Henry did not think that was a good idea; he’d heard some of the names that Joanna bestowed upon her pets. But he found it almost impossible to deny her anything these days; she’d become even more precious now that he was so close to losing her. “If you insist, lass,” he said, making an effort to swallow his anger. “Do not embarrass him, though, by giving him a name better suited to a mare.”
“Horses are not embarrassed…are they?” Momentarily distracted, she pondered that for a moment. “You are just teasing me. Papa…did you speak with Maman yet about becoming the abbess of Fontevrault?”
“I did, Joanna. She refused the offer.”
Willem blinked; he hadn’t known that Henry had discussed this with his daughter. But when he saw the look of disappointment that crossed her face, he understood. That was shrewd, he thought, getting the lass on Harry’s side. It was to be expected that she’d like the idea. From a child’s perspective, it must seem like the perfect solution. Her mother would no longer be a prisoner; instead would rule an important abbey. It would have to be easier for the girl to leave England for her new life in Sicily if she could believe that her mother was beginning a new life, too.
“I’ll talk to her,” Joanna said. “Mayhap I can get her to change her mind…” She frowned, lost in thought, and then smiled. “I know who could persuade her, Papa! Hal could.”
“Hal is most likely in Normandy by now,” Henry reminded her, but she was shaking her head.
“No, he is still at Porchester. I heard men talking in the hall at dinner. They said the winds were still blowing the wrong way, allowing ships to sail from Normandy but keeping Porchester’s ships in port. Hal is very unhappy with Maman’s confinement. I think it would ease his mind greatly if she became the abbess. And he can be most convincing when he wants to be, Papa.”
Willem stayed silent, curious to see how Henry got out of the trap. But to his surprise, Henry seemed to be giving it consideration, telling Joanna that she might be right. He restrained himself until after the little girl had gotten bored and wandered off, and then said, “Are you serious about summoning Hal back to talk to the queen?”
“It is not a bad notion,” Henry conceded. “I cannot keep them apart forever, however much I’d like to, Willem. He has asked me twice if he may visit her, and sooner or later I must agree or he’ll not forgive me. Jesu, how that lad can cherish a grievance! And I think Joanna is right. He probably would favor the idea.”
“Yes,” Willem said, “he probably would.” Leaving unsaid the rest of his thought: that Hal was always one for the easy way. He’d likely be relieved if he did not have to fret about his mother’s welfare. He glanced at Henry as the other man reached for a brush and began to curry his horse, wondering if he’d also seen that flaw in his son’s character. Most likely he had; that would explain why he so often watched Hal with such troubled eyes.
By the first Saturday in April, Winchester was overflowing with highborn guests, barons and princes of the Church come to pay honor to their king and the King of Kings upon the solemn festival of Easter. With the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishops of Winchester, Exeter, Bath, and Ely present, the castle cooks were already anticipating the end of Lent, planning the great feast they would serve the king and his guests once Eastertide began.
Henry was enjoying a frank political discussion with the Bishops of Ely and Bath, for he need not weigh his words with either man; Geoffrey Ridel and Reginald Fitz Jocelin had been his agents before being rewarded for their loyalty with mitres. From the corner of his eye, he saw that his daughter had sidled up onto the dais and seated herself in his high-backed chair, obviously practicing for the day when she, too, would wear a crown, and he felt a surge of affectionate pride soured by anxiety. Ten suddenly seemed such a tender age, and Sicily at the back of beyond. Seeing the direction of his gaze, the bishops smiled, willing to indulge the father until the king turned his attention back to them. It was then that the steward hastened into the hall, headed straight for Henry.
“My liege, the young king has just ridden in,” he announced. He hesitated then, and decided to let Lord Hal be the one to tell him the rest of the news, for he suspected the king would not be pleased; this development could only complicate his tenuous truce with the queen.
Hal had never learned the royal skill of dissembling in public, and as he strode into the hall, he seemed to trail storm clouds in his wake. Henry had known he’d be disgruntled at being summoned back to Winchester like this, for he’d fear that his Normandy jaunt was imperiled. He knew, too, that once Hal learned the reason for his return, he’d be flattered that his father had sought his aid and delighted to see his mother. But as he looked at his son’s handsome, sullen face, Henry could not suppress a sigh. Why did he have to work so hard to keep the lad in a good humor? As a boy, Hal had been sunny-natured and full of fun, given to pranks but not tantrums. How had he changed so much in such a few short years?
“My lord king,” Hal said, giving a formal salutation appropriate to their distinguished audience. But then Joanna squeezed through the encircling guests to greet him with a pert “Brother, you’re back!” Hal abandoned protocol and gathered her into a fond embrace; Joanna’s brothers had always vied with one another to see who could spoil her the most.
“Where is Marguerite?” Henry asked, coming forward to welcome his son.
“She stayed behind at Porchester. That made more sense, as I assumed I would not be long at Winchester,” Hal said, delivering a veiled warning as well as an explanation, letting his father know that he was still set upon departing England. “You once told me you were stranded at Barfleur for six weeks, awaiting favorable winds, my lord father. I do not know how you endured the wait; we’ve been bored unto death in Porchester!”
“You’ll want to send for her,” Joanna predicted, “when you hear the reason for your return. We have a special surprise for you!”
“Do you now, imp?” Hal grinned down at his little sister. “As it happens, I have a surprise, too. Guess who landed yesterday at Southampton?”
Henry felt a sudden premonition. Before he could confirm his suspicions, the door banged open and his sons Richard and Geoffrey entered the hall. They started toward him, looking far more pleased to be at Winchester than Hal. But Joanna was faster. With a gleeful cry of “Richard!” she met him in mid-hall. Henry could only watch as the scene played itself out to its inevitable conclusion.
“Maman is here!” Joanna gasped, so excited she was almost hyperventilating. “Here in Winchester!”
Hal looked dumbfounded, Geoffrey no less surprised. Richard grasped Joanna’s arm, demanding, “Where? Show me!”
“Come on,” she said, and they headed for the door. Hal and Geoffrey caught up with them in a few strides. Acutely aware of the utter silence in the hall, Henry followed after them, halting in the doorway. Richard and Hal and Joanna were strung out across the bailey, running as if their very lives depended upon speed. Geoffrey trailed in the rear, his a more measured pace. And as he watched them, Henry could hear again, with haunting clarity, his wife’s bitter taunt. You’ve already lost what you value almost as much as your kingdom. You’ve lost your sons.
C HAPTER T WENTY-THREE
April 1176
Winchester, England
In her girlhood, Eleanor had learned to play the harp, for that was considered a social requisite for young women of high birth. She had not continued with the lessons, though, and so she was quite pleased to learn that Amaria was an accomplished harpist. After a word to Joanna, a harp was delivered to her chamber, and she was watching intently as Amaria played a plaintive melody.
“Wait, let me see you play that chord again,” she said, for she’d determined to revive her rusty musical skills during this enforced idleness. Amaria was complying when the door was thrust open without warning and her sons burst into the chamber.
“Splendor of God,” she whispered, not believing her own senses until she was being embraced by Richard and then Hal,
then Richard again, as Geoffrey and Joanna waited impatiently for their turn, and Amaria, who had a secret sentimental vein she’d so far hidden from Eleanor, smiled through tears as she watched her lady’s reunion with her sons.
With the innocent self-absorption of the young, they’d asked few questions so far about their mother’s confinement. Instead, Richard and Hal were vying for her attention, each one seeking to impress her with his exploits and adventures in these past two years. Richard had the advantage here, for he had military deeds to brag about, and Hal had only accounts of forest court sessions and diplomatic missions, which even he would concede lacked the panache or verve of castle sieges and raids. That did not stop him from seeking to regain control of the conversation every time Richard paused for breath. Joanna was just as rapt an audience as Eleanor, but Amaria noticed that Geoffrey had soon stopped competing with his brothers and was slouched in the window-seat, conceding them center stage.
Feeling Amaria’s gaze upon him, he smiled and said softly, “Rather like watching two dogs fighting over a bone, no?” That so eerily echoed her own thoughts that she gave him a surprised smile, although later she would think the comment was too cynical for a lad of seventeen.
Richard was dwelling again upon his triumph at Castillon, assuring his mother that “Arnald de Bonville sang a very different tune the day he surrendered than when the siege began. He’d claimed it could hold out till Judgment Day, but that came much sooner than he’d expected!”
Hal heaved an audible sigh, and shifted in his seat, stretching his legs out so Joanna could lean against him. He wondered how long his brother was going to hold forth about the capture of one paltry castle; he made it sound like the most significant military accomplishment since the days of Caesar. He suddenly remembered, then, that he had news of a sensational nature to share, news Richard wasn’t likely to have heard yet, and he wasted no time in cutting Richard off in mid-sentence.
“I have astonishing news, Maman, concerning that Clifford harlot. She has withdrawn from court and our father’s bed and entered the nunnery at Godstow!”
As he’d hoped, that ended any interest in his younger brother’s boasting. They were all staring at him, exclaiming in surprise; even Richard looked interested in this dramatic revelation.
“Are you sure, Hal?” Eleanor asked doubtfully, for that did not seem very likely to her.
“I swear it is so, Maman. Last month Papa escorted her from his manor at Woodstock to Godstow, where he made a generous contribution to the nunnery. It has been the talk of the court ever since. No one seems to know why, though. Some think Papa was growing tired of her, others that she was ailing. I’ve heard people insist that she was stricken with guilt and wanted to repent for sinning as Papa’s concubine. But I’ve also heard it claimed that she is with child, and hopes to have the babe in secret. The truth is that no one knows the real reason, for no one has been brave enough to ask our father. And yes,” he conceded with a wry grin, “that includes me, too!”
“Has she taken vows?” And when Hal admitted he did not know, Eleanor fell silent to ponder this amazing bit of news. She did not have any great animosity toward the girl, for she knew how beguiling her husband could be when he put his mind to it. She knew, too, that it would be no easy thing to refuse the king. Her anger had always been aimed more at Henry than Rosamund, not for the infidelity itself but for the emotional attachment that she’d seen as a betrayal far more than any sins of the flesh. It was then that she remembered the strange way he’d reacted to her barb about Rosamund earlier in the week. Whatever the reason for Rosamund’s nunnery retreat, it was not because Harry had tired of her. A man does not grieve for a woman who no longer holds his affections.
Just then a timid knock announced a servant with a message for the “young lords.” He’d been sent by the steward, he explained, to remind them that the hour was growing short and the Easter Eve feast was soon to start. Eleanor’s sons rose reluctantly, surprised when she remained seated. It was left to Joanna to tell them that she’d been eating her meals here in her own chamber, not in the hall with their highborn guests.
“That is absurd!” Hal said indignantly, as Richard snatched up his mother’s mantle and held it out. Eleanor took it without hesitation, and then linked her arm in Hal’s as he made a gallant’s bow. Richard glowered at Hal, but recovered quickly and made Joanna laugh when he asked for the honor of escorting her in the exaggerated, courtly style made popular by jongleurs and troubadours. That left Geoffrey to offer his arm to Amaria, which he did with that quick smile of secret amusement.
Amaria was nervous, though, as they emerged into the bailey and headed for the great hall. She’d heard so many stories of the king’s notorious tempers, had no wish to witness one firsthand. The odd intimacy of their circumstances had encouraged a bonding that would not normally take place between a queen and her attendants. In the few months since she’d entered Eleanor’s service, Amaria had come to see them as allies, even friends, and she had no desire to return to the Welsh court of the discontented Lady Emma and her unscrupulous braggart of a husband. But it occurred to her that King Henry might well look around for safer targets for his rage, turn upon her the fury he could not turn upon his queen.
Catching the hesitation in her step, Geoffrey gave her a curious glance, and she decided to take him into her confidence, saying quietly, “My lord, we both know the king will like it not when the queen enters with the young king. Do you think he will react with anger or make a scene?”
“No, Dame Amaria, I do not,” Geoffrey said at once. “Most likely he suspects this will happen. But even if he is truly taken by surprise, he will save face by acting as if this were planned. To do otherwise would be to admit before all his bishops and barons that my mother outwitted him.” He seemed to read her mind then, for he added, “Nor will he dismiss you in disgrace. In fairness to him, he has never been one to chase after scapegoats, prefers to hunt more challenging quarry.”
“You’ve eased my mind, kind sir,” Amaria said playfully, and hoped that he knew his father better than Henry seemed to know his sons.
Their arrival stopped all conversation, created just the sort of commotion that they’d hoped it would. As the highborn guests forgot their dignity and crowded closer to gape at Henry’s rebel queen, Henry himself seemed to take Eleanor’s dramatic appearance in stride, and came down the steps of the dais to meet her.
“Madame,” he said composedly, kissing her hand and then taking her arm to escort her to the high table. Eleanor played her part with no less aplomb, pausing to acknowledge the greetings of her husband’s guests as they made their way toward the dais. Henry’s self-control never faltered, but the arm she held was as hard and unyielding as granite. Once she was seated beside him, she did her best to hide her jubilation behind a demure demeanor. But after their wineglasses had been filled, she could not resist a gentle gibe.
Raising her cup, she favored Henry with her most loving smile, as she murmured, “I trust I’ve no need of a food taster?”
The smile he gave her in return was not in the least loving. “Poison is your weapon of choice, not mine, Madame,” he shot back, just as softly. “Though it is true that you prefer to poison minds rather than wine.”
Her smile did not waver, and she clicked her cup lightly against his as all eyes in the hall fastened avidly upon them. But she had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d gotten the last word in that exchange.
The tavern was located in Goldstret in the goldsmiths’ quarter, close by St Clement’s Church. Richard had been waiting long enough for his simmering impatience to reach the boiling point. He was fidgeting restlessly, drumming his fingers on the scarred, wax-splattered table, waving away a serving maid who’d approached to see if he wanted more wine. Finally the door was shoved open and his brothers swaggered in. Geoffrey was accompanied only by a squire, but Hal had his usual entourage of household knights, and they made such a noisy entrance that all heads turned in their direction.<
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“What took you so long?” Richard demanded as soon as they approached his table. “I told you by Compline!”
“Blame Sir Bountiful here,” Geoffrey said, pointing his thumb at Hal. “He had to stop and give alms to every beggar within a half-mile of the castle, even chasing one across the street to press coins upon him.”
“Charity is a virtue,” Hal responded, jostling Geoffrey good-naturedly, “but then you’d not know much about virtues, would you?”
“Sit down,” Richard said quickly, before Geoffrey could retort in kind. “We need to talk.” Hal’s knights were milling about nearby, and he added, “Alone,” with a pointed glance toward the other men.
Hal dismissed them with an airy “You heard my little brother. Go off and debauch yourselves. I’ll pay for your wine, but not for your whores. There you’re on your own.” As they grinned and obeyed, he looked around at the other tavern patrons and said, “Ah, why not? I’ll buy drinks for everyone!”
His generosity won him enthusiastic cheers from all but his brothers and the tavern keeper. Richard saw Hal’s magnanimous gesture as shameless grandstanding, and Geoffrey laughed out loud at the look of horror on the tavern owner’s face. Pulling up a stool to the table, he said, “The poor sot knows he has a better chance of sprouting wings than collecting so much as a farthing.”
“That is not so,” Hal protested. “I always pay my debts…eventually.” He and Geoffrey both laughed, and looked vexed when Richard waved the serving maid away again.
“I did not ask you here to drink this swill. We need to talk about Fontevrault Abbey. Maman says that-”
“I already know all about it,” Hal interrupted, with a hint of smugness. “Papa told me last night.”
“Well, no one bothered to enlighten me,” Geoffrey said testily, “so suppose one of you lets me in on the secret.”
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