“She is not as beautiful as I’d heard, Will. I suppose that is because she is so old now. You said she was nigh on sixty-and-six.” Isabel paused to marvel at that vast age, for both of her parents had died in their forties. “Are you sure the king is not here yet?” She sat up straight, her eyes sweeping the crowded hall. “What does he look like?”
“Richard is taller than most men, two fingers above six feet, with curly hair betwixt red and gold. Trust me, lass, he is not one to pass unnoticed. If he were here, you’d need none to point him out to you.”
“Well, I hope he comes soon, for I must be the only one at court who has not even laid eyes upon the king.” Isabel looked around, then, for Richard’s brother, but could find no one who matched the king’s description. “Count John is not here, either?”
“John is over there, the one talking to the Lady Alys, in the green gown.” Will started to identify Alys as the French king’s sister, Richard’s neglected, long-suffering betrothed, then remembered that Isabel knew Alys better than he did, for prior to their marriage she’d resided at the Tower of London with Alys and another rich heiress, Denise de Deols.
“John does not look at all like Richard, does he? He is as dark as a Spaniard, and nowhere near as tall as you, Will.” Isabel gave her husband a fond glance from the corner of her eye. “He is handsome, though, I must admit. In fact, I’ve never seen so many comely men gathered in one place. Look at that youth with the fair hair and sky-blue eyes, just like a Norse raider! And there is another beautiful lad—can you use the word ‘beautiful’ for men? The one laughing, with chestnutcolored hair.”
Will took her teasing in stride, for he was amused by her lively, playful personality and was too sure of his manhood to deny his young bride the fun of flirting. He’d never hoped to be given such a prize—a great heiress like Isabel—for he was just a younger son of a minor baron, a man whose worth had been measured by the strength and accuracy of his sword arm. He still remembered his astonishment when the old king had promised Isabel de Clare to him, a deathbed reward for years of steadfast loyalty. He’d been sure that his bright future was lost when King Henry’s life ebbed away at Chinon Castle. But the new king, Richard, had confirmed Henry’s dying promise and, at that moment, Will had begun to believe in miracles.
“You truly are a king’s granddaughter,” he said, “for you’ve singled out men with royal blood flowing in their veins. Your ‘Norse raider’ is Henri of the House of Blois, the Count of Champagne, nephew to two kings—Richard and Philippe of France. And your ‘beautiful lad’ is Richard’s Welsh kinsman, Morgan ap Ranulf. His father was the old king’s favorite uncle, and Morgan served Richard’s brother Geoffrey until his death, then joined Henry’s household.”
“Life at court is going to be rather dull with so many gallant young lords off to fight the Saracens,” Isabel said with a mock sigh, still bent upon mischief. It was a safe game, for Will wasn’t tiresomely jealous like so many husbands. Her friend and Tower companion, Denise de Deols, had recently been wed to King Richard’s cousin, André de Chauvigny, and he was so possessive she had to conduct herself as circumspectly as a nun.
“They have not all taken the cross. John is not going to the Holy Land.”
Isabel’s pert, vivacious demeanor sometimes led others to underestimate her; she had a quick brain and was a surprisingly good judge of character for a girl of eighteen. She caught the unspoken undertones in her husband’s voice, and eyed him curiously. “You do not like Count John, do you, Will?”
“No,” he said tersely, “I do not.”
Seeing that he did not want to discuss the king’s brother, she obligingly steered the conversation in a more agreeable direction, asking the identity of the woman talking with Morgan ap Ranulf. When Will told her that was Constance, the Duchess of Brittany, Isabel studied the older woman with heightened interest. She knew Constance had been betrothed to Richard’s brother Geoffrey in childhood, wed to him at twenty, widowed five years later. Will had told her King Henry had then compelled Constance to marry his cousin, the Earl of Chester, wanting to be sure her husband would be loyal to the English Crown. She’d reluctantly agreed to the marriage in order to retain wardship of her two young children, but one of Richard’s first acts after his coronation had been to demand that she turn her daughter over to his custody.
Gazing at the Breton duchess, Isabel felt a pang of sympathy, and moved her hand protectively to her abdomen. She knew, of course, that children of the highborn were usually sent off to other noble households for their education. Constance’s daughter had been just five, though, taken against her mother’s will. Isabel had been taught that a wife’s first duty was to her husband, not her children, but she’d often wondered if a woman’s maternal instincts could be stifled so easily. She was only in the early months of her first pregnancy and already she felt that she’d defend the tiny entity in her womb with her last breath.
“Will you introduce me to the duchess, Will?” Receiving an affirmation, she continued her scrutiny of the hall. “Is that the Archbishop of York? And my heavens, who is that man?”
“Yes, that is the Archbishop of York, Richard’s half-brother,” William said, then followed her gaze to see who had provoked her outburst. “Ah . . . that is Guillaume Longchamp, the Bishop of Ely, the king’s chancellor and most trusted adviser. At first sight, he seems a pitiful figure, small and ugly and crippled in the bargain. But do not be misled by his paltry size or his lameness, for his intelligence is exceeded only by his arrogance.”
“No, not him. That man over there, the one who looks like he escaped from Hell!”
Once Will identified the object of her interest, he smiled grimly. “That is Mercadier. I assume he must have a given name, but I’ve never heard it. His past is a mystery, too. I know only that he entered Richard’s service about seven years ago as a routier—that is the term used for men like Mercadier, men who sell their swords to the highest bidder. He has been loyal to Richard, I’ll grant him that much, and he is as fearless in battle as Richard himself. But he knows no more of mercy than a starving wolf, and when he walks by, other men step back, instinctively making the sign of the cross.”
Isabel was staring openly at the routier captain, mesmerized by his sinister appearance—lanky black hair, cold pale eyes, and the worst facial scar she’d ever seen, slashing across his cheek to his chin like a diabolical brand, twisting the corner of his mouth into a mockery of a smile. “If ever there was a man who had a rendezvous with the hangman, that is the one,” she declared, suppressing a shiver. Suddenly the great hall lost some of its appeal. “I am tired, Will. May we retire to our chamber?”
“Of course, Isabel.” Will’s natural courtliness had been greatly enhanced by Isabel’s pregnancy, so much so that she had to remind herself not to take advantage of his solicitude. “We’ll have to bid the queen good night first,” he said, helping her to rise. As they headed toward the dais, he identified the woman who’d just joined Eleanor.
“That is the Lady Hawisa, the Countess of Aumale. She’d been wed to one of King Henry’s friends, the Earl of Essex, but he died in December and Richard ordered her to marry a Poitevin lord, William de Forz. The Lady Hawisa balked, though, actually dared to defy the king. You great heiresses tend to be a stubborn lot,” he murmured, showing that when it came to teasing, he could give as good as he got. “But Richard is a stubborn one, too, and he seized her estates until she yielded. She accompanied Queen Eleanor from England, and most likely will be wed once Lent is done.”
Isabel came to a sudden stop. Her eyes shifted from the Lady Hawisa, soon to marry a man not of her choosing, to the queen, held prisoner by her own husband for sixteen years, and then over to the Duchess of Brittany, another unwilling wife, in conversation now with a woman who asked only to be wed, the unfortunate French princess Alys, a bride-to-be who’d become a hostage instead. Isabel was too well bred to make a public display of affection, but she reached out, grasped her husband’s hand so t
ightly that he looked at her in surprise. “Oh, Will,” she whispered, “how lucky I am, how very lucky. . . .”
AS THEY EMERGED into the castle bailey, darkness was falling and clouds hid the moon. Clinging to Will’s arm, Isabel raised her skirts so they’d not trail in the mud, wrinkling her nose at the rank odor of horse manure. Riders were coming in and she and Will paused to watch, for the new arrivals were creating a stir. Men were running along the battlements, dogs were barking, and torches flaring. Isabel found herself staring at the lead rider. He was mounted astride a splendid grey stallion, and although his travel cloak was splattered with mud, she could see the material was a fine wool, dyed a deep shade of blue; his saddle was ornamented with ivory plates, the pommel and cantle decorated with gemstones, and his spurs shone like silver even in the encroaching shadows. As she watched, he pulled back his hood, revealing a handsome head of bright coppery hair, piercing grey eyes, and the whitest, cockiest smile Isabel had ever seen. As he swung from the saddle into a circle of light cast by the flaming torches, Isabel squeezed her husband’s arm. “You were right, Will. Only a blind man would not know he was looking at a king.”
ELEANOR’S CHAMBER was a cheerful scene. A harpist was playing for their pleasure as the women chatted and stitched, for even the highborn were not exempt from the needlework that was a woman’s lot. Denise de Deols was trading gossip with Isabel Marshal as they embroidered, and Eleanor’s attendants were occupied with an altar cloth intended as a gift for the castle chaplain. But not all of the women were engaged in such decorous activities. The Countess of Aumale was playing a tavern dice game with Eleanor’s granddaughter, Richenza, and Eleanor herself was flipping idly through a book on her lap, for sewing had always bored her. She was finding it difficult to concentrate, and finally set the book aside, getting to her feet. She was at once the focus of all eyes, and when she reached for her mantle, the other women started to rise, too.
She waved them back into their seats. She was in no mood for company, but she knew they’d consider it highly unseemly for a queen to venture out on her own. Eleanor had never given a fig for what other people thought. She’d learned many lessons, though, in those long years of confinement, one of which was that a wise woman picked her battles, and she relented at the last moment, allowing her granddaughter to accompany her.
She’d become quite fond of Richenza, who’d remained behind with her youngest brother when her father’s exile had ended and her parents returned to Germany. She was now eighteen, newly a bride, already displaying an independent streak that endeared her to Eleanor, who’d learned long ago that a woman without inner resources would not thrive in their world. Richenza’s name had been deemed too exotic for English or French ears and she’d been rechristened Matilda, but once her parents departed, she sought to reclaim her German name, clinging to it as a tangible remembrance of her former life. To most people, she was the Lady Matilda, future Countess of Perche, but to her indulgent family, she was once again Richenza. Even her husband proved willing to overlook the alien sound of her name, for while Richenza had not inherited her mother’s fair coloring—she had her father’s dark hair and eyes—she had been blessed in full measure with Tilda’s beauty.
Eleanor glanced at the girl from time to time as they crossed the bailey, drawing comfort from Richenza’s presence, for although she did not physically resemble her mother, she was still Tilda’s flesh-and-blood, evoking memories with the familiar tilt of her head, the sudden flash of dimples. She had Tilda’s tact, too, for she waited until they’d reached the castle gardens and were out of earshot of curious onlookers before voicing her concern.
“Grandame, forgive me if I am being intrusive. But you’ve seemed restless and out of sorts in these recent weeks. Would it help to talk about your worries?”
“No, child, but I bless you for your keen eye and your loving heart.”
Richenza revealed then how keen her eye really was. “Are you anxious about Uncle Richard’s safety in the Holy Land? I know I am.”
Eleanor regarded the girl in surprise. She hadn’t realized her granddaughter was so perceptive. “I have been melancholy of late,” she admitted, “but it will pass, Richenza. It always does.”
“God willing,” Richenza said softly. She wished that her grandmother was less guarded, for in sharing Eleanor’s sorrows, they could have shared hers, too. She still mourned her mother fiercely, and she suspected that Eleanor’s “melancholy” was a belated mourning for her own dead, all taken during last year’s fateful summer. A daughter dying in a foreign land. The woman who’d been her closest friend. And the husband who’d been partner, lover, enemy, and gaoler. Richenza had seen Henry and Eleanor together often enough to realize that theirs had been a complicated, volatile, and contradictory bond, one few others could understand. But to Richenza, it seemed quite natural that Eleanor could have rejoiced in the death that set her free while grieving for the man himself.
Eleanor reached out, stroking her granddaughter’s cheek. “You are very dear to me,” she said, adding briskly, “now I am going to speak with the castle chaplain about that altar cloth we’ve promised him. And you, my dearest, are going to bid your husband welcome.”
Following Eleanor’s gaze, Richenza saw that Jaufre had indeed ridden into the castle bailey, and a smile flitted across her lips, for she’d found marriage to her liking and when she offered up prayers for her uncle Richard, she prayed even more fervently that the Almighty would safeguard Jaufre, too, in that blood-soaked land where the Lord Christ had once walked. She waved to Jaufre before turning back to her grandmother. But Eleanor had gone.
ELEANOR HAD MENTIONED the altar cloth as a pretext, not wanting to continue the conversation. She had never found it easy to open her heart, especially to those of her own sex. She’d only had two female confidantes—her sister Petronilla and Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester. Petronilla had been dead for a number of years, but Maud’s loss was still raw, as she’d died barely six months ago. Glancing over her shoulder, Eleanor saw that Richenza was hastening to greet her husband. Turning away, she headed toward the chapel.
It was deserted at that hour and she found the stillness soothing. Pausing to dip her fingers in a holy water font reserved for clerics and the highborn—for even in church class differences were recognized—she moved up the nave. Kneeling before the altar, she offered prayers for lost loved ones. William, the first of her children to die, the image of that heartbreakingly tiny coffin still burned into her brain. Hal, the golden son, a wasted life. Geoffrey, called to God too soon. Tilda, a gentle soul surely spared the rigors of Purgatory. Maud, missed as much as Eleanor’s blood sister. And Harry, whose name had so often been both a caress and a curse. “Requiescat in pace,” she murmured and rose stiffly to her feet.
It had taken her by surprise, this quiet despondency. It was not dramatic or despairing, more like a low fever, but it had lingered in the weeks following the Christmas festivities. And because Eleanor the prisoner had mastered one skill that had often eluded Eleanor the queen and duchess—the art of introspection—she’d been giving some thought to this change in mood. Could Richenza be correct? Was it a mother’s anxiety that was fueling her unease?
There was justification for such fears, God knows. How many of the men who took the cross ever saw their homes again? Outremer had become a burial ground for thousands of foreign-born crusaders. And since she’d regained her freedom, she’d made a startling discovery about her eldest surviving son. Richard had won battlefield laurels at an early age, earning himself a well-deserved reputation for what their world most admired—military prowess. But his health was not as robust as his appearance would indicate; she’d learned that he was subject to recurrent attacks of quartan fever, contracted during one of his campaigns in the Limousin. And more men were killed by the noxious diseases and hellish heat of the Holy Land than by Saracen swords.
Or was it memories of last summer? So much had happened, so fast. On the day her husband had
drawn his last, tortured breath, she’d been a royal captive. By nightfall, she was the most powerful woman in Christendom, the one person who had the complete trust of England’s new king. The news of Maud’s death had reached her soon after Richard’s coronation; it had taken longer for word of Tilda’s death to come from Germany. But there’d been little time to mourn, for in those early weeks of Richard’s kingship, they’d been riding the whirlwind.
The more she thought about her flagging spirits, the more it made sense to her. She was grieving for the dead and fearing for the living, for the son who’d always been closest to her heart. And because she was a political being to the very marrow of her bones, she feared, too, for her duchy and their kingdom should evil befall Richard in the Holy Land. She’d have given a great deal if only she could have convinced him to abandon his quest, or at least delay it until he was firmly established upon his throne. But she knew that was a hope as easily extinguished as a candle’s flame. Richard would gladly sacrifice his life, if in so doing he could free Jerusalem from the infidels.
Eleanor leaned against the altar. “Ah, Harry,” she said softly, “if only Richard shared your sense of practicality. You were satisfied to be a king, not the savior of Christendom.”
“Madame.”
Eleanor spun around, her cheeks burning. She wasn’t easily flustered, but being caught talking to her dead husband was embarrassing. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the intruder. Constance of Brittany was once her daughter by marriage, but Eleanor regarded her now without warmth. “Lady Constance,” she said coolly as the younger woman dropped a rather perfunctory curtsy.
“My lady queen, may I speak with you?” Taking Eleanor’s consent for granted, Constance approached the altar. “I have come to ask a favor,” she said, although there was nothing of the supplicant in either her voice or her posture; Constance had learned at an early age to use pride as a shield. “It is my hope that you will speak with the king on my behalf. He claimed the custody of my daughter last autumn and sent her off to England despite the agreement I’d struck with his lord father. King Henry promised that he’d permit me to keep Aenor with me if I agreed to wed the Earl of Chester. I held to my side of the bargain, but now my daughter is gone and I’ve not seen her in nigh on six months. Where is the fairness in that?”