Devil's Brood

C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO

February 1176

Woodstock, England

Meliora watched from a distance as the king emerged into the manor bailey. He did not look happy, and her spirits sank; it must not have gone well with Rosamund. She waited until he’d entered the great hall before making her way to the royal bedchamber. There she found Rosamund huddled on the bed, weeping as if she’d never stop.

“Ah, lamb…” Scrambling up onto the bed, she gathered the younger woman into her arms. “The king would not agree, then?”

“No…” Rosamund looked up, blue eyes swollen to slits, her face streaked with tears. “I tried so hard to make him understand, Meliora. I told him how much I wanted to retire to the nunnery at Godstow, that I could no longer live in a state of sin. But he became very distraught. He asked if I still loved him, and of course, I had to say that I did and I do. He insisted that was what mattered, and we could find a way to ease my mind. He said he could not bear to lose me-”

She sobbed again, seemed to have so much trouble catching her breath that an alarmed Meliora slid off the bed and brought her a cup of wine, urging her to drink. Rosamund obediently took a swallow, and then wiped her face with her sleeve. “Tell me what to do, Meliora. I cannot bear to cause him such pain, but this is the kindest way…I know that. If I cannot convince him of this, though…”

Meliora found herself blinking back tears of her own. “You may have to tell him the truth, lamb,” she said softly. But as she expected, Rosamund shook her head vehemently.

“No! I will not do that to him. I will not make him watch me die!”

Meliora did not know what to say, and rocked Rosamund in her arms until her sobs subsided and eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep. Only then did she get her mantle and leave the chamber.

Outside, she halted in confusion, unsure what to do next. She considered the idea of going to the king herself, but not for long. She could not betray Rosamund’s confidence. Nor had she the courage to confront the king, to argue without the one weapon that might sway him. Who in Christendom did?

An icy rain had fallen earlier in the day. It was dry now, but the bailey was still muddy and windswept as she started toward the chapel, intending to beseech the Almighty to aid His daughter Rosamund in her time of travail. She’d only gone a few steps, though, before she came to an abrupt halt, staring at the man who’d just exited the great hall. The Lord God had answered her prayers, for there was one at Woodstock with the courage to tell the king what he did not want to hear, and the moral authority to prevail without revealing Rosamund’s illness.

“My lord bishop!” As Roger turned, she hastened toward him, would have sunk to her knees in the mud before him had he not stopped her. “I am Dame Meliora, Your Grace, handmaiden to the Lady Rosamund. Can you spare a few moments for me? It is a matter of the greatest urgency-the state of my lady’s immortal soul.”

“ Why did you insist upon dragging me out to the springs, Roger?” Henry cast a pessimistic glance at the overcast sky. “We’re likely to have to swim back to the manor.”

Roger decided they’d come far enough and slowed his steps. “I wanted to speak with you in privacy,” he said, “with no fear of prying eyes or pricked ears.”

“About what?”

“Sin.”

Henry’s brows shot upward. “You do remember, Cousin, that you are not my confessor?”

“I am not jesting, Harry. This is too grave a matter for that. I need to speak with you about the Lady Rosamund Clifford.”

“Indeed?” Henry’s voice had hardened; Roger could see the tightening of the muscles along his jaw. “Rosamund is none of your concern, my lord bishop.”

“Harry…you must let her go.”

“She spoke to you about this…about Godstow?” Henry sounded incredulous and then, defiant. “As I said, this is none of your concern. Let it be, Roger.”

“I cannot do that, my lord king, for the stakes are too high. If you love her-and I think you do-that is why you must let her withdraw to the nunnery at Godstow priory.”

“I do love her,” Henry said, “and that is why I will not let her go. This is but a whim of hers, a fancy that will pass. I know her, Roger. You do not.”

Roger was silent, marshaling his arguments, regretting his promise to Meliora that he’d say nothing of Rosamund’s suspicions, the recurring pain in her breast. Henry was scowling, but Roger took heart from the fact that he’d not stalked away in a royal rage. He hoped that meant his cousin was not as free of misgivings as he claimed. “I am willing to risk your anger,” he said quietly, “for royal favor means little when balanced against eternal damnation. It is my concern for her immortal soul that bids me be so bold with you. She gave up much for your sake, Cousin…her maidenhead, her honor, marriage, and motherhood. Would you have her give up her chances of salvation, too?”

“Damn you,” Henry said, low voiced. He’d backed against a nearby oak, a massive tree barren of leaves, gnarled and ancient. “Damn you,” he said again, even as his shoulders slumped and the color drained from his face.

The Benedictine nunnery of St Mary and St John the Baptist had been founded in the year of Henry’s birth. Situated on an island between two streams of the River Thames just north of Oxford, it had always been a haven for Rosamund; she’d been educated there and still had a deep and abiding love for the convent and the nuns who’d schooled her in her youth. Standing in the familiar priory precincts to bid farewell to the king, Rosamund experienced a sense of utter unreality. Was this a dream or had her long love affair with Harry been one?

They had exchanged their private farewell the night before at Woodstock, and so they were formal now in the presence of Prioress Edith and the other nuns. Henry kissed her hand and she made a respectful curtsy, even though she knew that the nuns were well aware of their scandalous liaison.

“I have to attend a great council with the papal legate next month in London,” Henry murmured, too softly for any ears but Rosamund’s, “and then I’ll be holding my Easter Court at Winchester. I will stop to see you on the way.”

“Go with God, my lord,” she whispered, seeing him through a blur of tears.

“ Come,” Prioress Edith said briskly as soon as Henry and his men had departed. “We have prepared a guest house for you.”

Rosamund was honored that the prioress herself had chosen to escort them. She’d known they would make her welcome; the king’s favor would be a great blessing for the priory. But she was touched to find so many of the nuns waiting for her at her new lodgings. As her anxiety about her reception had increased, the pragmatic Meliora had pointed out that she’d been very generous with the convent since becoming the king’s mistress. To Rosamund, that counted for little against the shame of adultery. So far, though, she’d encountered no hostility or disdain, neither overt nor implied. Nuns who had taught her in her youth greeted her warmly as a former pupil, not as a wanton seeking redemption.

Seeing the exhaustion etched into Rosamund’s face and posture, the prioress sent the other nuns off to their duties, leaving Rosamund alone with Meliora. The older woman hovered nearby, not wanting to smother her with too much attention, too much solicitude. It was not easy, though, for she’d learned to love Rosamund as one of her own daughters.

“You will consult with the infirmarian this afternoon, dearest?”

“I will, Meliora,” Rosamund promised dutifully. She sat on the bed, watching as Meliora set about unpacking their coffers, still feeling as if she were sleepwalking. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes again as she thought of her last night with Henry. His pain was so much harder to bear than her own. Rising abruptly, she announced she was going for a walk, slipping out before Meliora could protest.

Prioress Edith had said dinner was served in the guest hall, and the position of the sun told her that noon was nigh. There were several widows living at the nunnery, and she could imagine they’d be avidly curious about the king’s concubine. She had no appetite, was never hungry these days, and she decided to forgo the meal, not yet ready to face an audience. Instead, she headed for the church.

Inside, all was serene, shadowed, and still. Nothing had changed; it was like going back in time. Moving into the nave, she approached the high altar. Kneeling, she began to pray for her royal lover, that he would not grieve for her too much. She’d expected to fall apart once she was alone, giving way then to the heartbreak she’d been stifling for his sake. But her tears soon dried, and as she prayed, she realized that some of her sorrow was easing. There was comfort in these familiar surroundings; there was comfort in the invocations of childhood. This was the first time in years that she’d been able to bare her soul to the Almighty without being in a state of sin. Her confessor had never been able to absolve her, for they both knew she’d continue sleeping with the king. Now she could repent without reservations. She could accept the penance laid upon her, could atone for her transgressions, and die in a state of grace. And kneeling there in the church of Godstow priory, she rediscovered what she’d long ago lost and thought forever denied her-the promise of inner peace.

A keen March wind was gusting and winter’s chill still lingered, even though Easter was less than a fortnight away. Eleanor did not mind the mercurial weather, though, so pleased was she to be riding in the open air under a sky the color of bluebells. Her mare seemed to have been infected with her high spirits and was fighting the bit, eager to run. Glancing over at Amaria, mounted on a more docile gelding, Eleanor was tempted to challenge her to race. Thinking of Sir Ralph’s panicked reaction should his royal prisoner suddenly gallop off into the distance, she laughed aloud.

Amaria smiled at the sound of that laughter. She did not know what awaited them. Sir Ralph had told them only that he’d received orders to move the queen from Sarum to Winchester. But it was enough for her that the queen was so happy on the journey, however it ended. Amaria was convinced that the queen found confinement so oppressive because she’d always enjoyed far more freedom than most women. She was a wild bird caught in a net, unlike her tamer sisters bred in captivity. At the very least, Winchester would offer novelty, a change from the predictable dreariness of days that were indistinguishable one from the other.

It was dusk before they saw the walls of Winchester in the distance. As they approached the Westgate, Amaria glanced toward the adjoining castle and cried out at the sight of the banner flapping in the March wind. “My lady, look! The king is here!”

Eleanor did not share Amaria’s surprise. She’d quickly concluded that this trek to Winchester was connected to her husband’s annulment plans. Why else would Sir Ralph have said she’d not be returning to Sarum? What was Harry up to now? Well, she’d soon see. She was not as nervous about this meeting as she’d been before their confrontation at Falaise, for she had more than two years of experience as his prisoner to draw upon now, knew where he’d set the boundaries for himself. She need not fear physical punishment or abuse, or even deprivation to any great extent. He might even free her for the sake of their children if he could find a way to clip her wings or blunt her talons. That was such a mixed metaphor that she could not help laughing again, but it was as apt as it was incongruous. If she saw herself as a caged dove, Harry saw her in far more predatory terms, as a bird of prey.

By the time they passed into the outer bailey of Winchester’s great castle, the sky was the shade of lavender. Dismounting first, Sir Ralph hastened over to assist Eleanor from her mare, and she hoped her next gaoler would be as conscientious. She’d learned that courtesy mattered the most to those with no right to demand it.

“Maman!” The cry rang out across the bailey, as clear as a harp chord. Eleanor spun around at the sound, just in time to catch her daughter to her in a close embrace. Joanna was hugging her so tightly that her mantle brooch was being pressed into her skin, but she did not care, any more than she’d cared about the driving rain when they’d been reunited at Barfleur. This reunion was different from the first one, though, for it was not being held under her husband’s glowering, baleful gaze. Henry was nowhere to be seen.

Eleanor noted with ironic amusement that she had not been put in the Queen’s Chamber, but she had no complaints about her lodgings. The room was freshly painted, hung with decorative wall hangings to shut out the cold, the floor covered with fragrant rushes, and the candles were made of costly beeswax, not the malodorous tallow. “Thank you, dearest,” she said warmly, for she was sure this was Joanna’s doing. “The chamber is a fine one.”

Joanna was sprawled on the bed, playing with her mother’s cat as it cautiously ventured from its travel basket. She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “Tell me what else you want, Maman, and I will persuade Papa to get it for you.”

“You sound very sure of yourself, Regina,” Eleanor teased, with a smile of her own, and Joanna’s throat constricted, for it had been a long time since she’d heard that affectionate pet name, bestowed upon her by her brothers when talk had first begun of marriage to the King of Sicily. She could no longer remember who had first used it, Hal or Richard, but it brought back memories of those days when her parents were not at war with each other and her family was still intact.

“Papa rarely says nay to me,” she admitted. “And he is being even more generous now, for the King of Sicily is sending envoys to the court this spring, and if all goes as planned, I could sail for Sicily ere the year is done.”

“So that is why I am at Winchester?”

Joanna nodded. “I told him that nothing mattered more to me than having you with me ere I wed. I explained,” she added with a grin, “that a girl needs her mother at such a time.”

She was a confident, clever child, but a child, nonetheless, only in her eleventh year, and soon to be a wife. Eleanor had accepted the practice, for it was all she knew. Confinement had caused her to question many of the tenets she’d once taken for granted, though, and regret caught at her heart now as she thought of sending Joanna off to an alien land, an unknown husband, a fate to be determined by factors beyond her parents’ control.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Joanna had lured the cat into her lap, pronouncing herself satisfied with the name Eleanor had chosen, Cleopatra, in recognition of the little creature’s haughty elegance and queenly will. “Did I tell you, Maman, that I got my first letter?” She sounded so proud, as if this were a milestone toward adulthood, and Eleanor felt another protective pang, wishing she could keep this fledgling in the nest for a little longer.

“It was from Tilda,” Joanna revealed, obviously flattered that her elder sister had thought she was old enough to receive her own correspondence. “She wrote to Papa, too. She had another baby, a second son, who has been named Lothair.” The sound of that odd German name sent her into a fit of giggles, but she soon grew serious again. “Tilda is distraught by what has happened to our family, Maman. She says she does not understand. I do not know what to tell her, for I do not understand, either.”

“Ah, child…” Eleanor sat beside her on the bed, put an arm around the girl’s shoulders. It occurred to her, then, that Joanna had yet to mention Hal, an odd omission unless he was no longer at his father’s court. “What of your brother? Will Hal be permitted to see me, too?”

“Hal is gone, Maman. He has been very restless of late and none too happy. He decided he wanted to go on pilgrimage to the shrine at Santiago de Compostela. Papa was loath to consent, did not seem to think that was a good idea at all. But Hal persisted; he can be very stubborn, you know. And at last Papa compromised, agreed to let him go to Normandy for a time. Hal and Marguerite left a few days ago for Porchester. Such a shame you missed him, for I know how dearly he’d have loved to see you.”

“Indeed, a shame,” Eleanor said, very dryly. If Joanna thought Hal’s absence was due to coincidence, well and good. She knew better.

Joanna appeared in Eleanor’s bedchamber early the next morning, reluctantly leaving later only for dinner in the great hall. Eleanor was served her meal in her own chamber, although she had to admit the quality of the Lenten food was no less than what was being served at the high table in the hall. It was clear to her that Henry did not want to give Joanna any cause for complaint about her mother’s treatment, and she grudgingly gave him credit for putting their daughter’s wishes above his own. She’d dressed that morning in the best of her gowns, for she was anticipating a royal summons, and it was not long in coming. Once dinner was done, the castellan came to escort her to the king.

The solar was still shuttered, for the day held none of the longed-for warmth of spring. It was well lit, though, with oil lamps and a large iron candelabrum. Henry was alone, walking back and forth before the fireplace. This was the first time she’d seen him in almost two years, and she was startled by the change in his appearance. Although his ceaseless activity had kept him fit, he’d always had a powerful, stocky build. He was noticeably thinner now, his face so drawn that it almost looked gaunt, and his closely cropped reddish hair was showing traces of grey. She suspected that these past months had been no kinder to her, but the fashionable wimple framed her face in a flattering way, concealing any signs of aging, and her own grey hairs were covered by the graceful folds of her veil.

They regarded each other in silence for a few moments, Eleanor content to let him set the pace. “If you’ll have a seat,” he said coolly, “we have matters to discuss.”

Eleanor sat in the chair he’d indicated, noting that he’d provided wine for them both; so this was to be a duel conducted with civility. As he took a seat across the table from her, she said, as if they were resuming an interrupted conversation, “So will you accept the King of Sicily for our Joanna?”

Taken by surprise, he said, “Yes, I think so. I’ll put his proposal before my council in London, but I do not expect any objections to be raised. It will be a good match for her, one she seems content with.”

“Yes, she does,” Eleanor agreed, claiming a small victory by compelling him to acknowledge that she still had the right to voice her opinions about their daughter’s future. “What dowry is he proposing to give her?”

“The same that was discussed when the issue of marriage was first raised. He will grant her the county of St Angelo, the cities of Liponti and Viesta, and various castles and towns.” Henry was not comfortable with the direction their discussion had taken; this could have been any idle, intimate conversation between husband and wife. “We need to talk about the future,” he said abruptly, retreating into his public persona-the dispassionate king, detached and distant.

That was a part Eleanor had often played herself, but she had no intention now of submerging the woman in the queen. Whether he liked it or not, he’d have to deal with his wife. Smiling, she raised her cup and took a sip of wine. “How is the annulment progressing?”

She had to admire his control; only the narrowing of his eyes told her that her thrust had hit home. “I expect,” he said, very evenly, “that you are as eager as I am to end this mockery of a marriage. If only for the sake of our children, we need a resolution, a way to put the past behind us and move on.”

“I am certainly in favor of that,” Eleanor said lightly; to her surprise, she was beginning to enjoy herself. “But there is that awkward little problem-Aquitaine. We both want it, and I actually have a blood right to it, a right the French king would be only too happy to recognize. If you set me free, I can promise to be guided by you in all matters of importance, to be good.” Her smile came and went so fast that he could not be sure he’d seen it. “Could you trust me, though?”

Henry took the bait. “I’d sooner trust in the honor of the lowest Southwark whore,” he snapped. He at once regretted the flare of temper; he’d sworn that he’d not let her provoke him, not like that wretched morning at Falaise. “You want your freedom, and I am willing to grant it to you-under certain conditions. Do you care to hear them?”

“I am waiting breathlessly,” she assured him. “What is the price I must pay?”

“I will never let you loose in Aquitaine again. That big a fool I am not.”

“That was not one of Louis’s better decisions, was it? Even if it did rebound to your benefit. So what do you propose, then? Do not leave me in suspense, I entreat you.”

“You agree to the annulment. You agree, too, to relinquish your rights to Aquitaine.”

“And what do I get from that Devil’s deal? I am free to do what…to beg my bread by the side of the road? You’ll have to do better than that, my lord husband.”

“You did not let me finish,” he said coldly. “You take the veil and enter Fontevrault abbey-as its abbess. It is one of the most renowned abbeys in Christendom, one of the few where the abbess rules over monks as well as nuns. You could have a very comfortable life, with enough authority and influence to satisfy even a former duchess. I would retain my overlordship over the duchy, but Richard’s status as heir would not be affected. He would still be recognized as the Count of Poitou and eventual ruler of Aquitaine. I think it is a reasonable solution, far more than you deserve if truth be told. You get your freedom and enormous prestige as the abbess of a great abbey. I get peace of mind. And Richard still gets Aquitaine, which is what you always wanted.”

Eleanor leaned back in her chair. For a moment, her face was noncommittal; he had no idea what she was thinking. And then she startled him by clapping aloud. “Ah, well done, Harry! I knew you’d find a way once you put your mind to it. An ideal solution, for certes. You no longer need fear that I am becoming too friendly with Louis or Philip of Flanders. You can still meddle in Aquitaine whenever you get the urge, and you can continue to spend my money, of course, whilst keeping Richard on a tight rein, for an heir and a duke are not quite one and the same-as you learned to your cost with Hal. Best of all, Fontevrault is in Anjou, so you can make sure that I’d not do more plotting than praying.”

Henry found her flippancy very irritating. There was too much at stake to yield to it, though. “As I said, it will be beneficial to us both. Moreover, it will please our children if we reach an accord. Do you need time to consider this? I would think the advantages would be too obvious to require much thought, but if you-”

“No, that is kind of you, but quite unnecessary. I do not need any time to consider. My answer is no.”

Henry was on his feet so fast that his chair toppled over into the floor rushes. “May I ask why?” he said, measuring each word with deadly calm.

Eleanor smiled. “I do not think I have the vocation for the religious life, Harry. I’d not make a very good nun.”

“I was doing you a courtesy by asking, Madame. Your consent is but a formality.”

“That is not what the Church says. You cannot force me to take holy vows.”

“Do you care to wager your freedom on that? I offered to make you the abbess of the richest abbey in my domains. It can just as easily be an impoverished Irish convent, so remote and secluded that not even God could find you!”

“Do you truly think it would be as easy as that to make me disappear? I am not just your unwanted wife. I am the Duchess of Aquitaine.” She stood now, too, took her time in positioning her mantle about her shoulders. “You need not see me out, dearest. I am sorry to disappoint your little trifle, but surely she could not have been so stupid to think you’d marry her once you were rid of me.” She was taken aback when he went ashen. She’d intended only a glancing blow, had not meant to hit a vital organ.

“Get out,” he said tonelessly, and the very lack of emotion in his voice was what she found most disquieting. She moved toward the door, keeping her eyes upon him all the while, pausing outside in the pentise to catch her breath. The silence from the solar was ominous. It was with relief, therefore, that she heard the sudden, sharp thud, the sound of his wine cup striking the door behind her. Only then did she walk away, a faint smile playing about her mouth.

It took Willem some time to track Henry down, finally finding him in the stable, examining his new white palfrey. Henry had told him he’d be broaching the subject of Fontevrault Abbey with Eleanor that afternoon, and he wanted to make sure it had gone well. He could not imagine why it would not, but if all women were capricious, creatures of impulse, Harry’s disgraced queen was downright perverse and, even as a prisoner, dangerous. One look at Henry’s grim profile was enough to give him his answer.

“She balked?” he asked in astonishment.

“She said she does not think she’d make a very good nun.” Hours later, Henry was still seething. “The bitch all but dared me to force her into a nunnery. As God is my witness, Willem, I swear I-”

“My liege,” Willem said warningly, for he’d seen what Henry had not, the appearance of Joanna in the doorway of the stable.

“There you are, Papa. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she chided, hurrying toward the stall, where she paused to admire his new stallion. “He is a beauty, Papa. May I name him for you?”

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.