Devil's Brood

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

November 1173

Poitiers, Poitou

Madame, you are in grave peril. The English king’s army is poised like a dagger at the heart of Poitou. By week’s end, he could be at the very gates of the city and we will not be able to hold out against him.”

William de Maingot was Lord of Sugeres, brother by marriage of the powerful Geoffrey de Rancon, and one of Eleanor’s most trusted vassals. At the moment, though, she was hard pressed to be civil to the man. She expected such dramatic posturing from traveling players, not from one of her counselors. Nor was she impressed by his overwrought, portentous warning. Did he truly think she was unaware of her danger?

They’d all had their say by now-William de Maingot, Porteclie de Mauze, Guillaume de Parthenay, her steward, Herve le Panetier, and Sir Nicholas de Chauvigny, the head of her household knights. Only Saldebrueil had held his peace, knowing that she would never be bullied into making a decision. They were a pitifully small group, but this war of attrition had scattered her lords to the four winds. Her uncles were in Paris with her sons. Geoffrey de Rancon and the Count of Angouleme were making ready to defend their own lands from her husband’s routiers, as were the wily de Lusignan clan. Others, like the Viscount of Limoges, had deliberately stayed out of the fray, doubtless watching to see who’d prevail before committing themselves. Her inner circle was shrinking, as was her margin of safety.

“Madame, he is right,” Porteclie de Mauze exclaimed as soon as William de Maingot had stopped speaking. “Your husband has taken the castles of La Haye, Preuilly, and Champigny-”

“And your uncle’s castle at Faye Le Vineuse!” De Maingot made such a sweeping, theatrical gesture that he almost overturned his wine cup in Nicholas de Chauvigny’s lap; fortunately the knight had good reflexes and caught the cup just in time. Oblivious, de Maingot slammed his fist down upon the table. “He razed it to the ground, my lady, left nothing but smoldering ruins. We must be thankful that Raoul is in Paris. I would to God that you were, too, Madame! But it is not too late. There is still time to find safety at the French court.”

Eleanor said nothing. Nicholas de Chauvigny glanced in her direction, then scowled at de Maingot and Porteclie de Mauze. “I fear it is too late,” he said. “Better our lady should seek shelter with Geoffrey de Rancon at Taillebourg. It will not fall to the English king; there is no more formidable stronghold in all of Poitou.”

Both men began to argue with him, insisting Eleanor’s only chance lay in flight. She appeared to be listening, but it was a pose; her thoughts had begun to wander, for she knew how meaningless their argument was. Nicholas was right; she had waited too long. But she did not think Taillebourg was the sanctuary that Nicholas did. Yes, it was said to be impregnable, but she’d lost track of the impregnable castles taken by her husband over the years. Once he learned where she was-and he would, for she did not doubt his agents had her under surveillance-he would descend upon Taillebourg like the Wrath of God Almighty. Her chances were better on the back roads of Poitou. If she could slip undetected from Poitiers, she ought to be able to reach safety in French territory. It would be a stroke of incredibly bad luck to run into Harry’s men, and luck had always been on her side. But she did not want to flee. Not to the French court, never there.

“I will give you my decision on the morrow,” she said, pleasing no one, indifferent to their disapproval. They withdrew with obvious reluctance; only Saldebreuil de Sanzay dared to remain-as she’d known he would.

“I understand why you are loath to leave. Poitiers is your capital city, the very heartbeat of your realm. Yours has been a life in exile, my lady. Now that you’ve finally come home, it is only to be expected that you do not want to turn your back upon it.”

Eleanor turned, regarding him with the shadow of a smile. “You know me, Saldebreuil, mayhap too well. Scriptures say that the heart of kings should be unsearchable.”

“I know, too, Madame, that more than love of your homeland holds you here. Pride binds you as tightly as any chains could.”

Her eyes narrowed, taking on a warning glint of green. “Choose your words with care, my old friend. Even you can misspeak.”

“By speaking the truth?” he asked gently, and she was the first to look away, unable to deny the abiding affection in that quiet query. “I understand why you do not want to seek refuge at the French king’s court. Louis will make you welcome, and his smile will be so smug that you might well choke on it. It will be no easy thing to ask for his protection; I know that. But you must ask yourself what you have greater cause to fear: Louis Capet’s condescension or Harry Fitz Empress’s wrath.”

Eleanor did not reply. He had his answer, though, in the slumping of her shoulders, in her silence. “I will make the necessary arrangements for your departure,” he said, and if she could not bring herself to acquiesce, neither could she gainsay him. She did not move, listening to the familiar sound of his footsteps as he limped toward the door. Only after he’d gone did she sit down wearily upon the closest coffer.

“Damn you, Harry,” she whispered, “and damn you, Louis. Damn you both to Hell Everlasting.”

Constance had begun to drum her fingers on the table, but it did nothing to stir Alys into action. She continued to stare down at the chessboard, her brow furrowing. When she finally reached out, Constance gave an exasperated sigh. “You cannot do that, Alys. A queen can only move diagonally.”

Alys was unfazed by her error. “Sorry,” she said, pulling her queen back. “I forgot. I’d rather play queek or tables, anyway. Chess is boring.”

“Chess makes you think.” Since Constance believed that Alys thought as little as possible, she was not surprised that the other girl should find the game so unappealing. She kept the sarcasm to herself, though. She was only twelve, but she’d learned at an early age that candor was an indulgence she could ill afford.

Alys resumed her interminable study of the chessboard, and Constance sighed again. But the wait proved worth it, as Alys’s eventual move placed her queen in peril. Constance hid a smile, was making ready to pounce when the door opened and the flesh-and-blood queen entered.

Alys jumped up and ran to greet Eleanor. Fawning over her, Constance thought tartly, as she rose and dropped a perfunctory curtsy. Eleanor came forward into the chamber, her gaze sweeping past the girls to search the shadows. “I was hoping that Joanna would be here,” she said, sounding disappointed. “No one has been able to find her all afternoon. Do either of you know where she might have gone?”

Constance shook her head, but Alys was more helpful. “Try the gardens.”

“The gardens have already been searched.”

Alys smiled. “Did they search the yew tree? Joanna likes to climb into it and hide from the world.”

Eleanor smiled, too, for she’d climbed her share of trees in her own childhood. Constance watched in disapproval as she thanked Alys and departed. Alys reclaimed her seat at the chessboard, then glanced up and saw the other girl’s face. “What? Why are you glaring at me like that?”

“Why did you give away Joanna’s secret hideaway?”

Alys looked at the other girl in surprise. “Since when are you such friends with Joanna? You always say she is a pest, too young to bother with.”

Constance shrugged. Adults were the enemy, and children had so little power that their secrets were to be safeguarded at all costs. But she did not expect Alys to understand that. “It is my move,” she said, and captured Alys’s queen.

Alys did not seem to notice. She was regarding Constance with curiosity. “You do not like the queen, do you?” she said unexpectedly. “Why not? She’s always been kind to you.”

Constance’s temper flared and she had to bite her lip to keep the angry words from escaping. Kind? Only a fool like Alys would think she should be grateful to the people who’d stolen her birthright. Eleanor’s whoreson husband had made a puppet of her father, Duke Conan, then forced Conan to abdicate in her favor so she could be betrothed to his son Geoffrey. They meant to make Brittany an Angevin fief, staking their claims in her marriage bed. There was nothing she could do about it, but by the Rood, she did not have to like it.

Alys was still staring at her. “You do not like any of them, do you?” When Constance did not reply, she smiled. “Such a pity then, that you must marry Geoffrey, is it not?”

Constance stared back, for there was unmistakable malice in the other girl’s sugared sympathy, and she suddenly realized that Alys did not like her any more than she liked Alys.

A November garden was often a bleak place, but the Poitevin winter had been mild so far and there were still splashes of color, flowers still blooming in defiance of the season. Eleanor moved quietly along the pathway, one of her greyhounds trailing at her heels. The yew tree had been young when her grandfather had ruled in Poitou, and reached proudly toward the heavens; she had to tilt her head to see its top branches. Feeling a twinge of pride that her daughter dared to scale such heights, she gazed up into the cloud of evergreen and said, “Joanna? It is your mother. Climb down so we may talk.”

There was a moment of silence, and she began to doubt Alys’s information. But then Joanna’s head poked out, framed by lush greenery. She was twenty feet off the ground. She showed no unease, though, and nimbly scrambled down to lower branches, landing on her feet like a cat. Her coppery curls were dusted with needles and there was a dirt smear across her nose, another on her chin. Her eyes looked very green in the fading light as they searched her mother’s face. “Am I in trouble, Maman?”

Eleanor supposed she should be disciplined for risking broken bones and ripping her skirt, but she hadn’t the heart to scold the girl. Why should she be punished for having a boy’s spirit and daring? “No, lass. You do remember, though, that yew tree seeds are poisonous?”

“I know that,” Joanna said, and Eleanor stifled a smile, for that confident young voice could have been hers, forty years ago. Leading the child toward a nearby bench, she hesitated, for she’d been loath to have this conversation, had been putting it off as long as possible.

“I wanted to tell you, Joanna, that I will be going away for a while.”

“Where?”

“Paris.” Adding casually, “I want to see your brothers,” as if this would be a pleasure trip.

Joanna was not deceived, though. Keeping those green eyes on her mother’s face, she said, “You are running away from Papa.”

Eleanor was momentarily at a loss. She’d tried to shield Joanna from her involvement in the plot against Henry, warning servants and attendants and even Constance and Alys to guard their conversation in the child’s hearing. She’d known it was unrealistic to expect her daughter to remain in ignorance, but she’d been stung by Maud’s accusations that she’d turned their sons against Henry, and was determined that no such accusation could be made about Joanna. But even before she saw the reproach in Joanna’s eyes, she knew she’d made the wrong decision.

“I am sorry, Joanna, for trying to keep the truth from you. I ought to have been candid with you from the first, but you are so young-”

“I am eight now, Maman!”

“Yes, you are. But I know you love your father, and I did not want you to feel that you had to choose between us. You are very dear to us both, and nothing will change that.”

“I know Hal and Richard have been unhappy with Papa for a long time. Richard says he never listens, that he is as stubborn as a balky mule.” Joanna ducked her head, staring down at her lap, and Eleanor resisted the impulse to brush the yew needles from her hair. “So you…you took their side, Maman?”

“Yes, Joanna, I did. But your father has led an army into Poitou, and my council has advised me to leave Poitiers for now.”

The girl looked up, then. “Would Papa hurt you?” She met Eleanor’s eyes steadily, but there was a quaver in her voice, and Eleanor reached out, covered her daughter’s hand with her own.

“No, he would not,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But he is very angry with me because I supported our sons in their quarrel, and I prefer not to have a confrontation just yet. We think it is for the best that I join your brothers in Paris. But I do not expect to be gone for long. I will be back here ere you know it, lass.”

Joanna had a disconcertingly direct gaze. “What will happen after that?”

“I expect that the French king and your brothers will prevail and your father will come to terms with them.” Eleanor studied Joanna closely, unable to tell if she believed it. But, then, Eleanor was not sure if she believed it herself.

“ Well?” Eleanor asked. “What do you think?” She turned in a circle and Saldebreuil smiled at her transformation. She was dressed as a knight, complete with sword and scabbard, her hair pinned up under a cowled hood.

“I’d not have recognized you,” he assured her, thinking that she still had very shapely legs, revealed now in close-fitting bright blue hose.

Eleanor was looking admiringly at her soft leather ankle boots. “We had trouble finding a man’s boots small enough to fit my feet until I tried on an old pair of Geoffrey’s.” She liked the freedom of her new clothes. It was much easier to move unhampered by long skirts. She would have to get used to the unaccustomed heft of the sword at her hip, but she would be spared the weight of chain mail since most knights did not wear their hauberks while on the road.

Saldebreuil’s smile had faded and his dark eyes were somber. Trying to reassure him, she evoked a smile of her own, saying playfully, “I think I make a rather handsome man, do I not? And this ought to be a foolproof way to sneak out of the city undetected by Harry’s spies. They’ll never expect me to don male disguise, after all.”

“Indeed not,” he affirmed, striving to sound hearty and confident. He did think her ruse would enable her to escape her husband’s agents. He wished she would have more men with her, though. They’d decided that it would be better to travel with a small escort in order to pass as ordinary travelers, and he agreed that made sense. But he would not be going with her, as his joint evil had flared up again, making riding painful, and he knew he would worry and fret until he received word of her safe arrival in Paris.

Eleanor picked up a mirror to check her camouflage one last time. Satisfied, she turned back to him with a smile, and he said softly, “Go with God, Madame.”

They looked at each other and then Eleanor said, “Propriety be damned” and gave him a quick hug before heading for the door. Saldebreuil went to the window, thrusting open the shutters. The dawn sky was the shade of soft pearl, a few night stars still glimmering to the west. The air was chill but dry; it would be a good day for travel. Eleanor’s escort was below in the bailey, waiting for her. She soon emerged, pausing to give her palfrey an affectionate pat on the nose before using a horse block to swing into the saddle. Glancing up toward the window, she gave Saldebreuil a jaunty wave. He waved back, but with a sense of foreboding, and he remained at his post long after she’d ridden out. His vigil had begun.

Eleanor was accompanied by Nicholas de Chauvigny and two of her household knights. The rest of her bodyguards were Porteclie de Mauze’s men, as he had claimed the honor of escorting her to Paris. Their pace was too swift for conversation, but Eleanor could see that they were nervous, casting frequent glances over their shoulders, measuring the progress of the sun on its westward arc, swiveling their heads at every rustling in the underbrush. She did not share their unease, confident that the greatest danger was already past. Once they’d evaded her husband’s spies and slipped out of Poitiers, the odds were very much in her favor that she’d reach safety in French territory.

It was not the journey that troubled her; it was the destination. She loathed the very thought of being indebted to Louis, and she knew all too well how it would gratify him to give her refuge at his court. For she had no illusions about their dubious partnership. Hers were allies of expediency, and as eager as they’d been to join forces with the Duchess of Aquitaine, they were likely now to see her as a frightened woman fleeing her husband’s just rage.

By late afternoon, they were deep in Touraine. Eleanor’s men were showing signs of increasing strain, for this was a land congested with castles, most of them under Henry’s control, and these fortresses must be given a wide berth. Going downstream to avoid Bridore Castle, they forded the River Indre in late afternoon, and were soon swallowed up by the vast forest of Loches.

They were not far now from their destination, planning to pass the night at Sainte-Trinite de Grandmont Villiers, a small priory hidden away in the midst of Loches Forest. They’d chosen it for its isolation, but Eleanor derived a secret satisfaction from that choice, for the priory had been founded by Henry. He’d always favored the austere Order of Grandmont, a partiality Eleanor did not share. The Grandmontines scorned females as sinful daughters of Eve, reluctant even to allow them to enter their churches, and Eleanor took malicious amusement in the knowledge that she would be sheltering at this male sanctuary, outwitting both her husband and his women-hating monks.

As soon as they entered the woods, they lost the light. Although many trees had been stripped bare, a heavy growth of evergreens, brush, and entwined branches formed a canopy that the wan November sun could not penetrate, and they rode into an early dusk. The path was narrow and their horses’ hooves crunched upon a carpeting of brittle, brown leaves. Squirrels darted along overhanging boughs, and once they startled a fox as they rounded a bend in the road; they caught just a blur of red fur as it faded back into the shadows. Men were usually skittish about such dark forest trails, for many believed that demons, ghosts, and revenants lurked in the gloom, and all knew that outlaws did. But Eleanor’s knights welcomed the camouflage, feeling more vulnerable out on the king’s roads, knowing that Henry’s army was on the prowl. They were less enthusiastic about their stay at the Grandmontine priory, for the order was renowned for its asceticism and self-denial, even forbidding the possession of livestock, and the men knew that meant a meager meal awaited them.

Listening to their glum speculation about that paltry supper, Eleanor had to smile. She did not begrudge them their grumbling; both men had-like Nicholas-been in her service for years and had volunteered for this high-risk mission. The monks’ hospitality would likely be an even greater privation for her, accustomed as she was to the best their world had to offer, but she did not care if they were fed bread and water, wanting only to stretch out on a bed in the guest hall and ease her aching muscles. She’d ridden astride occasionally in the past, but never for such a lengthy journey, and although she would never have admitted it to Nicholas or Porteclie, she was very tired.

“God’s Legs!” Riding at Eleanor’s side, Porteclie de Mauze swore suddenly and then signaled for a halt. “My horse has gone lame,” he exclaimed. “What wretched luck, with us so close to the priory.” Swinging from the saddle, he began to examine his stallion’s right foreleg as the other men drew rein, milling about on the pathway until he told them to dismount. Suppressing a sigh, Eleanor slid from the saddle, too, not waiting for Nicholas’s assistance.

They’d stopped at a crossroads, another winding trail snaking off to their left. In a nearby copse of trees was a small thatched hut. Pointing it out to Eleanor, Nicholas said that a celebrated recluse dwelled there, an ancient known as Bernard the Hermit. He’d once earned his keep by guiding travelers through the forest, although he was now too old to venture far from his hut. But he was admired for his piety and godly way of life, and local people saw to it that he didn’t starve.

Eleanor glanced over at that shabby little hut, unable to comprehend why anyone of sound mind would deliberately choose to live like that, alone and impoverished. But when Nicholas started toward the cottage, she followed, welcoming a chance to walk off her stiffness. The door was ajar and after calling out politely, Nicholas pushed it open. He came back out almost at once. “There is no one inside,” he reported, sounding disappointed. “I hope he has not died.”

Porteclie was still examining his horse’s hoof, and Eleanor moved in his direction, with Nicholas trailing behind. It was then that her palfrey lifted his head, ears pricking, and snorted. Gerard, the elder of Eleanor’s knights, was listening, too, quickly giving the alert. “Riders are coming,” he warned, gesturing toward the second road that angled off toward the west.

They had not encountered many travelers on the road today; prudent people tried to keep to their own hearths during times of war. Eleanor tensed instinctively before common sense reasserted itself. Annoyed that she should be susceptible to such phantom fears, she nonetheless shifted so that she was half-hidden by her horse, for she knew that her disguise would not bear close inspection. Nicholas had tensed, too, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. As the riders approached, he glanced toward Porteclie, waiting for the older man to take charge. When Porteclie neither moved nor spoke, Nicholas shot him an aggrieved, reproachful look, and then stepped forward to greet them.

“Good morrow.” His stomach muscles tightened as he saw how badly outnumbered they were by these new arrivals, but he forced a cheerful smile, saying as blandly as he could, “A fine day for travel, no? Have you come far?”

“No, not far…from Loches.” The speaker was a dark-haired man in his early thirties, clad in a good wool mantle, with a quick smile and a relaxed manner. He looked eminently respectable and quite reassuring, but Nicholas’s queasy stomach lurched again, for Loches was one of Henry’s most formidable strongholds.

“I am Sir Yves des Roches.” Plucking the names out of the air, Nicholas half-turned so that he could glare at Porteclie, who should have been their spokesman. “This is my lord, Porteclie de Mauze. We’re on our way to the abbey at Cormery.”

The stranger’s eyes flicked toward Porteclie, but without interest. His gaze moving from face to face, he did not pause until he found Eleanor. She’d drawn her hood forward to shadow her face, careful to keep on the far side of her palfrey, but he did not hesitate. “Welcome to Touraine, Madame.” He doffed his cap in a deferential gesture that somehow seemed sincere despite the incongruity of the circumstances. “I am Sir Herve de Monbazon, the new provost of Loches. We have been awaiting your arrival since Nones rang, had begun to fear that you’d chosen another route.”

Shock rendered Eleanor speechless, and then she swung around to confront Porteclie. Even as her eyes swept from the hermit’s hut to his supposedly lame stallion, her heart was unwilling to accept what her head was telling her, for Porteclie de Mauze was one of her most steadfast barons, a distant cousin on her father’s side of the family. But as she looked into his face, she saw the ugly truth written in his ducked head, his averted eyes, and his silence.

“You Judas!” Nicholas had reached the same appalled conclusion and lunged for Porteclie’s throat. As they crashed to the ground, Eleanor’s two knights drew their swords, urging her to flee. When she’d been ambushed by the de Lusignans five years ago, William Marshal and his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, had done the same, offering up their lives for her safety. The earl had died and Will had been wounded and captured, but their blood had bought her the time she needed to escape. Now, though, there was nowhere to run, and even as she struggled with the enormity of this betrayal, she saw the futility of resistance.

“No!” she cried sharply. “I’ll have no bloodshed, will have no men dying in vain! Lower your swords-now!”

They hesitated and then slowly obeyed. Porteclie’s knights stood rooted, no one moving, not even to come to their lord’s aid. It was easy for Eleanor to tell which ones had been in the know and which had not, for the latter looked stunned and the former either grim or shame-faced. The provost had swiftly dismounted and ordered two of the men to separate Nicholas and Porteclie, who were rolling about in the dirt, locked in a death grip. When they were pulled apart, Porteclie stayed down, gulping for air, his throat scratched and bruised, already showing clear imprints of Nicholas’s clutching fingers. Nicholas was bleeding from a deep cut to his leg, slashed by one of Porteclie’s spurs. When Eleanor told him to surrender his sword, he looked at her in anguish, dark eyes glittering with blinked-back tears, but he did as she bade, offered his weapon to the provost before limping over to stand protectively at her side.

Herve de Monbazon passed Nicholas’s sword to one of his men. “If you will, Madame,” he said politely. It was a moment before she realized he wanted her own sword. Unbuckling the scabbard, she handed it to him. “Thank you. Now…may I help you to mount?” he asked, still so politely that she wanted to slap him. Did he think that his feigned courtesy could make this anything but what it was? He might act as if she was his queen, but she was his captive and they both knew it.

But if he could pretend that this was a perfectly ordinary encounter, then by God, so could she. “Be sure to bring my sumpter horse,” she said, in the brusque tones of one who never doubted her orders would be obeyed. “It carries my clothes.” When he cupped his hands, she stepped into them and swung up into the saddle, inclining her head in aloof acknowledgment of his help. When he ordered her men to be bound before they mounted their horses, she voiced no protest, knowing it would be futile. When he snapped a leather lead upon her palfrey’s bridle, she kept silent, staring straight ahead as if his action was of no interest to her. And when they rode off, she never looked back at Porteclie de Mauze, standing with his men by the side of the road.

Eleanor had never liked Loches Castle. Situated upon a rocky outcrop far above the River Indre, its stark, rectangular shape was silhouetted ominously against the evening sky. Made of grey-white freestone, it reminded her of the Tower of London’s great keep, and she’d never liked that stronghold either. Loches’s ancient donjon-more than one hundred twenty feet high, with walls nine feet thick, its few windows not much bigger than arrow slits-proclaimed that this was a wartime fortress, not a royal residence. It had been built by one of Henry’s more infamous ancestors, Fulk Nerra, in the eleventh century, and she’d found it to be utterly lacking in comfort during her infrequent visits. But if it had always seemed primitive to her, there was something almost sinister about it now, looming out of the darkness like some hulking beast of prey.

They entered the bailey through the Porte Royale gatehouse, were soon being ushered into the great hall that occupied the second story of the keep. Unlike the provost, the man standing by the smoking hearth was well known to Eleanor. Maurice de Craon was the same age as her husband. He was of average height like Henry, and like Henry, he gave the impression of being larger than he actually was, with a wrestler’s well-muscled build and stocky legs. Only in coloring did he differ from his sovereign, for he was as swarthy as Henry was fair. Eleanor’s heart sank at the sight of him, for Maurice de Craon was one of Henry’s intimates, a powerful Angevin baron and a battle commander of some note. His presence at Loches showed how important her capture was to her wrathful husband.

Raising her chin, she moved toward him with all the hauteur at her command. “My lord de Craon.”

“Madame.” If Eleanor’s voice had been coolly clipped, his dripped with icicles. His eyes were almost black; they took in her appearance with a disdain he did not bother to conceal. “I am surprised that Sir Herve was able to recognize you. You could hardly look less queenly, could you?”

When Nicholas bristled, Eleanor shook her head almost imperceptibly. “But I am the queen,” she said, “and you’d do well to remember that. One of my men has a wound in need of tending. I wish him to be seen by a doctor without delay.”

“Do you, indeed? Well…if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Turning, he gestured toward two of his men. “Take these prisoners down to the dungeon.” Adding “without delay,” with a mocking glance over his shoulder at Eleanor.

“I’d have thought you had better breeding than that, my lord. Only a churl would not know that men of Sir Nicholas’s rank are to be well treated until their ransoms can be arranged.”

“Ransom?” he echoed and laughed. “What a droll wit you have, Madame. But if you are so fretful about their well-being, mayhap you should join them in the dungeon so that you can look after them yourself.”

Eleanor caught her breath, quickly reached out to still Nicholas’s outraged protest. But it was easier to control Nicholas’s anger than her own temper, for she’d had little practice in biting back intemperate words. She opened her mouth to throw down a challenge that might well have gotten her incarcerated with her men. Before she could defy Maurice de Craon, though, Sir Herve de Monbazon stepped between them.

“May we have a few words in private, my lord?” he asked smoothly, favoring Maurice with the same disarming smile that he’d turned upon Eleanor. Maurice did not seem pleased by his intervention, but after a brief hesitation, he nodded and followed the provost toward the stairwell in the east wall.

Eleanor gave Nicholas a critical scrutiny, her eyes flicking from his pallid face to his bloodstained chausses and boot. “Come with me,” she said, taking his arm and steering him toward the closest bench. “You, too,” she directed her other knights, Gerard and Guyon. Once the three men were seated, she glanced around the hall, finding what she sought when she noticed a plate of bread and cheese on a nearby trestle table. Bringing it back to them, she directed Nicholas to hold out his bound wrists and cut the rope with the bread knife, then did the same for Gerard and Guyon. She was watched all the while by the other men in the hall, but while some of them murmured among themselves, none attempted to stop her, and whenever she met an individual’s gaze, he quickly looked away.

When the door opened, she stiffened warily, as did her knights. But the man emerging from the stairwell was not Maurice de Craon. The new arrival was an elderly priest, who stared at Eleanor with round eyes and open mouth. Like the others in the hall, he seemed hesitant, but after an irresolute moment, he gripped his cane firmly and hobbled toward her.

“Madame, you are truly here! Do you remember me?”

Like Henry, Eleanor had been blessed with a remarkable memory, and like him, she’d taken pains to cultivate the talent; for a prince, that was a survival skill. Now, as she studied the priest, it stood her in good stead. “Father Lucas,” she said and smiled. “Of course I remember you. You were very helpful when that baby was found abandoned on the Loches Road.”

Pleased color rose in his cheeks. “It was my pleasure to serve you, my lady.”

“I need your help again, Father Lucas. This is Sir Nicholas de Chauvigny, a knight of my household. As you can see, he has a leg injury that ought to be cleaned and treated as soon as possible. Will you take care of that for me?”

He did not answer immediately, casting a revealing glance over his shoulder toward the stairwell. But then he straightened his shoulders and nodded emphatically. “Indeed, I will, Madame.”

While he’d turned away to summon a servant, Eleanor snatched up the bread and cheese and passed it to her men. “Hide this in your tunics,” she said. “I rather doubt that Maurice de Craon will prove to be a generous, open-handed host.”

The priest was soon back with a basin of water and a small jar of ointment. Nicholas was scandalized when Eleanor reached for the salve, and insisted that he could clean the wound by himself. Amused in spite of herself by his outraged sense of decorum, Eleanor turned the task over to Gerard. The priest’s unease was becoming more and more apparent, his gaze straying often to the stairwell.

“Madame…” Lowering his voice until it was barely audible, he said hurriedly, “I was praying in the chapel, must have dosed off, for I was awakened of a sudden by voices. It was Lord Maurice and Sir Herve. I suppose they’d sought out the chapel for privacy. They were arguing about you, my lady. The lord thought you ought to be treated as a rebel, but the provost insisted it was wiser to treat you as a highborn hostage. Lord Maurice said he’d been with the king at Rouen when he learned of your…your betrayal. His words, Madame, not mine! He said the king was grievously hurt by your actions, that he would want you punished, not coddled. Sir Herve said that they must not forget how unpredictable the king could be, as changeable as the winds. He advised Lord Maurice to tread carefully on such unsteady ground.”

His last words came in a rush, with another nervous look over his shoulder. “I do not know which of them will prevail, my lady. It will depend upon what they think the king wants done with you.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said softly. “That is the question, is it not?” One not even she could answer, as well as she knew her husband. Now that she was in his power, what would Harry do?

When Maurice de Craon led her toward the stairwell, Eleanor felt a surge of relief when they headed up, not down. So it was not to be the dungeon. For all her bravado, she did not want to be thrust into a damp, dark cell. When they reached the third floor, Maurice turned to the right, not the left, and a grim smile flickered across her lips. Maurice had deemed her unworthy of sleeping in the king’s bed; instead she was to be held in the smaller, more spartan guest chamber.

They’d been preceded by servants, who made haste to light an oil lamp and pulled back the bed hangings. Sir Herve soon followed, accompanied by another servant carrying Eleanor’s coffer. The sight of it was a welcome one, for she wanted her own clothes; she’d not liked the way the men in the hall had stared at her legs and ankles. But then Maurice made a snide comment about her male garb, saying that he’d had her coffer brought up so she could change straightaway out of her unseemly attire, and she immediately considered wearing her knight’s garments until they hung on her in rags.

“Does my appearance disturb you, my lord? Alas, I am desolated by your disapproval,” she said, so sardonically that his mouth tightened and she could see the muscles clench along his jawline.

Striding to the door, he paused, giving her a look of appraisal that was neither friendly nor flattering. “It is true you do not have to answer to me,” he said coldly. “But you are answerable to the lord king, your husband.” Not waiting for her response, he closed the door with a finality that was almost as disquieting as his words had been.

A silence settled over the room. The servants quickly and self-consciously finished their tasks and fled, leaving Eleanor alone with the provost. He seemed to be debating whether to speak or not, at last said, almost apologetically, “Lord Maurice is plainspoken, but if he lacks the polished manners of a courtier, he is a good man for all that, my lady. I hope you will not hold his rudeness against him.”

Eleanor was no longer so put off by his silken civility, not after exposure to the Angevin baron’s overt hostility. “As it happens,” she said, “I understand Maurice better than you think I do, Sir Herve. He recently wed Isabel of Meulan, and she is a first cousin of Robert Beaumont, the rebel Earl of Leicester.”

His engaging smile vanished. “You mean he feels the need to curry favor with the king now, to prove that his loyalty has not been infected by the Beaumont heresy? You are wrong, Madame. His outrage is bona fide and many share it.” He hesitated, as if to say more, instead bowed and made a discreet departure.

After a few moments, Eleanor inspected the room. It lacked the fireplace and private latrine of the king’s chamber, but as prisons go, it was not so bad. They’d not provided a brazier for heat, but winters in the Loire Valley were not severe and there seemed to be an adequate pile of blankets on the bed. She wandered aimlessly from the bed to the small shuttered window, back again, and then started when a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she said resolutely, determined to keep up a bold front, and a young man entered with a wooden tray. He set the tray upon the trestle table, sketched an awkward obeisance, and hastily backed toward the door. Once he was gone, Eleanor moved to the table, looking at her meal. The food was plain, nothing fancy, not the sort of dishes to grace the royal table, but it was plentiful. She’d not go hungry, and she did not know if that would be true for Nicholas and her knights. Although she’d not eaten for many hours, she could muster up no appetite. Picking up the wine cup, she took a tentative swallow, grimaced at the taste, and set it down.

She froze then, having caught the shuffle of footsteps in the stairwell, holding her breath as she waited for the door to open. It didn’t. The footsteps paused, and then she heard the click of a key being turned in the lock. It was not loud, but it seemed to echo in the silence until there was no other sound in her world but that metallic clink and the thudding of her heart. It was only then that the full reality of her plight hit home. Slumping down on the bed, she buried her face in her hands and gave way to despair.