The chamber’s candles still flickered, wavering pinpoints of light against the encroaching shadows. They’d not drawn the bed curtains and Eleanor could see flames licking the hearth log, continuing to give out a measure of heat. Her greyhound rose, paused to sniff at the clothing scattered in the floor rushes, and then padded to the bed, poking a cold nose into Eleanor’s hand. She fondled the dog’s silken head absently, from habit, listening to the hissing of the fire and the deep, even breathing of the man asleep beside her.
She’d given him a chance and he’d scorned it. So be it, then. Rising up on her elbow, she stared down at his face, faintly lit by firelight. He must think women are such fools. Did he truly imagine that she did not know about his continuing letters to Rosamund Clifford? Or that he’d planned to bring her over to join him in Normandy? Did he really think she’d not be able to find eyes and ears to serve her at Woodstock? Or did he just assume that she’d act the dutiful wife, expecting her to endure the shame in silence, saying nary a word of protest whilst he plucked his little English gosling?
During the months since Woodstock, her rage had slowly congealed into ice. By the time she was ready to return to his court, she believed she had come to terms with his betrayal. She had every right to object to his whoring. If she’d not cast her lot in with his, if she’d not agreed to wed, who was to say if he’d ever have become England’s king? Aquitaine had been his stepping-stone to the English throne, her Aquitaine.
Over these past months, she’d deliberately dwelt upon her grievances, remembering all those times when he’d disregarded her advice, ignored her counsel, alienated her vassals with his high-handed Angevin ways. He’d not truly trusted her political judgment-this from the man who’d given the keys to the kingdom over to Thomas Becket. She’d actually wielded more influence with the dithering, hapless Louis than ever she had with Harry, and what greater irony could there be than that?
When she’d finally sailed from Southampton, she’d believed that her heart was well armored against further betrayals. She would make it clear that she’d not tolerate any more Rosamund Cliffords. She’d always been reasonable about his women, had never expected him to abstain when they were long apart. But she’d not abide his flaunting concubines at their court, in her bed for all she knew. He owed her better than that.
Nothing had gone, though, as she’d planned. The indifference she’d been cultivating with such care had cracked wide open, like a defective shield. Instead of a measured, matter-of-fact recital of her wrongs and complaints, she’d been caught up in emotions that were as raw and primitive as they were unexpected, one breaking wave after another of floodtide fury, resentment, jealousy, and unhealed hurt. She’d given him the opportunity to make things right between them, to make her believe that Rosamund Clifford meant no more to him than any of the other harlots he’d taken to his bed. And he repaid her with a Judas kiss.
It was plain now what he wanted from her-to turn a blind eye to his straying, to accept Rosamund Clifford as his paramour, to content herself with the nursery and needlework. Did he think to set his wench up under the same roof, as her grandfather had done with the most notorious of his conquests? If so, she wasn’t sure which of them was the bigger fool.
Swallowing was suddenly painful. She felt as if her throat was being squeezed in a strangler’s hold, as if a heavy millstone was pressing onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. But she shed no tears; her eyes, narrowed on Henry’s sleeping form, were dry and burning. She could still give him an ultimatum, tell him on the morrow that Rosamund Clifford must go. But what if she made such a demand and he refused? She’d not humble her pride like that, would never risk such a humiliation, not in this life or the next. Nor would she forgive.
Henry awoke to a distinct chill, soon discovered that the fire had gone out during the night. A weight lay across his feet. Blinking, he saw that his wife’s greyhound had sneaked up onto the bed while they slept. Eleanor was still sleeping, her head cradled in the crook of her arm, a sweep of long hair trailing over the edge of the bed. He tried to think of a reason to get up, couldn’t come up with one, and burrowed back into the warm cocoon of their covers, feeling more content than he had in months.
When he stirred again, the hearth had been tended, the dog evicted, and Eleanor’s attendants were moving quietly about the chamber. Her side of the bed was empty, the bed curtains partially drawn. As he sat up, a hand slid through the opening, holding a silver cup.
“Here,” his wife said, “this will fortify you to face the rest of the day.” Reaching for the cup, he took a tentative sip; it was one of her Gascony wines, well watered down as he preferred. “I always fare better whenever you’re around to see to the household,” he said, observing her appreciatively over the rim of the cup. She was already dressed in a gown of soft wool the color of sapphire, but she’d not yet put on her wimple and veil, and her hair was still visible, plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck. There was an agreeable intimacy about the sight, for only a husband or lover ever saw a woman with her hair unbound or uncovered. “You look very pleasing to the eye this morn,” he said. “A pity, though, that you were in such a hurry to dress. We could have stayed abed a while longer…” He let his words trail off suggestively, and she smiled.
“Too late,” she said briskly. “I’ve already sent for your squires.” Her timing was perfect, for at that very moment, a knock sounded at the door. Renee, still looking subdued, admitted a servant bearing a tray. Eleanor took it and carried it back to Henry. “I ordered some roasted chestnuts so you could break the night’s fast,” she said, making herself comfortable at the end of the bed, putting the tray between them.
Henry took another swallow of wine, helped himself to some of the chestnuts. Eleanor took one, shelled it deftly, and nibbled on the nut. “I was sorry to hear about the fall of that Welsh castle,” she said, and they were soon deep in a discussion of the incessant turmoil in the more troublesome regions of their domains. Her ladies continued with their tasks and when Henry’s squires arrived, they knew better than to interrupt until their lord was ready to dress.
Henry had finished lambasting the Bretons and moved on to the Poitevins. Eleanor listened intently, making an occasional incisive comment about her faithless barons. They both agreed that the de Lusignans must be dealt with-and sooner rather than later.
“I think, Harry, that it is time I returned to Aquitaine,” Eleanor said pensively. “My presence there might help to calm some of the unrest. Not with lawless hellspawn like the de Lusignans, of course. The Virgin Mary herself could be their liege lady and they’d still be conniving and pillaging. But there are others with wavering loyalties who could benefit from a reminder that they’d pledged their faith and their honor to me, Duke William’s daughter.”
Henry had been thinking along the same lines in recent months. But he’d not been able to seek her cooperation against her Poitevin rebels until they’d made their peace over his indiscretion with Rosamund Clifford. “I agree, “ he said. “It has been too long since you paid a visit to Poitou. But we’d have to take measures for your safety first. Once I am sure that you’d not be at risk, we can lay our plans accordingly.”
He finished the last of the chestnuts, glancing over to see if this met with her approval. It did; she was smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
March 1168
Poitiers, Poitou
The sky was the shade of milky pearl. The streets would soon be astir, but for now William Marshal was riding alone through a sleeping city, hearing only the rhythmic clop of his stallion’s hooves and the high, mournful cries of river birds. It promised to be a splendid spring day. Will could learn to like the climate of his queen’s domains, for this Wednesday morn four days before Easter was milder than many an English summer’s afternoon.
Ahead lay the soaring tower of Maubergeonne, the great keep of the ancestral palace of the Dukes of Aquitaine. Will picked up the pace a bit, and was admitted into the bailey
by yawning guards, for he was known on sight to the garrison. Their yawns were contagious and Will stifled one himself; sleep hadn’t figured prominently among the night’s activities. Nor would he have any time to steal a nap. This was the day his uncle, Earl Patrick of Salisbury, was to escort the queen to Lusignan Castle and Will would be part of the party. But he was one and twenty, young enough to consider sleep well lost in the pursuit of pleasurable sins.
The stables appeared empty. He assumed the grooms were cadging breakfast from the cooks, for few men had the fortitude to confine themselves to the traditional two meals a day. His own hunger was waking; not that it ever truly slept. As a squire, he’d earned the nickname of Scoff-food for his impressive appetite. Thinking about that now, he grinned; luckily, he was tall enough to eat his fill without fear of getting a paunch like his uncle Salisbury.
He’d unsaddled his stallion and was turning to fetch a bucket when he heard the voices. It sounded as if they were coming from the loft and he cocked his head, listening. He could make out no words, but the speakers sounded young and angry. As he emerged from the stall, hay rained down upon his head and he glanced up in time to see a youngster teetering on the edge of the loft. The boy made a grab for the ladder as he went over, managing to grasp one of the rungs. He dangled there for a hazardous moment, kicking in vain as he sought a foothold. But before he could panic, he heard a voice say with reassuring calm, “Easy, lad. If you think you can hold on for a few more breaths, I’ll come up to get you. If not, just let yourself drop and I’ll catch you.”
The boy squirmed to get a glimpse of the man below him and almost lost his grip. “I’m letting go,” he gasped and came plummeting down, feet first, showing an admirable confidence in Will’s ability to break his fall. The impact was more forceful than Will had expected and he staggered backward under the boy’s weight before setting him safely onto the floor. As he did, another head peered over the edge and he snapped, “Get down here now!” not wanting to have to make two rescues that morning.
He’d gotten his breath back by the time the second youngster obeyed. They both had reddish-gold hair dusted with straw, ruddy faces scattered with freckles and streaked with dirt. The boy Will had caught looked to be about twelve, but Will knew he was actually only ten and a half, the other one a year younger. A passerby might have taken them, as scruffy as they were, for two brawling stable lads, but Will knew better. They were the heirs to Aquitaine and Brittany.
He regarded them disapprovingly, but they bore up well under the scrutiny, theirs the confidence of young princes already knowing to whom they were accountable and to whom they were not. “I do not suppose,” he drawled, “that you want to tell me what you were squabbling about.”
Richard’s shoulders twitched. “I do not suppose so, either.”
Will would have let the matter lie if Richard hadn’t come so close to splattering himself all over the stable floor. Casting an accusatory eye upon Geoffrey, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to put the fear of God into the lad and said coolly, “Want to tell me how your brother fell? You would not have pushed him, by any chance?”
But putting the fear of God into Geoffrey was easier said than done. The boy glared right back at him. “Why should I listen to you? For all I know, you’re just one of the lowborn stable grooms!”
That insult rankled a bit with Will, for he was very proud of his new knighthood. Squatting down so that his eyes were level with Geoffrey’s defiant ones, he said, “Why should you listen to me? Well, I can think of two reasons, lad. As it happens, I am a knight in the Earl of Salisbury’s service. And in case it has escaped your notice, I am also much bigger than you. I’d wager I’d have no trouble at all dunking you in one of the horse troughs-accidentally, of course.”
He saw rage flash in Geoffrey’s narrowed blue eyes; he saw a sharp glimmer of intelligence, too. The boy might be spoiled, but he was no fool. His fury at being threatened was dampened by the realization that he did not want any more attention than they’d already attracted. “I do not believe you’re a knight,” he said scornfully, and content that he’d gotten the last word, he stalked away.
Will shook his head, glad that he wasn’t a Breton. Richard was still lingering, watching with alert interest as he returned to the stall and began to rub his stallion down. “Geoff has mush for brains,” he said after a few moments. “Who ever heard of a groom wearing a sword?”
“You’re welcome,” Will said dryly and the boy blinked. It did not take him long to figure it out, though.
“I suppose I was lucky you were here,” he said, sounding as if he were not sure whether it should be a challenge or an apology.
“I suppose you were,” Will agreed amiably, and when he reached for a brush, Richard stepped forward and handed it to him.
“Why not have a groom do that?”
“A man ought to take care of what’s his, or at least know how to,” Will said. “Want to help?”
Richard hesitated only a heartbeat. “I guess so.”
“Give me that towel over there, then,” Will directed, and this time the silence was companionable. “So… I take it you’re not going to tell on Brother Geoff? Admirable. But if it were me, I’d want to see him punished.”
Richard had his father’s smoky eyes, his gaze already more guarded than that of many men. “He will be,” he said, and Will bit back a smile.
“I see. So you’d rather dispense justice yourself.”
Richard hesitated again and then grinned. Will showed him how to inspect the stallion’s feet, looking for bruises to the sole or pebbles wedged between the frog and the bar, and when he finally left the stables, he’d acquired a second shadow.
Richard scuffed his feet, kicking at an occasional rock. “Are you going to Lusignan Castle with my mother and Earl Patrick?” Will confirmed that he was, and Richard shot him a sideways glance edged with envy. “They’ll not let me come,” he complained. “They said it was no reason to interrupt my studies.”
Will thought Richard’s safety might be a consideration, too, for it was less than two months since Henry had stormed Lusignan Castle and taken it from its rebellious owners. He was not about to say so, though, sure that would only make the journey all the more irresistible to Richard. By now they’d reached the great hall, and as they climbed the shallow steps, Will reminded Richard that Lusignan was less than twelve miles distant so it would entail only an overnight stay. That did not seem to give Richard much solace, and he soon abandoned Will in favor of pursuing his own interests.
For Will, nothing mattered but breakfast, and he elbowed his way toward the tables. As soon as he was recognized, he found himself fending off jests about his nocturnal hunting expedition and speculation about his quarry. Will took the teasing in stride and helped himself to sausages and fried bread. His uncle and the queen were seated at the high table and he watched them for a while, wondering if others noticed the coolness between them.
There were no overt signs of animosity, of course; Queen Eleanor would never be that obvious. But Will knew she’d been displeased by her husband’s decision not to name her as regent in his absence, instead placing her under the protection of his deputy, Salisbury. Will thought the king could hardly have done otherwise. Even though he’d quelled the January revolt with a heavy hand, some of the rebels remained on the loose. Will had heard so many stories about Henry Fitz Empress’s willful queen that he was unsurprised by Eleanor’s lack of feminine timidity. This was the same woman, after all, who’d coaxed the French king into taking her on crusade.
The king had departed Poitiers three days earlier for Pacy in Normandy, where he was to discuss peace terms with Louis. Will hoped he would not soon return, for he was thoroughly enjoying this time in the queen’s service and was in no hurry to see it end. One of the more observant knights had begun joking that he was smitten with the queen, warning him that King Henry might tolerate lovesick minstrels trailing after his lady, since that was the custom of the Courts of Love so popular
with highborn women, but he’d take a much dimmer view of lovesick knights.
Will had deflected the gibes with his usual good humor, knowing it was actually much more complicated than that. He did not approve of Queen Eleanor. How could he, for she’d defied virtually every tenet of those conventions meant to govern female behavior. And yet he could not deny that she cast a potent spell.
He’d never imagined he could harbor lustful thoughts about a woman old enough to be his mother, but he did. For all that he knew the queen’s youth was long gone, he thought she was still one of the most desirable women he’d ever laid eyes upon. Her enemies whispered that she must practice the Black Arts to keep the years at bay. Will suspected her continuing beauty had more to do with the fact that God had been so generous with His gifts than with a Devil’s pact. Common sense told him, too, that a queen was bound to age more gracefully than a potter’s widow, for she had the best that their world could offer.
Not that he entertained any delusions about acting upon his wayward yearnings. He was far too practical and far too honorable. If he’d have gone to his grave before revealing the name of Magali, his Poitiers bedmate, he was not one to fantasize about seducing his queen. But he could admire her from a respectful distance, as he was doing this morning in Poitiers’s great hall. She was fashionably attired in a gown of forest green, her face framed by a veil and wimple whiter than snow, laughing at something her son was saying. Will had not noticed Richard’s approach until then. The boy straightened up and backed away, displaying his courtly manners. As he did, his gaze happened to wander toward Will, and he grinned suddenly, almost conspiratorially. It occurred to Will that he now had a friend in the royal household, and he grinned back at the boy.
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