Devil's Brood

C HAPTER F IFTY-FIVE

July 1189

Fontevrault Abbey, Anjou

The nuns had never seen their self-possessed abbess so fretful. Gillette’s position was one without parallel in Christendom, for she ruled over no less than four monasteries, including the male priory of St Jean de l’Habit, the priory of St Lazare, which had been founded to treat those unfortunates afflicted with leprosy, and the priory of Ste Marie-Madeleine, which offered sanctuary and salvation to women who’d sinned and repented. Only at Fontevrault were men subject to the authority of a woman, and there had been occasional discipline problems caused by resentful or rebellious monks in the early years.

But these minor scandals had ceased during the kingship of Henry Fitz Empress, for he had taken a keen, personal interest in the welfare of the Angevin abbey. And Abbess Gillette had soon shown herself to be a fair but firm mother superior, rising through the ranks from cellarer to mistress of novices to grand prioress and eventually to the ultimate office. There was no doubt, though, that she was now faced with the most daunting challenge of her nine-year reign.

There could be no greater honor than to have their abbey chosen for the burial of a king, particularly one who’d been such a generous patron of Fontevrault. Henry had exempted them from royal taxes, conferred an annual stipend, founded one of their sister houses in England as penitence for the murder of St Thomas, entrusted the nuns with the education of two of his children, and provided in his will for a bequest of two thousand silver marks. He deserved a royal funeral that was one for the ages, but they had neither the time nor the resources for such a majestic pageantry. They’d gotten word only that morning that the king was dead.

It was a meager and melancholy funeral cortege that made its way from the castle at Chinon. It was with great difficulty that Henry’s men had found for him the trappings of sovereignty, for much had been left behind at Le Mans. They were deeply distressed that they were unable to dispense alms to the poor, and to Will Marshal, there was a dreary familiarity about the straitened circumstances, evoking painful memories of Hal’s unhappy death. They moved slowly in the summer heat, bearing the funeral bier upon their shoulders, somber crowds gathering by the roadside to watch them pass. They were not yet within sight of Fontevrault when they heard the tolling of the abbey bells, and then the wind brought to them the melodic sound of prayer. The nuns were coming out to meet them in solemn procession, with flaring torches and pealing bells and the sacred music of the Benedictus, reverently chanted by the sisters and monks as they advanced to welcome the king to his last resting place. And Will and Geoff, who’d been anguishing over the selection of Fontevrault, knowing that Henry had wanted to be buried at Grandmont, felt a sweet sense of relief, sure now that they’d chosen well for him.

G EOFF HAD INSISTED UPON ACCOMPANYING his father’s body into the church, but his knights had gathered in the guest hall to quench their thirst, ease their hunger, and fortify themselves for the night’s vigil. They found, though, that most of them had little appetite. Renaud de Dammartin was one of the few able to eat with relish, and one of the few, too, to dare to broach the subject of their uncertain prospects as men who’d been on the wrong side of a bitter internecine war.

“Do you think Richard will attend the funeral?” he asked, stabbing a chunk of bream with his knife.

“I do not know,” Will said honestly. “I sent him word, and now it is up to him.”

Renaud drained his wine cup before sighing melodramatically. “A pity,” he said, “that my lordship of Lillebonne Castle should be so brief. I was looking forward to having my own hunting preserve.”

The other men could not help feeling a sense of personal loss, too, midst their mourning for Henry. Their hopes of the promised heiresses and wardships and grants had died with the king, and that disappointment might be the least of their troubles. Their eyes sought Will, for he had the most to fear. Not only had he lost a great heiress and a king’s favor, he’d bested Richard in combat, inflicting a public humiliation upon a man no less prideful and hot-tempered than his sire. At least Will already had the manor of Cartmel, given to him by Henry upon his return from the Holy Land. Assuming that Richard let him keep it.

Maurice de Craon had less to fear, for he was a powerful baron in his own right, and therefore not as vulnerable as Henry’s household knights. He’d eaten little, absently crumbling a piece of bread as he regarded the Marshal. “We might as well speak candidly,” he said. “You are the most likely to suffer from the new king’s displeasure, Will. I want you to know that I would be pleased to offer you horses or money, whatever you need to get through the bad days ahead.”

“I cannot offer you as much as Lord Maurice,” Baldwin said quickly, “but all I have is yours, Will.”

Several others chimed in, touching Will with their loyalty and generosity. But he could not help feeling shamed, too, that he should, at this time in his life, be dependent upon the charity of friends. He knew he’d not have to beg his bread by the roadside, could always find a place in the Count of Flanders’s mesnie. But it would not be easy to become a landless knight again, not at his age.

“I thank you, my lord, thank you all. But I cannot accept, not knowing if I could repay you. I shall put my trust in the Almighty, as I’ve always done.” He cocked his head then, listening. “They are pealing the bells for Vespers,” he said, getting to his feet. The others did, too, following him back toward the abbey church for evensong.

The office of the Dead Service known as the Placebo had ended, but the abbey church was still full. The nuns were kneeling by the funeral bier, set up before the high altar, and many of Henry’s knights had also lingered to pray. Morgan said a prayer for Geoff, too, asking the Almighty to give him strength, for his grieving was painful to see. He was admiring the elegant marble columns and domed roof, thinking this was one of the most beautiful churches he’d ever seen, when Henry’s squire Hugh came dashing into the nave. He paused by Morgan long enough to gasp out, “He is here!” before hurrying to warn Will and the others. Morgan spun around to see Richard framed in the nave entranceway.

The men hastily made their obeisances, but he acknowledged only the Abbess Gillette and the Archbishop of Tours before continuing on into the choir and halting by the candlelit bier. For a time, Richard gazed down at his father, and then he knelt. Barely long enough to say one pater noster, some thought indignantly. Richard’s face was inscrutable, a mask of royal reserve. Rising to his feet, he did not speak to his brother Geoff, who was kneeling on the other side of the bier. He did signal to Will Marshal and Maurice de Craon, though, gesturing for them to follow him as he strode through the door leading out into the cloisters.

Although Compline had been rung, summer daylight was not easy to rout and was still holding the night at bay, so the men had no need for torches or lanterns yet. Richard was regarding Will in silence, grey eyes giving away nothing. “The other day you intended to kill me, Marshal, and would have had I not deflected your lance with my arm.”

Maurice started to speak, thought better of it. Will’s nervousness was washed away by the rising tide of his indignation. “My lord duke, it was never my intent to kill you. I am still strong enough to direct my lance where I want it to go. Had I wished, I could have struck you instead of your horse. And I cannot repent of that, for it ended the pursuit of the king.” He raised his head, then, meeting Richard’s eyes steadily, bracing for the worst. But the duke’s mouth was curving, ever so slightly, at the corners.

“You are forgiven, Marshal. I bear you no malice.”

“I am gladdened to hear that, my lord,” Will said, knowing Richard must be able to see his relief, but too thankful to care.

Richard was looking over Will’s shoulder. Turning, Will saw that some of the knights had followed them out into the cloisters and were hovering at a discreet distance. They came forward quickly when Richard beckoned to them.

“That is true for the rest of you, too,” he said. “You have nothing to fear. Loyalty to the king is an admirable trait, not one I’d want to discourage.” And now that inkling of a smile was unmistakable. “Indeed,” he continued, “I value men such as you more highly than those who abandoned my father to be on the winning side.” Glancing back toward Will then, he said, “After the funeral on the morrow, I want you to leave at once for Sarum. I will have letters for you to deliver to my lady mother and others, naming her as regent until my return to England. I want it known that her wishes are to be obeyed in all matters.”

Will was promising that he would when there was a stir and some of the men parted to let Geoff pass. “My lord duke,” he said coldly, managing to make his very formality sound insulting. “I am gratified to hear that you are following the noble example set by our father in showing magnanimity to defeated foes.”

“Brother,” Richard said, and he somehow turned that fraternal greeting into an insult, too.

Geoff’s eyes softened as he glanced toward Will and the other knights. “I think you should know that our lord father gave the lady of Pembroke and Striguil to the Marshal in recognition of his steadfast and admirable loyalty.”

Richard looked over at Will, and then shook his head. “No, he did not give her to the Marshal. Rather, he promised her to him. I am the one who will give her to him, sure that she will be safe in his hands.”

Will dropped to his knees. “Thank you, my lord!”

“Sire,” Renaud prompted, “the king your father made gifts to the rest of us, too.”

Richard’s gaze moved from face to face. “I will honor his promises. You need not fear. Now I would take my leave of the lady abbess and my lord archbishop. I shall pass the night at Saumur, will return on the morrow for the funeral.” Richard started to turn away, then paused. “Bury richly the king my father, Will.”

Eleanor’s relative freedom had been curtailed once Richard declared war on Henry. She no longer had such easy and unquestioned access to visitors, her household was reduced, and surveillance was once more intrusive. Her confinement was not as stringent as in the early years of her captivity, but she very much resented these new restrictions, saying bitterly to Amaria that she felt like a hawk with clipped wings, cruelly kept from flight within sight of the sky.

The windows of her chamber were unshuttered, open to the humid Sarum air. Eleanor was playing chess with Amaria when Sir Ralph Fitz Stephen and the justiciar, Ralf de Glanville, sought admittance. Rising, Eleanor stood watching as they came toward her, their faces grave, their eyes apprehensive.

“The king is dead,” she said before either man could speak.

Their mouths dropped open, and they regarded her for a moment with awe and unease before the justiciar rallied. “Yes, Madame, that is so. The lord king died at Chinon on the sixth of July, not long after being compelled to make peace with the Duke of Aquitaine and the French king. I regret we can tell you no more than that, for we’ve had word only of his mortal illness and his funeral at Fontevrault Abbey.”

“Fontevrault,” Eleanor said softly. The abbey where he’d meant to exile her, now his burial site. “I would have a Requiem Mass said on the morrow for the repose of his soul.”

“Of course, Madame.”

“Afterward, I shall return to Winchester, for Sarum has never been to my liking.” Eleanor looked at them challengingly, but they raised no objections whatsoever, to the contrary, seemed eager to oblige her.

“It shall be as the queen commands.”

Once they’d gone, Eleanor moved to the window, stood gazing out at the starless summer night. Amaria was watching her uncertainly, not sure what-if any-comfort to offer. “My lady, it must be a great relief to recover your liberty and my heart rejoices for you. And of course you are gladdened that Lord Richard will now be king, as am I. But…do you not…not…”

“Mourn?” Eleanor did not turn around. “I’ve been mourning for months, Amaria, ever since I learned about Bonsmoulins. After that, I knew it could only end like this.”

Will Marshal waited as the queen read her son’s letter. She’d moved to the open window for better light, and Will marveled that a woman of her age could take the harsh glare of the sun and still look so handsome. He found it hard to believe she was just five years away from her biblical three score and ten. But then he found it hard to remember that he was past forty. He’d loved Hal, had developed a great respect for Henry, and was very grateful to Richard for bearing no grudges. But he’d always had a special bond with the queen, who’d ransomed a young knight of no consequence, not only saving his life but putting him on the path that now led to Isabella de Clare and possibly even an earldom. He deeply regretted the king’s unhappy death. He was glad, though, that Eleanor would flourish now that her son ruled, very glad, indeed.

“It seems congratulations are in order, Will.” Eleanor glanced up from Richard’s letter, a smile playing about her mouth. “So you are to be married?”

“Indeed, my lady. From here I go to seek out the damsel in London.” His smile was joyful, but wry, too. “She is very young, seventeen or so. I hope she’ll not be disappointed to find herself wed to a man so much older than she.”

Eleanor was touched, surprised that a boy’s shyness could still survive under the polished, worldly mien of this accomplished courtier and knight. “Dearest Will,” she said, “you think your renown has not reached English shores? Isabella will be so bedazzled to wed the famed Will Marshal that she’ll never notice a grey hair or two at your temples.” She grinned then, and he had to grin back. “I am loath to cut short your time with your bride, but do not tarry with her too long, Will. There is much to be done, and I shall have need of your services.”

“Of course, Madame. I assume you will be making the arrangements for the duke’s coronation?”

She inclined her head. “But that is only one of the tasks I must undertake. My son is not that well known in England, for he has passed little time here. I want to do what I can to make sure his welcome will be a warm one.”

Will did not doubt she would succeed; he’d known few men with the shrewdness and political acumen of the queen. He’d begun to hope that he might actually evade the question he’d been dreading, but it was then that Eleanor said, “You were with my husband until the end. Tell me about those last days.”

Will was quiet for a moment. “How much do you want to know, Madame?”

Her eyes narrowed. “As bad as that?”

“Yes, my lady, as bad as that.”

Eleanor found herself hesitating, uncharacteristically irresolute. She did not truly want to know how Henry had suffered; she already had enough bad memories to last a lifetime. Yet she felt oddly obligated to hear it all. One final act of atonement? Irony was not likely to be an effective shield, though. “Tell me,” she repeated, and Will did. He’d have spared her if he could, but he respected her too much to lie to her after she’d asked for the truth.

She listened in silence, but when he told her of John’s betrayal, her eyes burned with tears. “I’d been told that John and Richard had made their peace, but I assumed it had happened after Harry died…”

Will shook his head grimly. “I would to God it had been like that, Madame, for this was the true mortal blow. I know the king made mistakes, many of them, but he did not deserve a death like this.”

“No,” she said, very low, “he did not.”

Neither spoke for a time, and then Will roused himself to tell her the rest, the most shameful part of this sad story. “By ill chance, neither Geoff nor I were with him when he died, and whilst we were being summoned, some of his servants and men stole what they could. They’d dared to search his body, and when we entered the chapel, we found him lying there on the bed without even a blanket to cover him. One of his knights at once removed his own mantle and wrapped the king in that. We did the best we could, found a fine robe to bury him in, and a scepter, and lacking a crown, we made do with gold embroidery. We were distraught that we had no ring for his finger, but fortunately he’d given one to his squire for safekeeping, and Hugh produced a jeweled ring of great beauty. We had no money for alms, though, and several thousand of Christ’s poor had gathered as word spread. Stephen de Marcay, the king’s seneschal, insisted that there was no money left in Chinon’s treasury, and I reminded him how much he’d benefited from the king’s favor, saying that he may have none of the king’s money but he had plenty of his own which he’d amassed in the royal service. But the ungrateful wretch claimed he could do nothing, and so we had to turn the people away, which would have grieved King Henry greatly…”

He waited, and when she said nothing, he crossed to her side, kissed her hand, and bade her farewell. She did not speak until he reached the door. “Will…tell the Lady Amaria that I would be alone.”

“I will, my lady,” he said and closed the door quietly behind him.

Eleanor moved to the table and poured wine with an unsteady hand. But she did not drink, for her chest felt congested, her throat too tight to swallow. Her hand tightened around the cup and then she dashed it to the floor, sent the flagon flying with another sweep of her arm.

“Damn you, Harry, I am not going to let you do this! After all the grief you gave me over the years, I am not going to let you torment me from the grave, too!”

Sitting down upon the edge of her bed, she closed her eyes and counted her scars as if they were pater noster beads. The expression on his face during their dreadful confrontation at Falaise. Look upon the sun, you’ll not be seeing it again. I will never forgive you, never. I offered to make you the abbess of Fontevrault, but it can just as easily be an impoverished Irish convent, so remote and secluded that not even God could find you.

No, she did not lack for reasons to curse his memory. She had sixteen of them. She need only think of all those lonely Christmases, all those wasted years. She need only remember how he’d used her to compel Richard to surrender Aquitaine, careless of the damage he might be doing between mother and son, or the awful sound of the key turning in the lock on her first night of captivity at Loches Castle.

But memories were as elusive as quicksilver, as hard to control. Other images jostled for attention. Harry holding her as they grieved for Joanna’s baby. Despairing together over Hal’s follies. A lifetime of tears and laughter. Lusting after crowns and each other. Their wedding night, his first words after their lovemaking. Good God, woman…Forget what I told you in Paris; I would have married you without Aquitaine. Laughing when she called him a gallant liar, and laughing, too, when she related scandalous stories of her grandfather, exclaiming gleefully, Between the two of us, we’ve got a family tree rooted in Hell!

Yes, there were good memories, too, thirty-seven years of good and bad. Quarrels and reconciliations. Eight cradles and too many gravestones and Rosamund Clifford and power that rivaled Caesar’s, an empire that stretched from the Scots border to the Mediterranean Sea. She lay back on the bed, hot tears seeping through her lashes and trickling across her cheeks until she tasted salt on her lips. One more memory was taking shape, with painful clarity. Another bitter argument, angry words traded back and forth, accusations and reproaches and her scornful warning that echoed now across the years as the Final Judgment upon their marriage.

We’ve schemed and fought and loved until we are so entangled in hearts and minds that there is no way to set us free. God help us both, Harry, for we will never be rid of each other. Not even death will do that.

From the twelfth-century Annals of Roger de Hoveden:

Queen Eleanor, the mother of the before-named duke, moved her royal court from city to city, and from castle to castle, just as she thought proper; and sending messengers throughout all the counties of England, ordered that all captives should be liberated from prison and confinement, for the good of the soul of Henry, her lord inasmuch as, in her own person, she had learnt by experience that confinement is distasteful to mankind, and that it is a most delightful refreshment to the spirits to be liberated therefrom.

Richard soon met the Archbishops of Rouen and Canterbury and sought pardon for taking up arms against his father after taking the cross. He was then girded with the ducal sword of Normandy on July 20 in Rouen. Two days later he met with the French king near Chaumont and reached terms that would prevent a further delay of their crusade.

In the meantime, Eleanor was very active in England on his behalf. After securing the treasury in Winchester, she rode to London and then began a royal progress through the southern shires. She issued edicts establishing uniform weights and measures for corn, liquid, and cloth, as well as a currency valid anywhere in England. She freed the English abbeys from their obligation to stable and provide for the king’s reserve horses and magnanimously gave these mounts to the monks. She continued to release those imprisoned for offenses against Henry’s harsh and unpopular forest laws, and she allowed those who’d been outlawed under these laws to return, “for the good of King Henry’s soul.” And wherever she went, she demanded oaths of fealty from all free men in the name of Lord Richard and the Lady Eleanor.

Her efforts were so effective that Richard was given a tumultuous welcome upon arriving at Portsmouth on August 13. Two days later he got an equally enthusiastic reception in Winchester and was reunited with his mother, the queen.

Richard was laughing. “You know, Maman, your enemies are going to accuse you of practicing the Black Arts. How else explain how you emerged from sixteen years of confinement still looking so elegant and comely, not to mention having more energy than a kennel full of greyhounds. I hear that between your travels and councils and proclamations, you managed to find time to found a hospital for the poor in Surrey. I assume that upon the seventh day, you rested?”

“Not for long,” she said, laughing, too. “If you want your coronation to be as splendid as I suspect you do, that is going to take a great deal more work.” Sitting beside him in the window-seat, she exercised a mother’s prerogative and reached over to brush his hair back from his forehead. “You were telling me about the meeting with Philippe.”

Richard made a mock-sour face. “I had to bribe him with another four thousand marks, and that in addition to the twenty thousand he extorted from my father at Colombieres, then agree to relinquish my rights in Auvergne and give up two fiefs in Berry. I had no choice, though, not if I hope to depart for the Holy Land ere I am too old to fight. But Philippe is going to be troublesome. It is hard to believe that one came from Louis’s loins. You think he could be a foundling?”

He laughed again; laughter came very easily to them both on this August afternoon. “I have made a good match for Richenza; I do not know why we bothered to change the lass’s name when none of us call her Matilda. I am wedding her to the son of the Count of Perche.”

Eleanor nodded approvingly; she’d be marrying into a highborn family and the marital alliance would strengthen their northeast borders. “And what of John’s marriage to Avisa of Gloucester?” She kept her voice noncommittal; John had arrived with Richard, but she’d yet to have a private moment with him.

“I’ll be in Marlborough ere the end of the month to give the bride away. In addition to the Gloucester estates, I am settling upon him lands worth four thousand a year in the counties of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, and Somerset. Our father had promised it to him again and again, but not surprisingly, he never got around to actually doing it.”

Eleanor regarded him thoughtfully. “I know you’ve been implacable with the men who abandoned Harry toward the last, dismissing them from your service in favor of those who’d stayed loyal, even seizing the lands of Raoul de Fougeres and Juhel de Mayenne. It is always wise policy to reward loyalty to the Crown, of course. But you seem to have made one exception, are showing John great generosity.”

Richard shrugged. “I can hardly do less for him, Maman. Until I have a son of my own, he is my heir-unless you’d rather I pick Arthur in Brittany. So he must be provided for, but you notice all his new lands are located in England, not Normandy or Anjou. I’d as soon keep the Channel between him and my good friend, the French king.”

“So in effect you are buying John’s loyalty.”

He shrugged again. “Well, my father kept him hanging, too, with little to call his own. So he deserves a chance to show he can be trusted if I play fair with him. And if he proves himself to be unreliable, I’ll deal with it. I cannot say I see him as any great threat. Now Geoffrey…he would have borne watching. But I’m not likely to lose sleep fretting about Johnny.”

He paused to take a sip from his wine cup. “I did not tell you, did I? I am honoring my father’s last wishes, and one of them was to see Geoff as Archbishop of York.”

“And you are going to follow through? Is that wise, Richard? Geoff will not be grateful to you, will never forgive you, and I think you know that.”

“Of course I do. Hellfire, I could buy him the papacy, and he’d still act like I am Saladin. But there are advantages to having him wear a miter. Once he is ordained as a priest, he cannot harbor any illusions about laying claim to my throne. You look dubious, Maman. Geoff is an able man, and an ambitious one. You cannot tell me it has not crossed his mind that William the Bastard was born out of wedlock, too. So I’d as soon he kept his eye upon Heaven’s Crown and not my own. Besides,” he added with a sudden grin, “he is not at all happy about it, so how could I resist?”

He continued to confide his plans, pleasing her with most of them. So far he’d yet to take a misstep. She would have felt better, though, if he were not intending to journey to the other side of the world, leaving his kingdom for God knows how long. “So I mean to name the Earl of Essex as one of my justiciars whilst I am away. Willem is a good man, and if he serves me half as well as he served my father, I will be content. I hear there will soon be a vacant bishopric at Ely, as the current occupant of the see is ailing. Once he goes to God, I will name Guillaume Longchamp in his stead. I intend to give Longchamp Geoff’s chancellorship, too, for I want to make sure that I have men I can trust to watch over my kingdom whilst I am gone. Of course you will be the one I’ll truly depend upon to keep order and quench any rebellious sparks ere they can take fire.”

Eleanor assured him that she would do whatever he asked of her, and he smiled, but then startled her by saying, “You know, Maman, you’ll have to see Johnny sooner or later. He’s as nervous as a treed cat, so why not put him out of his misery and let me get him?”

She hadn’t realized that he’d sensed her ambivalence about John. “You are too sharp-eyed for my own good. Very well, go and fetch him.”

“If you do not mind, I’ll send someone for him. I am a king now,” he joked, “and it is not seemly to be running my own errands.” He got to his feet, but took only a few steps toward the door before he halted. “Do you blame me for my father’s death?”

Eleanor was taken aback. “No, Richard, I do not.” She studied his face intently, and then said quietly, “Do you?”

“No! No, I do not.” But despite the vehemence of his denial, she was not convinced and waited for him to reveal more. “Others do, though,” he said, with enough heat to tell her that this had been preying on his mind. “No one dares say it to my face, of course, but I know what is being whispered behind my back. There is even talk that when I stood beside Papa’s body, he began to bleed from the nose and mouth. That is not so!”

Eleanor was not surprised by the story, for it was a widely accepted belief that a murder victim would often bleed in the presence of his killer. “That is foolish folklore, Richard. No one of any sense would believe it.”

“I would hope not,” he said brusquely, obviously vexed with himself for paying any heed to superstition. He was not yet ready to let it go, though, shooting her a searching glance. “I did not believe Papa was ill,” he said abruptly. “I was positive he was feigning, that this was yet another of his cunning tricks, and I assured Philippe of that. It was only when he dragged himself from his bed to ride to Colombieres that we saw he’d not been lying.”

“Well, your father gave you reason to suspect his good faith. He was always too clever by half, and it was inevitable that it would eventually catch up with him.”

Richard nodded as if agreeing, but he was gnawing his lower lip. “But I still did not believe he was dying, Maman. It was obvious at Colombieres that he was ailing. I still expected him to recover, though. How did I not see what everyone else did?”

Eleanor smiled sadly. “Sons always find it difficult to see their fathers as they truly are, and how much more true that would be for a living legend like Harry. Now wives rarely have that defect of vision, but I suspect most sons are like you, finding it hard to realize their fathers are mere mortal beings, no longer the all-powerful patriarchs they remember from childhood.”

“So you are saying I was not willfully blind, merely immature,” he said wryly. “Philippe insisted that he give me the kiss of peace. For the first time, I saw how frail he’d become, almost feeble. But then he growled that he asked only to live long enough to revenge himself upon me, and I found myself looking into a hawk’s eyes, fierce and proud and still defiant.”

“Yes,” she said, “according to Will, his spirit burned brightly to the end. It was his body that failed him.”

Richard was silent for a moment. “I truly did not think I had a choice but to do what I did.”

“I know.”

He tossed his head then, as if shaking off the past. “Well, let me get Johnny for you.” He stepped forward, gave her a brief hug, and then strode from the chamber. Eleanor paced as she waited, still not sure what she would say to John. With her other sons, she could argue convincingly that they’d had legitimate grievances, especially in Richard’s case. It was not that easy to absolve her lastborn, for he’d been the best-loved by Henry and his betrayal seemed the cruelest of all.

When John entered the chamber, she saw what Richard meant. His unease was evident. What struck her most forcefully, though, was how young he seemed. At his age, Henry had already made himself England’s king, and Geoffrey and Richard were putting down rebellions in Brittany and Poitou; even Hal had carved out a niche for himself upon the tournament circuit. Why had John not crossed the border from boyhood to manhood by now? She reminded herself this was Harry’s doing, not hers. But she had her own sins to answer for, and she owed a debt, if not to this faithless young prince, to the wounded child he’d once been.

When he greeted her formally and warily, she smiled and held out her hand to him. “We are alone,” she said. “Greet me as your mother, not the queen.” John’s relief was as obvious as his discomfort had been. He came quickly toward her, took her hand in his.

“Mother…I want to explain, to make you understand why-”

“Hush, John,” she said, stopping his words by putting her fingers to his lips. “We need not talk of it.”

The summer heat that had seared France and England did not reach North Wales. August was cool and rainy, but on the day the message arrived from Morgan, the sky was clear of clouds and the manor at Trefriw was dappled with mellow sun. Ranulf regarded his son’s missive with some trepidation. He knew of Henry’s dismal death at Chinon, thanks to his niece Emma. He sensed, though, that this news was not likely to be good. Escorting his wife out into their hillside garden, he seated her on a wooden bench and only then did he break the seal, scan the contents.

Rhiannon waited patiently until he was ready to read it to her. “Morgan is not coming home, is he?” she said at last, and Ranulf nodded before remembering that his wife needed verbal, not visual cues. Passing strange that after so many years of marriage, he occasionally forgot that.

“No, love, I think not. He does not say so, but I expect he will take the cross and accompany Richard to the Holy Land.”

Sitting beside her on the bench, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and read her their son’s letter. They were regretful, but resigned, for they’d realized long ago that Wales was too small to hold their youngest. Rhiannon’s fears were more immediate, her concern for her aging husband, not her adventuresome son. “I suppose…” she began, trying to sound matter-of-fact, not wanting him to hear any echoes of reproach in her voice. “I suppose you will want to go back to England, to attend Richard’s coronation.”

Ranulf did not answer at once, regarding her fondly, this brave woman who’d done so much to heal his wounds, who’d assured him on their wedding night that she understood his loyalties would always be divided, understood that England would always exert a powerful pull upon his soul.

“No, Rhiannon,” he said, “I will not be going back to England. I can grieve for Harry here in Gwynedd. I wish Richard well, but that is Morgan’s world now, not mine. I am home.”

Her smile was luminous. He read Morgan’s letter again for her, and they lingered in the garden afterward, sharing the quiet contentment that had no need of words.

As she rode along Winchester’s High street, Eleanor soon drew a cheering crowd. She smiled and waved before turning into the narrow street that led into the cathedral close. Later that day, she and her sons would be departing the city for Sarum and then Marlborough. This visit to the cathedral of St Swithun’s had been an impulsive one; she was still enjoying being able to indulge her whims as she chose. It amused her that she was being escorted by her erstwhile gaolers, Ralf de Glanville and Sir Ralph Fitz Stephen. Richard had given her the right to punish them if she wished, but she could not blame them for merely obeying Henry’s orders, and in his unobtrusive way, Sir Ralph had done what he could to mitigate the severity of those early years of confinement.

The bishopric of Winchester was presently vacant and so it was the prior of St Swithun’s and his monks who’d gathered in the garth to bid her welcome. When she explained that she’d come to offer prayers for the success of her son’s reign, the prior personally led her toward the west door and then showed unexpected sensitivity by asking if she’d prefer to pray alone.

She would, and leaving her companions outside, Eleanor moved up the nave, pausing briefly at the font of black Tournai marble before turning into the north transept. The small chapel of St Saviour had always been a favorite of hers, for she greatly admired the vibrant biblical scenes painted on the wall above the altar. She noticed now that several of them were looking dull and faded, though. She resolved to give the prior money for their restoration, and then smiled, thinking that she’d not take her privileged life for granted again.

Kneeling before the altar, she said a prayer for Richard’s safety in the Holy Land, and murmured prayers for the repose of Hal and Geoffrey’s souls. Rising, she lit a votive candle, then, for her husband.

“I’ve been doing good for the sake of your soul, Harry,” she said, laughing soundlessly as she imagined his pithy response to that. What a twisted road they’d traveled together. “What is so very sad,” she said softly, “is that it did not have to end like this. We had chances to turn aside, to find our way again. Ah, Harry, we were so well-matched, you and I. If only we could have learned to forgive each other. ‘If only’ and ‘what if,’ fitting epitaphs for both our tombs. Well, you’ll have all eternity to learn to forgive us and yourself. Knowing you, it is likely to take that long, too.”

The candle flickered and seemed about to go out, but then it steadied and she smiled again. “At least it was never dull, my darling. And you will be remembered long after we’ve all turned to dust. But so will I.”

The sound of footsteps drew her attention then, and she glanced out into the nave, saw a monk approaching. “Forgive me for disturbing your prayers, Madame, but your son the lord duke has sent a messenger to inquire when you’ll be returning to the castle.”

Eleanor sighed, thinking her husband and son were much more alike than they’d been willing to admit. Like Henry, Richard had no patience for delays, was eager to be on the road. “Thank you, Brother,” she said. “I am coming.” And she walked with a sure step from the shadows of the cathedral out into the sunlit priory garth.