blame for their feuding. I do know that the marriage got off to the worst possible start, for Maude had been forced by her father to wed Geoffrey and she was not loath to let him know of her unwillingness to be his wife. Their most bitter quarrels took place in those first years of the marriage, and by all accounts, Maude’s sharp tongue was a poor match for Geoffrey’s fists. I would wager,” she said unexpectedly, “that Harry has never struck you… has he?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No.”

  “Did you never wonder why? Most men feel it is their God-given right to chastise their wives as they would their children, and why not, when Holy Church tells them that woman was born to be ruled by man? But I knew Harry would not, for I remember a talk I once had with him and Ranulf on that subject. Not surprisingly, Ranulf disapproved of wife-beating. God save him, he is the last truly chivalrous soul in all of Christendom. But Harry was no less emphatic, saying a man ought not to take advantage of his superior strength, and Ranulf and I knew he was thinking of his mother.”

  Eleanor reached for a pillow, positioning herself more comfortably on the bed. “Harry has never lacked for advocates, but you make a particularly effective one. I daresay you could even find excuses for his unfortunate habit of always being half a world away whenever one of my lying-ins begins.”

  “No, for some sins, no excuses will do and penance is required. I’d suggest you demand it be done in the bedchamber, but then, that is what got you so often into those birthing chambers in the first place.”

  Eleanor could not help laughing, and Maud joined in. “I guess I did a bit of preaching, after all,” she admitted, “even if that was not my intent. Thank you for taking my meddling in good humor. It may be that I envy you, just a little, for I think you and Harry have found happiness in your marriage, and we both know how rare that is. I suppose I have been urging you to give more than Harry, and that may not be fair, but it is realistic. You cannot change a man, Harry least of all. You will always come second with him, for his kingship will come first. But to come second with the most powerful man in the known world is not such a bad thing… now is it?”

  “I suppose there are worse fates,” Eleanor agreed wryly. “So you are saying, then, that I must accept Harry as he is. But what if I cannot?”

  Maud shrugged. “Then learn to love him less.”

  Eleanor had not been expecting such an uncompromising answer. She’d always prided herself upon her pragmatism, but she realized now that she was an outright romantic compared to Maud. “I’ve never been one to settle for less. But you need not fret on our behalf, Cousin
Maud. I think I can content myself with what Harry has to give. Although,” she added, half-joking, half-serious, “I’d have been far more contented had he been able to give me Toulouse!”

  The stronghold of Gerberoy was in its death throes. Henry’s lightning assault had taken its garrison by surprise, for he was thought to be still raiding south of Beauvais. But Henry was already famed and feared for the speed with which he could move his army, and his men had appeared without warning out of the mist of a damp November dawn. The castle had soon fallen, and now Henry’s commanders were supervising its destruction.

  Rainald’s face was streaked with smoke and grime, his eyes puffy with fatigue. His smile, however, was jubilant. “I thought Harry’s seizure last year of Thouars Castle was a dazzling feat. But taking Gerberoy was even easier. The Bishop of Beauvais must be quaking under his bed by now!”

  “I hope so,” Ranulf said, watching as flames consumed the castle stables, began to lick at the roof of the great hall. “I heard that Thomas Becket had ridden into camp. Do you know if that is true?”

  Rainald nodded. “He and Harry are back there now and seem to have mended their rift. When I left, Becket was boasting about the havoc he’d wrought in Quercy, taking three castles and putting towns to the torch. Rather bloodthirsty for a man of the Church, wouldn’t you say, Little Brother?”

  Ranulf smiled, for it had been years since he’d been called that. “I’ve never known Becket to be much for boasting,” he said mildly. “Why do you dislike him so, Rainald?”

  His brother shrugged. “I’ve never seen him drunk.”

  Ranulf laughed. “You’ve never seen Harry drunk either, have you?”

  “That is different. Harry is good company, drunk or sober. Becket always seems to be standing apart, watching the rest of us sin.”

  Ranulf suspected that Rainald’s animosity was based upon that most common of all motives, jealousy; any man so close to the king was bound to make more enemies than friends. “Well, if he is counting up your sins, he’d better have a tally stick to keep track of them all.”