by Jude Chapman
Drake could read his king’s mood whatever the season, though he could never anticipate his cunning. The motives of kings were different from those of knights. Knights were called to action. Kings were called to a grander purpose. Drake said, “Whatever the king grants, I shall be grateful.”
“Bon. I will take you at your word.” He moved away, but the foxy grin remained. “A bride then. Matilda, the daughter of Comte Vulgrin of Angoulême.” Notes of approval filled the hall. Undeniably, this was a mark of distinction for a knight as young as Drake fitzAlan.
But Drake did not take it as so. He should have felt honored. He was not honored. He was mortified. He had other plans for his future. And other affections. He swallowed back dread along with the bitter taste of bile. “Matilda …?”
“—of Angoulême. She is a rare beauty, just now entering marriageable age. Her father died when she was but two. She has been my ward ever since.”
“I have never had the privilege, milord.”
“You shall. She is heiress to her father’s lands. I have long-standing disputes with her avaricious uncles, Ademar and Aimery. You are acquainted with them, Philippe?”
The king of France bowed acknowledgement.
“Through this alliance, Angoulême and Limousin shall come under my control and put an end to their defiance.”
“What if I do not wish …” Drake glimpsed back at his brother and saw in Stephen’s face the same expression Drake must have shown. Dread. “…to wed Matilda of Angoulême?”
“Not wish to wed so fair and noble a lady, and a virgin bride besides?” Wicked titters scattered in a wide circle. “Look to your master-at-arms William Marshal. In payment for so many years of faithful service to the late king and as well as to myself, he was given the incomparable Isabel of Clare, and merrily so. A team of twenty horses could not hold him back from the marriage bed.”
He elicited support from his mignons. The laughter was vulgar but subdued.
“Striguil and Pembroke in Wales and Leinster in Ireland are now loyal to the Crown. In similar fashion, the daughter of my sister Matilda was given in marriage to Geoffrey, son and heir of the comte of Perche, hence securing northeastern Maine against our neighbors to the east.” Richard smiled affably in Philippe’s direction.
Since every alliance was built to oppose the king of France and keep him in his place, Philippe was far from amused.
“Take your fellow knights as example,” Richard continued. “Sieur André de Chauvigny.” He gestured, and the red-headed knight stepped forward. “He has recently entered into holy matrimony with Denise de Déols. Possession of Châteauroux shall never again come into question.”
Another cogent look was sent in the direction of the king of France, whose scowl intensified.
“Let us also consider Sieur Baldwin de Béthune.” At the king’s signal, Chauvigny stepped back and Baldwin stepped forward. “Prior to his recent death, our father King Henry promised Béthune the selfsame heiress of Déols. But you see he is not disappointed. He knows I will find a suitable replacement for so valued a knight. And he will readily accept whatever lady I name. Will you not Béthune?”
Baldwin bowed and moved back.
“In same manner, Guillaume de Fors there will soon wed Hawisa, the comtesse of umale and lady of Holderness, becoming comte and lord in his own right. As you shall become comte of Angoulême, a more than worthy title. For the love of his king, Drake fitzAlan can do no less than his compères.”
Had Richard chosen to look, he would have seen stubbornness etched in Drake’s seawater eyes. The king chose not to look, no doubt because he knew what lay there.
“Unless he is so taken with the daughter of an alewife—whom he has not-so-secretly squired away in a Dreux inn—that he wishes to forsake king and duty.”
Drake squirmed inside his stiff court attire. The woad-blue surcote, fine linen blouse, and perse-colored hose were the epitome of courtly fashion, all chosen by the incomparable hand of Queen Eleanor. But the outward elegance was offset by mud-caked boots.
“Dreux, as if I need remind you, is not on Norman soil but within the royal demesne of France, which is why you installed her there, is it not? To better to protect her from the wrath of your king?” He bowed in Philippe’s direction. “Our noble guests notwithstanding ….”
“And not because it is more convenient than Rouen?” Drake was bound to pay for his impertinence. “As it is only ten miles distant … less … milord.”
The king’s stare withdrew, as did the king, choosing instead to roam the great hall as a jester upon a stage, eliciting response from his court and drawing upon all manner of dramatic expression to drive home his point at the end of an imaginary sword. “What name does she go by?” The king’s chancellor Guillaume de Longchamp whispered into his ear. “That is it. Aveline of Winchester. A woman known to dispense favors a half-night a throw.”
“A damnable lie!”
To which all of the king’s men save two shifted their stances and readied their sword hands, the jangle of steel ringing against the walls.
Ignoring the young knight’s insolence, Richard paced before his unoccupied throne, adorned with a banner of three golden lions rampant on a field of red. “Must you crawl into her bed at every possible excuse? Could you not instead satiate your loins with the vigorous ride of a worthy horse? And must you debase yourself so, Drake fitzAlan, that you use the castoff of your brother?”
Drake braced his spine. Whatever moisture was left in his mouth evaporated. From every corner, faces stared hostilely at both brothers.
Richard had not finished. After resuming his throne with a regal flourish, he baited, “Aveline of Winchester. No less than a whore who has borne Stephen fitzAlan a brat he refuses to acknowledge. Bastard begetting bastard.”
Drake glanced back at his brother, who wore a demeanor of similar vehemence. In the working clutch of their left hands, twin rings sparkled. Gifts from their father when the youths were dubbed knights in Winchester Cathedral not seven months ago, the matching almandine cabochons signified a special bond between Drake and Stephen. Born within three breaths of each other on a black moon a little more than twenty-one years ago, they were not only brothers but also identical twins.
As one, and without so much as a single breath separating thought from action, they reached for the pommels of their swords. The blades of forged Poitou steel, one damascened with a fire-eating dragon and the other with a rampant lion, had been bestowed upon them by Richard himself on the occasion of their knighthood.
The same Richard who shot up, wrath distorting his handsome features. “Stand off the pair of you! This is the king’s court and not a brothel!”
His fingers stroking the silver-and-gold-gilt haft, Drake locked his eyes onto the king’s fierce demeanor. And removed his hand. Stephen reluctantly followed suit.
“Now go! And think over the offer made of an unblemished gentlewoman of noble parentage. For as long as I am king, you will join your hand … and other parts … with hers. Or you will be dead, as God is my witness!” And with a brush of his hand, Richard dismissed them.
Together, like doors constructed from the same oak tree, the brothers backed away.
Chapter 2
RICHARD AND PHILIPPE adjourned to the outdoors where pavilions had been erected, and food and drink had been set up for a feast to end all feasts.
With a wary eye, Stephen took leave of his brother. Not relishing the backslaps or condescending stares he was bound to receive upon leaving the great hall, Drake lingered.
Queen Eleanor awaited her grandnephew at the portal. “You are not attending the festivities?” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I am of the same mind. If you would, dear nephew ….” Hooking her hand around his arm, she allowed him to escort her to the royal apartments, chatting to him the distance about the weather, the price of wine, the dearth of troubadours at this season, and the shipment delays of quality silk.
“You know, of course, cher Drake
, that my dear husband Henry cornered the silk market, procuring ells upon ells to content only me. The silk did not content me. It made me restless. Were it not for the silk, I probably would not have driven my sons to rebellion. You see, it was the silk, as foolish as it seems, that made me resent more than ever the king’s lack of attentiveness.”
She laughed without bitterness and continued speaking of frivolous or perhaps not so frivolous matters until they reached her private audience chamber. Bidding Drake to a nearby couch, she settled herself on a favorite chair. The queen’s maid Amaria brought wine, sweetmeats, and a dainty black cat for the queen’s counterpane. Eleanor idly stroked the sleek cat, which immediately curled into a tight ball and purred beneath her fingers.
Ceaselessly energetic, startlingly beautiful even in her advancing years, and skillfully shrewd, Eleanor of Aquitaine had witnessed nearly sixty-eight years of life. The wimple that shrouded her presumably white hair and wrinkled neck intensified the youthful aura of her peaceful countenance. Her chatter went on as before, but if Drake knew anything about Queen Eleanor, he knew the idle talk was but prelude to a grander purpose. She arranged and rearranged the skirts of her gown, a subdued color that flattered her bleached complexion, and folded and refolded the counterpane, alternately scolding and praising Loki, so named after the Norse god who gladly created discord among his fellow gods.
“And so, mon cher, how is your nubile one? How is your daughter of an alewife? Holding up under open obscurity?” Her smile was devilish. “Drake, oh Drake, you are wonderfully refreshing, and bold may I add, to defend your ladylove’s honor with so noble a display.” She spoke and had been speaking in the language she used when in familiar company—the lenga d’oc—the poetic cadences of the south.
“Will I be hanged at dawn?” he asked in the same language.
“No, no, you misread your king. You misread me.” She repositioned the cat and offered it a crumb. “Who am I to judge the condition of a man’s heart? I could not fathom Henry’s, whom I knew best of all men. Therefore, I cannot speak of yours. And even though I fed the fires of fin’amor all those years ago in my court at Poitiers, I am no expert on love. Witness my first husband, who annulled our marriage after two daughters and no sons, which if truth were known, was no fault of mine. Do you understand? Ah, I see that you do. Witness my second husband who owned a lust that could not be satisfied. Not by me or his Rosamund, Bellebelle, Ykenai, or countless other mistresses who shall remain nameless. When he forsook me, I sought love the only way left, not from other lovers but from my sons. And my reward? Confinement for the prime years of my life and estrangement from those very sons. Now witness a woman who believes in fin’amor—fine love … courtly love—but has never tasted its admirable flavor. Is it not ironic? Is it not the way of God. He mocks while we pretend.”
Amaria returned to refill their silvern goblets and discreetly withdrew.
“No, Richard is not angry. He is amused. You reacted beyond all expectations. You and Stephen both. My congratulations.” Her sky-blue eyes sparkled with adulation. “Reason rules your king’s madness. Bethink that, and you will soon glean that whatever he says and however he acts, neither reflects the substance of his mind.”
“Then he does not wish me to marry Matilda of Angoulême?”
“Of that there is no doubt. But heed this, dear Drake. There is a lesson in God’s mockery, and in Richard’s. Both tell us that passion thrives on the one hand and duty on the other, and one condition must not be confused with the exigencies of the other. As long as you remember this, nothing is to be feared, from God or from Richard.” Without so much as a breath to intersperse one thought from the next, she said, “John convinced the king he will need his support in England during his long absence.”
And so it was revealed, the second reason Eleanor waylaid him.
“Richard has released his brother from his oath to not set foot on English soil for three years. In its place, John has sworn a new oath, that he will faithfully serve Richard in all manner and propriety, keeping only the king’s will in mind.” She took a sip of her wine and set the chalice on a nearby table. “You are my great-nephew, the grandson of my dear brother Joscelin, whom I adored with all my heart. You may speak.”
Drake silently considered the wine goblet clutched in his hand.
The queen read his mind. “You are thinking that John had a hand in your troubles summer last. And that he is but a child with much to learn.”
“Not a child. A spoilt brat who covets his brother’s playthings.”
“Already he has many of the king’s playthings. Castles all across England.”
“Aye,” Drake agreed. “But he wants more. He wants the crown of England, and he will not be content until he gets it.”
“He will never get it. Soon Richard will name his successor. In his nephew.”
“Arthur of Bretagne? He is but an infant. And John—”
“—is most disappointed. More. He is seething with rage. Though you will never see it in his demeanor. Or his words. But in his acts? Ah, that is a different beast altogether.”
Drake set his cup aside. “And so you whispered in the king’s ear.”
“Mon cher, already you are learning. Yes, I must confess, I had something to do with the turn of events. It is the only prudent course. I am an old woman. Guillaume de Longchamp fights with Hugh de Puiset over control of Merrie England. Ranulf de Glanville, who had a level head when it came to governing the savage English, is now banished to the Holy Land for having been my gaoler amongst other shortcomings. And Richard’s successor is but a child of two. All in all, not the best state of affairs.” She considered Drake with a sidelong glance. “You are thinking the lion has let the rabid dog out of its cage. But perhaps it is more prudent to let him roam free, even if wild, than to chain him inside where he can only grow more vicious. He will need a leash, this dog. I will be that leash.”
Drake was sure no one, not even the indomitable Eleanor of Aquitaine, could restrain John, comte of Mortaigne.
“Speaking of rabid dogs, you took note of Alais’ assertion about a cloven-hoofed imp playing havoc among we mortals.”
“Her claim was not fancy?”
“Far from it. One might readily attribute the attempts to accidents if they hadn’t numbered more than two or been so closely spaced. A dog dying from the poisoning of a platter of food meant for the king. A viperous snake finding its way into the king’s bed. A burr lodged beneath the saddle of the king’s mount. These incidents, if we may call them such without censure, are only slightly less engaging than the sirventès the king’s troubadours sing.”
“When did they first begin?”
“It’s a little embarrassing.” She hesitated saying soon admitted, “A fortnight since.”
“When we sailed from Dover? To join Richard?” The king had been in Normandy since December. At the end of February, he summoned his family from England. Among others, the entourage included the queen, the queen’s court, the comte of Mortaigne, the archbishop of York, and two young knights hailing from Winchester.
“Even so,” Eleanor said, “he must be flushed out, this mischief-maker. But I will say without reservation, the assassin is not John, though naturally that is your first inclination.”
Skeptical as he was, Drake was not about to engage John’s mother.
“You take me aback, my dear Drake. You have become a man. Been tempered. Perhaps by the sword sliced across your back by my youngest offspring. By the bye, how is your wound?”
“Healed.”
“Completely?”
“By a small miracle and God’s grace.”
“Methinks God had a smaller hand than the hand of your physician.”
As with all of Drake’s recent injuries, Aveline had applied her healing touch. Upon her arrival in Canterbury, having been escorted posthaste by one of her brawny brothers and Lord fitzAlan, and immediately insinuating herself in the inn, much to the consternation of the king’s surgeo
n and his noxious fisyks, bloodletting, and cauteries, the daughter of an alewife applied silk thread, balms, ointments, and a loving hand to her patient, along with broths, cajoling, and midnight ministrations. Soon Drake was whipped into shape. Naturally, the surgeon took credit, and Drake did nothing to dispel the notion. Until now.
“My father took charge.”
“How so?”
“By dismissing the king’s surgeon.”
“Ah.” The twinkle in her eyes brightened. “And installing a physician of his own choice? From Winchester, I presume.”
“It goes without saying.”
“He must be skilled, this unnamed physician.”
“More than you know.”
“All I can counsel is this. Be vigilant that the source of your renewed health doesn’t go to your head or capture your heart.”
Drake lifted his eyes to the queen’s direct gaze. “And the reason Richard singled Stephen and me out for open ridicule …?”
“To draw the assassin to you, of course.”
His mind reeled. “Do you mean …?”
“I do.”
“Drake fitzAlan is the last man John would approach as an ally.”
“If it were John. But it isn’t. Of that, I am certain.” Eleanor released the cat. “And now, I need your arm once more.”
Drake sent her a winning smile. “Domna, per vostr’ amor, jonh las mas et ador!”
“You have a way with words, mon cher.”
“They are not mine, as you well know.”
She nodded, remembering glory days. “Bernart de Ventadorn, the son of a kitchen maid and her master, or so the story goes. Bernart loved me well, and expressed it in song as any worthy suitor ought.”
While they strolled to the portal, the queen dowager silently savored the words: Lady, for your love, I join my hands and adore you ….
“This I have learned,” she said. “A goshawk does not mate with a falcon, no matter how beautiful the falcon or how gallant the goshawk.” And thus with a smile, she saw him out, though behind the enlivened facade lay regret. For her lost years, her lost youth, and bygone days.
