Devil's Brood

CHAPTER NINETEEN

September 1174

Gisors, Norman Vexin

When he reached the conference elm at Gisors, Henry saw that the French were already there. Louis was flanked by his bishops and barons, while the Count of Flanders was standing apart with his own men, and Henry wondered if there were cracks showing in their alliance. What interested him the most, though, was that Hal and Geoffrey had also distanced themselves from the French king. He reined in before Louis, who waited for him to dismount, and looked perplexed when he did not.

“Welcome, my lord king,” Louis said once it was apparent that Henry was not going to speak first. “It is our hope that we may agree to a truce in order to put an end to this unfortunate war.”

Henry was staring at the sons he’d not seen in a year. Hal looked no different, cutting a handsome figure in a crimson tunic decorated with gold thread and a fur-trimmed mantle casually thrown over his shoulder. He did not meet Henry’s eyes, glancing away when he realized his father was watching him. Geoffrey had experienced an impressive growth spurt, was taller than Henry remembered, but he was still some inches shorter than Hal and Richard. He was more composed than his elder brother, returning Henry’s gaze with a respectful nod of acknowledgment.

Henry swung back to the French king. “Where is Richard?”

Louis smiled sympathetically, one father to another. “Alas, Richard is balking at taking part in the council. When we summoned him, he refused to come. He is young and hotheaded, as were we all at his age.” Stepping forward, he gestured expansively. “Shall you dismount so that we may talk?”

“If Richard is not here, what is there to talk about?”

Louis did his best to ignore Henry’s brusque tone. “Whilst Richard’s absence is regrettable, it need not prevent us from reaching an accommodation. Come, and we shall discuss it further.”

“I think not,” Henry said tersely, and the Count of Flanders strode over, casting Louis a glance of poorly concealed impatience.

“We are willing to agree to a truce that specifically excludes Richard. You may deal with him as you see fit; that is no concern of ours.”

“I see.” Henry looked from one to the other, then back at his sons. “I will grant you a truce of three weeks. We shall meet again at Michaelmas. I will notify you where the council is to be held.”

When they realized that he was about to depart, Louis and Philip exchanged troubled looks, and the Fleming said sharply, “Wait, my lord! We need to talk over the terms of peace.”

Henry pricked his stallion with his spurs and the animal leaped forward. As Philip jumped out of the way, he glanced over his shoulder. “You will learn my terms at Michaelmas.” His men followed, and Willem soon spurred his horse to ride at Henry’s side.

“What now?” he asked. “Do we go into Poitou to rein Richard in?”

“Yes.” Henry looked over at the other man, and then slowly shook his head. “Richard will long remember this birthday.”

“What do you mean?”

“Today,” Henry said, “Richard turned seventeen.”

Richard and his men were encamped by the River Vienne southeast of Poitiers. Morale was low, for they’d been retreating steadily from the Angevin forces under Maurice de Craon; they did not have sufficient numbers to meet Henry’s commander on the field. Dusk was beginning to darken the sky as Raoul de Faye stormed out of Richard’s tent. The head of his household knights came quickly to his side, but when Raoul angrily shook his head, the man asked no questions.

“Come and eat, my lord,” he said instead, gesturing toward an open fire, where a group of men were clustered around a large pot. Raoul shook his head again, for his latest quarrel with Richard had taken away his appetite. But the air was redolent with the enticing aroma of venison stew, and he was about to change his mind when a sudden shout heralded the arrival of riders.

To Raoul’s vast relief, the lead horseman was a familiar figure, and he hastened over to bid Saldebreuil de Sanzay welcome. Once greetings had been exchanged and Saldebreuil’s men sent off to share the supper, Raoul grasped the constable’s arm and drew him aside.

“Thank God you are here! Mayhap you can talk some sense into Richard. I’ve been unable to convince him that we must surrender. We never recovered from our losses in Saintes, and our numbers have been dwindling daily. It was bad enough when we were running from de Craon. But our scouts report that the English king has now joined the hunt, too, is encamped less than ten miles away. Richard still refuses to yield, though. That boy could teach a mule about stubbornness!”

“Take me to him,” Saldebreuil said, once Raoul had run out of breath. “I have news he needs to hear.” And he fell in step beside Raoul as the two men headed toward Richard’s tent.

Richard was alone, staring down at a crudely drawn map of Poitou as he grimly plotted out lines of retreat. He glanced up with a surprised smile that quickly faded as he studied the constable’s face. “I am not going to like what you’ve come to tell me, am I?”

“No, my lord Richard, you are not. I’d come to warn you that your lord father is on your trail. It seems you know that already. But you do not know what happened at Gisors a fortnight ago.”

“That craven council of theirs?” Richard said scornfully. “What of it?”

“Your brothers and the French king and the Count of Flanders have served you up as a scapegoat to the English king. They struck a truce with Henry that excludes you. In other words, lad, you are on your own, can expect no aid from your so-called allies.”

Richard’s intake of breath was sharp enough to be audible. Raoul indulged in a flare of temper, calling Henry various colorful names that were not flattering, calling Louis even worse. Saldebreuil waited patiently until he was done, and then limped across the tent, coming to a halt in front of Eleanor’s son.

“It is over, Richard,” he said softly. “It is time to go to your father and seek his forgiveness.”

Richard reacted as if he’d been stung, recoiling violently. “No! I will not do that. I will never abandon my mother!”

“Listen to us, Richard,” Raoul entreated. “Eleanor is my niece and I love her dearly. But there is nothing more you can do for her. The war is lost.”

“No!”

Saldebreuil reached out and caught Richard’s arm in a grip too tight to shake off. His voice, though, was kind, even gentle, as he said, “You can no longer hope to save your mother. Now you must save yourself. She would expect no less from you. Do you truly believe she’d want you to sacrifice yourself for her sake?”

Richard’s mouth contorted, and he jerked free of the older man’s hold. “Rot in Hell!” he cried. “All of you can rot in Hell!”

Raoul started after him as he plunged out of the tent, but halted when Saldebreuil said, “No, Raoul. He needs time. Let him go.”

Richard’s flight from his tent had not stopped there. So great was his need to get away that he did not even wait for his stallion to be saddled, instead took the horse of one of their scouts, leaving the man staring after him in astonishment. Once he was out of the camp, he gave the horse its head and urged it on, racing the wind and his own doubts. Common sense told him that Saldebreuil and Raoul were right, but he still saw surrender as shameful, as a betrayal of the person he loved most in the world. How could he do that to her? He knew she was relying upon him to gain her freedom. If he gave up, what hope would she have?

He diverted some of his pain into rage, dredging up memories of the worst curses he’d ever heard his father utter. The French king was a fainthearted, misbegotten weasel, not worthy to wear a crown. The Count of Flanders was a self-seeker of the worst sort, one who’d pawn his honor for the mere promise of profit. The French lords were spineless lackeys, the Flemings no better. His brothers were beneath contempt, Hal a swaggering, empty-headed puppet and Geoffrey a backstabbing sneak. He could almost believe they were foundlings, for how else explain their treachery?

And now what? He was cornered, trapped with no way out. He’d gone up against the Aquilon, the North Wind, and had been found wanting. What mercy could he expect from his father? He’d be publicly humiliated, shamed, tethered like a lady’s pet spaniel. He was a man grown, but his father would never see that. The years would go by and nothing would change. Aquitaine would not be his as long as his father drew breath. And his mother would grow old in an English prison, her exile ended only by death.

Twilight had given way to full night, but he hadn’t noticed. It was not until he saw the glow of campfires in the distance that he realized how much time had passed and how far he’d ridden. Halting his mount, he gazed down at those flickering fires in his father’s camp. During the course of this wild, wretched ride, he’d swung back and forth between anger, defiance, and despair, spitting out curses and blinking back tears that he blamed on the wind’s edge, whispering prayers only God could hear. But he understood now where the Almighty had been leading him.

For an endless time, he sat there, absently patting the neck of his lathered mount as he watched the soldiers move about below him. And then, before he could repent of it, he spurred the horse down the hill. Sentries rode out to block his advance, alarmed by the sudden appearance of this lone youth in their midst. Richard reined in his stallion before them. “I am Richard, Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “I am here to see my lord father, the king.”

Richard was ushered into Henry’s tent by startled guards. He had a quick glimpse of the men-his father, the Earl of Essex, Maurice de Craon, and Richard du Hommet, the constable of Normandy-all of them looking no less astonished than the guards. At the last moment, his courage failed him, and he looked away, not wanting to watch their triumphant faces as he humbled himself. Fumbling with the belt of his scabbard, he unbuckled his sword. It was his prized possession, a gift from his mother on that day two years ago when he’d been invested as Duke of Aquitaine, fashioned by the best bladesmith in Bordeaux, with a thirty-inch double-edged blade, an enameled pommel, inlaid with silver for that was thought to prevent blunting, engraved in Latin with the words In Nomine Domini, the ultimate symbol of knighthood. He’d called it Joyeuse, said to have been the name of Charlemagne’s celebrated sword, which flashed lighting in the heat of battle. He’d never expected to surrender it, and giving it up now was as painful as any physical wound.

Coming forward, he carefully placed the sword and scabbard on the ground, then sank to his knees before his father. “I am here to seek your forgiveness, my liege,” he said hoarsely. “You may do with me as you will.” To his horror, tears filled his eyes, and he angrily swiped at them with the sleeve of his tunic before nerving himself to look up at Henry. To his amazement, he could see tears shimmering in his father’s eyes, too. Henry reached down, holding out his hand.

“Of course you are forgiven,” he said, and when Richard took his hand, he was raised to his feet and then gathered to the older man in a tight embrace.

Richard was not sure what he’d expected, but not this warm welcome, this genuine and manifest joy. His father’s companions seemed to share it, too, treating him as if his was the return of the Prodigal Son, not the surrender of a beaten rebel. Wine was brought out, and then food, venison like the meal being served back in his own camp. Richard held his plate awkwardly, not sure if he could swallow a morsel. “I ought to send word to my men,” he said hesitantly. “Raoul de Faye and Saldebreuil de Sanzay are there, amongst others. Need I…need I fear that they will be punished for my sins?”

Henry reached for another piece of bread, unable to remember when he’d been so hungry. “No,” he said, “I mean to issue a general pardon for all who took part in the rebellion.”

Richard’s shoulders slumped, so great was his relief. “Thank you,” he mumbled, for that seemed expected of him. All around him, the other men were laughing and talking, gesturing with their wine cups, and his sense of unreality grew ever stronger. Could it truly be this easy?

“We will return to Poitiers on the morrow,” Henry declared, “and ride into the city together so that all may see peace has been restored. And at Michaelmas, we will meet your brothers and the French king, put all this foolishness behind us.” He shifted so that he could look directly into Richard’s face. “I mean to do right by you and your brothers. The provisions will not be as lavish as the terms I offered last year, but I think you will be pleased.”

“Thank you,” Richard said again, the words coming automatically to his lips with a calm that belied his inner turmoil. He knew it would be wise to keep silent, to do nothing to threaten this rare moment of harmony. But he could not do that. “May I ask you a question?”

Henry nodded. “Ask,” he said, with a slight smile, and Richard drew a deep, bracing breath.

“You have forgiven me for taking up arms against you. You have said that you do not mean to imprison or disinherit the others who joined the rebellion. You have been more generous than I dared hope. But there is this I must know. Can you not find it in your heart to forgive my mother?”

The mood in the tent was transformed as soon as the words had left his mouth. He saw the other men stiffen in the way he’d seen people react when caught out in a storm, listening uneasily to the rumble of thunder and scanning the skies as lightning flashed overhead.

Henry did not speak for a time, struggling against the tide of raw emotion unleashed by the mere mention of Eleanor’s name. He’d not wanted to make Joanna choose between them, for she was a child, an innocent who could not be blamed for loving unwisely. He’d not intended to extend that privilege to his sons, for surely they’d forfeited that right by swallowing her poison so willingly. But as he looked now at Richard, he realized that it would not be that simple, that easy. He saw emotions in Richard’s face as conflicted as his own-fear and defiance and confusion and love, love for the woman who’d betrayed him so cruelly. He was going to have to learn to live with that, with Richard’s misplaced loyalty, at least until the boy came to see the truth about his mother.

“That took courage,” he said at last, “and you’ve earned an honest answer…this one time. I will not speak of this again, Richard. I know this is not what you want to hear. But it cannot be helped. No, lad. I cannot forgive your mother. Not now, not ever.”

On September 29, Henry met the French king on the riverbank of Montlouis-sur-Loire, not far from Tours. The day was overcast and dark clouds were gathering ominously along the horizon. Henry and Richard arrived at the same time as the French, and after an awkward exchange of greetings, they moved into the village churchyard so they could take shelter in the church if the storm broke.

“Before we discuss terms for peace,” Louis said earnestly, “your sons wish to express their remorse and grief that it ever came to this.”

Henry frowned, not sure if he could long endure Louis at his most sanctimonious and self-righteous. As if he were a Good Samaritan, who wanted only to heal this lamentable family feud! But Hal and Geoffrey had taken their cue and were coming forward to kneel respectfully before him. Hal’s distress seemed genuine; Henry could not help wondering, though, what he regretted most-that he’d rebelled or that he’d lost. He did not want to let such suspicions mar their reconciliation, and he did his best to put any doubts aside as Hal and then Geoffrey expressed their sorrow, their contrition, and their resolve to make amends, to be the dutiful, loving sons that he deserved.

When their penance was done, Henry played his part and offered them absolution, raising them up for the formal kiss of peace and then quick, paternal hugs. “What’s past is past,” he said, “and it is forgiven.”

Beaming, Louis then embraced Hal and Geoffrey, too, but when he took a step in Richard’s direction, he was warned off by the expression on the youth’s face, and contented himself with declaring his joy that this breach was mended, quoting from Scriptures to prove his point. Honor thy father, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee; that thy days may be prolonged. And if some noticed that he’d diplomatically edited the Holy Writ by excising any mention of thy mother, none were tactless enough to comment upon it.

Hal and Geoffrey now offered strained greetings to Richard, who was even more laconic in reply. Hal then took Henry aside, seeking a moment alone. Withdrawing into the cemetery that bordered the churchyard, they walked among the wooden crosses and flat gravestones as Henry waited, with rare patience, for his son to speak.

“Not the most auspicious of settings, is it?” Hal said wryly, gesturing toward the moss-covered grave markers. “Making peace in a burial ground is like getting wed in a whorehouse. But I do want there to be peace between us, Papa. That I swear to you upon the surety of my soul.”

Henry was as moved by the tears in Hal’s eyes as he was by his words, and he felt a surge of gratitude that the Almighty and St Thomas had given him this second chance, an opportunity to make things right with his sons. “I also want that, Hal,” he said, and when they embraced, he truly believed that they’d made a new beginning. From the way Hal’s eyes were shining, he could see that Hal believed it, too.

“As much as I enjoy watching Louis wriggling on the hook,” he said, “we’d best rejoin the others so I can end the suspense about my intentions.”

Hal was one of those anxiously awaiting Henry’s judgment, for all knew this was not a genuine peace conference. As the victor, the English king would be the man dictating the terms of that peace, and they would have to swallow his brew, however bitter they found it. He could only hope that his father would be lenient as he followed Henry back into the churchyard.

Henry wasted no time on preliminaries. “I mean to issue a general pardon to all those who took part in the rebellion,” he said, before adding a proviso. “There are four exceptions, however, four men who will not be included in the pardon: the Scots king, the Earl of Leicester, the Earl of Chester, and the Breton lord, Raoul de Fougeres. They will have to bargain for their freedom, and only after I feel they can be trusted to honor their oaths.”

There were murmurings of relief, for all who owed homage to Henry had been well aware that he could have charged them with treason. Hal edged over toward Will Marshal to murmur sotto voce, “See, I told you that there was no cause for concern. I knew my father would not punish you for being loyal to me.”

Will hadn’t been so certain of that, and he was savoring his reprieve. Pray God that he’d never again be forced to choose between his king and his young lord. “We were lucky, my lord,” he said softly, “so very lucky.”

Hal thought that remained to be seen, for his father had yet to announce what provisions he’d make for his sons. “The first thing I want to do is send for Marguerite. I am sure she was well treated, but my bed has been cold without her. I am not used to sleeping alone.”

Will was not fooled by the flippancy, for he knew how upset Hal had been by his wife’s gilded captivity. Hal was still talking about Marguerite, and Will nudged the younger man, saying, “Your lord father is about to speak again.”

Henry waited until the audience fell silent, until he was sure all eyes were upon him. “Last year I offered what I felt to be generous terms to settle this conflict. Sadly, they were rejected. Circumstances have changed since then,” he said dryly, unable to resist reminding Louis and the Count of Flanders of the respective reality of their positions. “This was a costly war.” How costly he was not going to admit to these men-more than twenty percent of his yearly revenues had gone toward the protection of his crown and kingdom. “Alas, I can no longer offer the same terms that I did last September.”

Addressing his sons directly now, he said, “I think, though, that you will not be displeased with what I am offering. I realize now that I was remiss in not providing incomes commensurate with your titles.” That was an argument he’d often had with Eleanor, a memory he hastily pushed away. “My lord king,” he said to Hal, “I will be endowing you with two castles in Normandy and an annual income of fifteen thousand Angevin pounds, to be spent as you choose.”

Hal swallowed, thinking of how much more he’d been offered last year at Gisors: half the crown revenues of England or Normandy, plus four English castles or six strongholds in their continental domains. Reminding himself then, that this was still a very generous offer from the victor to the vanquished, he smiled and made a graceful acknowledgment of his good fortune and his gratitude.

“I have already discussed this with my son Richard,” Henry continued. “He is to receive two unfortified castles in Poitou and half of my revenues from that province. To my son Geoffrey, I offer half of the income of Brittany, and all of it once he weds the Lady Constance.”

Richard and Geoffrey expressed their appreciation in appropriately formal terms, and Henry smiled to see the three of them standing together, thinking that this was the first step toward the restoration of his fractured family. “Now…there is the matter of my youngest son’s inheritance. I regret to report that I have recently received very sad news from England. Alice of Maurienne, my son John’s betrothed, was taken sick last month and the doctors were unable to save her. We gave orders for a funeral befitting her high birth, distributed alms to Christ’s poor in her name, and this sweet child of God will not lack for prayers that she may soon depart Purgatory for the glory of Life Everlasting.”

The men had not heard of the little girl’s death, and they were quick to offer conventional expressions of sympathy, with many repetitions of “May God assoil her.” There was little surprise, though, for all knew how fragile life was in those early years of childhood. Some considered it remarkable that Eleanor had given birth to ten children in the course of two marriages and only had to bury one.

Hal felt a quick stab of pity for the little girl, thinking how sad it was to die so young, so far from her family and homeland. That was followed by great relief as he realized that Alice’s death rendered John’s marriage settlement moot, which meant there was no longer any need to surrender his castles at Chinon, Mirebeau, and Loudun, the proximate cause of the rebellion. But he felt then a twinge of shame that he could find reason for rejoicing in the death of a child.

“Naturally,” Henry continued, “I hope to make another favorable marital alliance for John. I have decided, however, that he ought to have lands of his own. I am therefore giving him the English castles of Nottingham and Marlborough, as well as five castles in Normandy, Anjou, Touraine, and Maine. This will require, of course, the consent of my eldest son, but I am confident that he will find it acceptable now that we have restored harmony in our family and our domains.”

Hal’s gasp was loud enough for Geoffrey to jab him warningly in the ribs. That reminder alone would not have been enough. But his gaze happened to alight upon his brother Richard, who was watching him with malicious satisfaction. Richard’s smirk acted as a lifeline to pull him back from defiant disaster. “If it pleases my lord father,” he mumbled, “it pleases me.”

Henry had not expected any other response. “Ere we commit these terms to writing, I think it advisable to renew acts of homage. As for my sons, I will gladly accept homage from Richard and Geoffrey, but I waive this act from my eldest son, in recognition of his rank as a crowned king.” He’d thought that Hal would be very pleased by this boon, this public recognition of their status as peers. Hal showed no enthusiasm, though; he was staring at the ground, his face hidden by a sweep of fair hair.

Turning his eyes away from his son, Henry looked coolly at the Count of Flanders. “I believe, my lord, that you have a charter to relinquish, one that gave you a claim to my castle at Dover and the county of Kent.”

After receiving Count Philip’s assurances that it would be forthcoming, Henry decided then to give them food for thought-an example of what he could have demanded had he been vindictive or vengeful. “From here, I expect to return to Falaise to continue negotiations with the Scots king. I am willing to grant his freedom, but after such savage raids against my English subjects, I understandably feel the need to demand proof of his future good will. He will not be released from confinement until he acknowledges himself as a liegeman of the English Crown and agrees that the Scottish Church shall be subordinate to the Church of England. I shall require also that the Scots earls and barons do homage to me against all other men, and if King William should default in his fealty to me, his liege lord, the Scots lords and bishops will hold to me against the King of the Scots, and in such an event, the Scots bishops shall place Scotland under Interdict until the Scots king repents of his disloyalty. Lastly, to guarantee the safety of my borders, I will take possession of the Scots castles at Roxburgh, Berwick, Jedburgh, Edinburgh, and Sterling, with the costs of garrisoning them to be paid by the Scots treasury.”

There was utter silence when he was done speaking, as his adversaries pondered the sad fate of the Scots king and the fearful consequences of defying the man who was King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou, Poitou, Touraine, and Maine, Lord of Ireland and Wales, liege lord of Brittany, now restored to the good graces of the Church and the favor of St Thomas of Blessed Memory.

After this chilling revelation of what could have been, Henry was soon surrounded by men eager to show their good will, and it was not long before he found himself cornered by the French king, no less eager to mend fences and banish the hounds of war. Hal had backed away from the chaos, and after a moment’s hesitation, he walked over to his brother.

“Richard…did you speak to him about Maman?”

Richard scowled, accurately interpreting Hal’s words to mean he would not be raising that dangerous topic himself. “Of course I did!”

“And…?” When Richard slowly shook his head, Hal bit his lip, and for a brief moment, their hostility forgotten, they looked at each other in perplexity and mutual misery.

Salisbury plain was a vast marsh, fed by six rivers, a barren, windswept area of chalk hills and grassy downs. On a promontory north of the River Avon, a castle had been erected in the eleventh century, unusual in that it shared the precincts with a cathedral. The inner bailey contained the keep, several towers, and a palace built by a Bishop of Salisbury for the use of Henry’s grandfather. The cathedral was situated in the western half of the outer bailey, with the bishop’s palace, buildings for the canons, and three cemeteries.

Eleanor had never passed much time at Sarum Castle; both she and Henry preferred Clarendon Palace just four miles distant, she for its greater luxury and Henry for its hunting park. So her spirits had plummeted at her first sight of the stark stone keep rising up against a bleak Wiltshire sky. Few areas in England were so desolate. The winds were constant, so brutal that the first cathedral had been destroyed in a gale only five days after its consecration. The canons complained that the winds drowned out the sounds of the Divine Office, and they suffered from the joint evil and vision maladies caused by the blinding glare of the sun upon the chalk hills. As she’d ridden through the gatehouse into the inner bailey of the castle, Eleanor was morbidly certain that Sarum would be the death of her.

It was a great surprise, therefore, to discover that she actually preferred Sarum to Falaise. She’d dreaded being penned up in one of the cheerless, cold chambers of the great keep or, even worse, in Herlewin’s Tower along the north inner wall. But she’d been escorted to the royal palace and taken up to the private quarters on the second floor. She had a fireplace here, and access to a privy chamber, and she was even able to attend Mass through a private entrance in St Nicholas’s Chapel. Best of all, she was permitted to walk in the inner courtyard, to pick flowers in the garden if she chose. She thought she understood why she was no longer being guarded so zealously. The castle at Sarum was escape-proof, so secure that she could be given a few more liberties.

She learned that she was in the custody of a man she knew, Ralph Fitz Stephen, one of the king’s chamberlains and sheriff of Gloucestershire. She’d had only one awkwardly polite encounter with him since her arrival, for he was rarely at Sarum. It was the constable of the castle, Robert de Lucy, who was responsible for her daily care, and he’d treated her with distant but impeccable courtesy. She knew her neighbor, too, Jocelin de Bohun, the Bishop of Salisbury, who dwelled on the western side of the outer bailey, but he’d so far paid her no visits. This was not a surprise, for he was not the most resolute of men, and wary of incurring the king’s disfavor. He’d sided with Henry over Becket, most likely because he feared the king even more than the archbishop. His loyalty had come at a great cost, for he’d been excommunicated twice by the irate archbishop, and he was destined to be remembered mainly as the man who’d offended a saint. So Eleanor had no expectations of aid from that quarter.

Although she’d found no cause for complaint in her treatment by the constable, the chaplain, servants, or guards, she’d so far had no luck in cultivating another Perrin, and until an unexpected event in mid-August, she’d known nothing of what was occurring in the world beyond the walls of Sarum. This changed, however, when she was granted the privilege of having a visitor.

The man ushered into her chamber was also familiar to her, Reginald Fitz Jocelin, the Bishop-elect of Bath, a cleric who’d been unwillingly caught up in the Becket conflict through no fault of his own. Reginald had a dubious background, for he was the son of Bishop Jocelin. His father had doted upon him, naming him as his archdeacon and thus setting him upon the path toward a church career. He’d been for a time in Becket’s household, but that had ended badly when he’d been lured away by the chance to serve the king. Becket had never forgiven him, bitterly assailing him as “that bastard son of a priest, born of a harlot,” and some felt that the archbishop’s increasing animosity toward Jocelin was actually rooted in his anger with the son.

Eleanor never knew what prompted the visit by Bishop Reginald; he’d offered no explanations. She could only surmise that he was, in his way, striking a blow at Becket, for he’d said enough to indicate that his rancorous memories of the man did not lend themselves to an easy acceptance of the archbishop’s sainthood. But she cared little for his motives. What mattered was that, under the guise of offering spiritual solace, he’d opened a window briefly to the world. From him, she learned the astonishing news of Henry’s penance at Canterbury, and the equally astonishing results. He’d not stayed long, but when he left, she knew that the rebellion in England was dead and her only hopes rested with her sons and the French king, then besieging Rouen. As disheartening as it was to learn of her husband’s triumphs, she still preferred knowing bad news to not knowing any news at all.

Eleanor was not having a good day. The weather could not be faulted; it was a sun-splashed, mild October morning. But she’d begun keeping track of her time at Sarum by marking the wall with charcoal, and she’d suddenly realized that this was Joanna’s ninth birthday. She was sure that Marguerite would make much of her, sure that she’d not lack for either affection or attention. It was hard, though, missing yet another milestone in one of her children’s lives, even harder not to know how many more would be denied her.

She was sitting in the window-seat, watching a small bird flit from bush to bush in the courtyard below, morosely trying to make sense of Bishop Reginald’s story of her husband’s dramatic mea culpa at Becket’s tomb. That sounded so unlike Harry that it baffled her. Whatever had possessed him to humble himself like that? Her first impulse had been to assume it was a cynical, political ploy, a way to gain the Church’s good will and keep the rebels from appropriating Becket for their own ends. But he already had the support of the Pope and the English bishops. And he could easily have performed a public penance that did not involve baring his back to the lash. Could he truly have been that desperate? If so, mayhap Ranulf was right; mayhap she did not know him as well as she’d thought she had.

Her musings were interrupted by the arrival in her lap of a small whirlwind. As she started, the kitten leaped down and scampered away, but soon returned and began to stalk the hem of her gown. Eleanor could not help smiling at its antics. She’d not really expected to take the cat with her into English exile. But Joanna was very single-minded; she’d carried the kitten onboard ship with her, and presented it to her mother in a travel basket as Eleanor made ready to depart for Salisbury. Eleanor was still dubious, assuming it would run away or her new gaoler would confiscate it once she reached Sarum. The constable had not even lifted an eyebrow, though, at the sight of the cat, and had ordered a servant to provide the queen with a box of dirt as if that was an everyday occurrence. Nor had the kitten absconded. To the contrary, it seemed quite content to share Eleanor’s confinement, and within a fortnight, Eleanor was startled to realize how much this little ball of fur had begun to matter to her.

She was luring the kitten closer with the fringed end of her belt when a knock sounded and Sir Ralph Fitz Stephen entered. He greeted her courteously, explaining that he’d returned to Sarum the preceding night, too late to pay his respects. “I wanted to ask if there is anything you need, Madame?”

Eleanor did her best to conceal her surprise, for in nigh on a year, no one had asked that before. With nothing to lose, she said nonchalantly, “As a matter of fact, there is, Sir Ralph. Bishop Jocelin is known to have an excellent library. Time hangs heavy on my hands these days. Would it be possible for me to borrow some of his books?”

To her astonishment, he agreed at once. “I am sure he will be pleased to be of service. I will send a man to the bishop’s palace this very afternoon.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, not wanting him to see how much that meant to her. Books! They would be such a blessing, a way to maintain her sanity. Rolling the dice again, she wondered aloud if the bishop would mind if she made some specific requests, and once again, she won.

“I cannot imagine why he would object, Madame.”

“You are very kind, Sir Ralph.” Very kind, indeed. Why? As best she could see it, he had nothing to gain and quite a bit to lose by coddling his royal prisoner. Why would he risk angering Harry?

“I have received a message from the lord king,” he said, almost as if he’d read her mind. “He has instructed me to provide you with a handmaiden, Madame. If it meets with your approval, I thought I would see if I could find someone suitable in the village.”

“God in Heaven,” she whispered. “He has won. That is it. He has won and so he can afford to spare me a few crumbs from his table.” When he did not answer, she said, with sudden vehemence, “Tell me the truth! I am entitled to that much, surely.”

“Yes, my lady, you are right. The king has prevailed over his enemies, won a great victory. After he routed the French from Rouen, they sought a truce. Both sides met near Tours and signed a peace treaty at Michaelmas. The king was very magnanimous to the rebels, Madame, forbore to punish them as severely as he could have done. He provided most generously for the lord princes, your sons, and they have fully reconciled. The young king is to get a stipend of fifteen thousand Angevin pounds a year. Lord Richard is to be given half the revenues of Poitou, and Lord Geoffrey may draw upon the resources of Brittany. The king also issued a general pardon for all the rebels, save only the Scots king, the Earls of Chester and Leicester, and a Breton lord, Raoul de Fougeres.”

Eleanor’s mouth had gone dry. “And what of me?”

She had her answer in the look he gave her now, one of unmistakable pity. “I am sorry, Madame,” he said, “but there was no mention made of you in the treaty.”

“I see…” Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears, flat and toneless. He must have said something before he withdrew, but she did not hear it. Once she was alone, she moved like one sleepwalking to the bed, sank down upon it. I’ll never forgive you, never. Look upon the sun. You’ll not be seeing it again. The king provided generously for your sons and they have fully reconciled. I’ll never forgive you. Never.