Devil's Brood

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

November 1175

Sarum, England

That year was not a good one for England. The weather was severe, and there were outbreaks of plague and famine in the outlying areas. The summer was hot and dry, withering crops in the field, and autumn was cold and rain-sodden. November had been a month of gale-force winds and black ice, and winter was promising to be particularly harsh on the exposed marshlands of Salisbury Plain.

Eleanor was curled up on the settle with a book and a blanket. She was not reading, though, her thoughts wandering far from the page open on her lap. Edith, her maid, was sitting by the hearth as she mended one of Eleanor’s gowns, humming a cheerful little song as she stitched. Cleo, her cat, was stalking prey in the floor rushes; Eleanor preferred not to know what was being hunted. The rain had ceased earlier in the day, but the wind still sought entry at the shuttered windows, rattling the latches and testing the hinges. Although it was not yet midday, the chamber held enough shadows for night, poorly lit by an oil lamp and several tallow candles that sputtered and filled the air with smoke and the pungent odor of burning fat. Eleanor had never used any candles but the expensive ones made of beeswax, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell, wondering how the queen’s allowance of a penny a day for lamp oil was being spent now.

The cat froze in the rushes, ears flattening, and then darted under the bed. Eleanor had learned to take her cues from the little creature, and listened for the sound of footsteps approaching her door. There was soon a discreet knock, and she said, “Enter,” grimly amused by the charade they enacted every day. Her door was no longer locked as at Falaise, but it was mockery to pretend she still retained the right to refuse admittance to her chamber. It was too early for dinner, and she closed her book, hoping it would not be that tiresome Father Ivo, the castle chaplain. She’d have been more amenable to his attempts to save her soul if he’d been a better source for news, but either he knew nothing of the world beyond his chapel or he was that rarity, a man of God who truly knew how to practice the cardinal virtue of prudence. At least when Bishop Jocelin had finally gotten around to paying a call, he’d spiced up his sermon with a dose of gossip.

“Madame.” An elderly servant poked his head into the room. “You have a visitor,” he announced lugubriously; Eleanor was convinced that if he ever smiled, his face would crack. But when he stepped aside to admit her guest, she jumped to her feet so swiftly that the book fell, forgotten, to the floor.

“Rhiannon! Is it truly you?” In two quick steps, she was at the Welshwoman’s side, taking her arm to guide her into the room. “There is a coffer just to your right, but the settle is straight ahead.” Once they were safely seated, she leaned back to marvel at this unexpected appearance of Ranulf’s wife. “You are my first visitor who has not taken holy vows,” she said, and laughed. “How did you gain entry? Ah, of course, Ranulf. They’d not gainsay the king’s uncle.”

Rhiannon started to remove her mantle, then changed her mind when she realized how chilly it was in the chamber. “No, Ranulf did not accompany me. It was actually Emma who got me permission to see you.” And she launched into a surprisingly accurate impression of Emma at her most imperious. “‘I am the sister of the king, consort of the Prince of Gwynedd. How dare you question my authority?’ In no time at all, they were wilting before her like flowers in the noonday sun.”

Eleanor was thoroughly confused by now. “Emma? Harry’s sister? What in the world-”

“You do not know?” Rhiannon exclaimed, as always turning her head unerringly toward the sound of Eleanor’s voice. “But how could you? The king married Emma off to Prince Davydd last year. Ranulf and I are attending the king’s Christmas Court at Windsor, and when she learned of our plan, Emma asked to accompany us. It is a bit awkward, what with her husband and mine loathing each other! But we could hardly refuse her, for she is Ranulf’s niece, after all. And it turned out to be bread cast upon the waters, for when we reached Clarendon and I found out it was only four miles from Sarum, she was willing to come with me after Ranulf…”

She let the words trail off, but Eleanor had no trouble finishing the sentence for her. “After Ranulf refused,” she said, and smiled to show it did not matter before remembering that smiles were wasted upon Rhiannon. “That was kind of Emma, for I am delighted to see you. But…but why are you this far south? If Harry is holding his Christmas Court at Windsor, why are you so deep in Wiltshire?”

Rhiannon did not answer right away, alerting Eleanor that the answer would not be welcome. “The king is at Winchester now,” she said. “We will be catching up with him there, and then going on together to Windsor.”

Eleanor fell silent. Sarum was only about twenty-five miles from Winchester. Bishop Jocelin had told her that Hal had returned with Henry to England, so this was the closest she’d been to one of her sons in more than two years. Why had Hal not tried to see her? Richard would have, even if it meant scaling the castle walls in the dead of night. Rhiannon was looking troubled, and she roused herself, saying lightly, “Of course you are not really riding all the way from Wales to visit with Harry, are you? Your son Morgan is still in his household, no?”

Rhiannon laughed. “You’ve caught us out,” she admitted. “Morgan is the lure-” She stopped suddenly, head cocked to the side. “What was that noise? Are we alone?”

“No, not exactly. That was Edith, my maid. We can speak freely in front of her, for she speaks no French, only English.” Eleanor’s smile was wry. “She is useful at times, but as a companion, she leaves much to be desired. I have wine, Rhiannon. Would you…” Getting a polite refusal, she leaned over and covered the other woman’s hand with her own. “Tell me of my children.”

Rhiannon did. Joanna was still at Devizes with Constance and Alys, but she was sure the girl would be at Windsor for the Christmas Court, and so would John. Hal and Marguerite would be there, too, of course. Richard and Geoffrey would be holding their own courts, in Poitou and Brittany. They had both enjoyed considerable success in the field, she reported, knowing how proud Eleanor would be. Richard had captured the rebel stronghold of Castillon-sur-Agen that past August after a two-month siege, and the Countess of Chester had written to Ranulf that Geoffrey had Eudo de Porhoet on the run.

“The Countess of Chester,” Eleanor said softly. “Is she well?” And when Rhiannon affirmed it, she forced herself to ask, even though she dreaded the answer. “What of her son? Is Hugh still being held prisoner?”

“No,” Rhiannon said. “He was freed last year, in October, I believe, although his lands have not been restored to him yet.”

“Gratia Dei,” Eleanor whispered, closing her eyes for a moment, and Rhiannon, who was as perceptive as her husband, squeezed her hand affectionately.

“I do have some sad news, though,” she said. “Ranulf’s brother died in July.”

“Rainald? I am sorry to hear that,” Eleanor said, and she was; she’d always had a liking for Henry’s cheery, brash uncle. “Was he long ill?”

“No, it was sudden. He’d been with the king at Woodstock a fortnight earlier, and seemed quite well. He was no longer young, of course.”

“None of us are,” Eleanor said with a sigh. “So…my sons have truly been forgiven, are back in Harry’s good graces?” And she felt both relief and a prickling of resentment when Rhiannon assured her that family peace had indeed been restored. “Rhiannon, I will never forget your kindness in coming to see me, especially since you had to defy Ranulf to do it. I hope to God I have not caused harm to your marriage.”

“You need not worry, my lady,” Rhiannon said with a quick smile. “It is true that Ranulf was not pleased with me. But he knows full well that Welshwomen are not as submissive and docile as our English sisters. We have minds of our own. And I was not going to let him stop me from visiting you. You spoke of my ‘kindness.’ Well, I am only repaying yours to me, during those months when I was stranded at your court whilst our husbands were chasing about France.”

“Ah, yes,” Eleanor said. “I remember. I was with child-Geoffrey-so that was seventeen years ago. When we got word that Harry’s brother Geoff had died of a sudden, Harry and Ranulf hastened over to Rouen to comfort Maude. They were supposed to return within a fortnight, but it was nigh on four months ere Ranulf came back to England and another month after that ere I was reunited with Harry for our Christmas Court…”

She was quiet for a time, remembering. The men had trooped into the solar at Winchester Castle, muddied and boisterous and jubilant after a day’s good hunting. For a moment, she thought she could actually hear echoes of their raucous laughter on the wind. Henry had pulled her into his lap as he told Ranulf of Thomas Becket’s recent, spectacular entry into Paris, vastly amused by his chancellor’s flair for the dramatic. When she’d asked for a cushion for her aching back, he’d obliged with a grin, saying to the others, “Imagine how she’d order me around if I were not a king.”

Rhiannon was sorry she’d reminded the queen of a time when her marriage was a source of joy, not misery. Hoping to distract Eleanor from memories that served only to hurt, she said hastily, “I was so homesick for Wales, missing Ranulf and feeling like a stranger in an alien land. If you’d not been so good to me, I truly do not know how I would have endured those wretched months.”

“Your visit today eclipses any kindnesses I may have shown you,” Eleanor assured her. “Rhiannon…may I ask you about your blindness? But if you’d rather not talk about it-”

“Other people are the ones who have difficulty speaking of it, not me.”

“You were not born blind, were you?” Eleanor asked, hoping that her memory was not playing her false.

“No, I was not. I lost the sight in one eye when I was eight after I was hit by an ice-encrusted snowball. But within a year, I lost the sight in my other eye, too. My father consulted every physician in Wales, and they all said the same. They did not know why my other eye should also fail, but it was often the case with such injuries, and nothing could be done. My mother would have wrapped me in soft wool, coddled me till her last breath, but my father, bless him, would have none of that. He insisted that I ‘defy the dark,’ live my life as if I were still sighted. I learned to play a harp, to sew and do household chores, even to ride a horse, finding ways to compensate for my lack of sight. It was not easy, but I was so lucky, my lady, that my father was so stubborn!” A fleeting smile touched her lips. “The blind are often hidden away from the world, as if they are a cause for shame.”

Eleanor had listened intently, and was quiet for a few moments. “I’ve met few people as calm, as contented as you, Rhiannon. You always seemed to me like a serene small island in a turbulent sea. I often wondered how you’d achieved that sense of peace, given how severely you’d been tested by the Almighty.”

By now Rhiannon had grasped which way the wind was blowing. “Acceptance of life’s setbacks is never easy, my lady. For me, the hardest time came when I reached marriageable age, when I realized that few men would be willing to take a blind wife. But my father never let me wallow in self-pity, and his own life was so beset with tragedy that he’d earned the right to speak on the subject.”

Eleanor knew very little of Rhiannon’s father, save that he’d been crippled some years ago when he’d been trampled by a runaway horse. “What losses did your father suffer?”

“His brothers and sisters had all died ere their time. He found great contentment in marriage to my mother, but he lost her, too, and of the six children she’d borne him, three were stillborn or died in the cradle. Only my brother Cadell, my sister Eleri, and I survived childhood. Cadell died at twenty, thrown from his horse, and when my father wed again, his new wife proved barren, but he was too fond of her to put her aside, even though he no longer had a male heir and his lands could have been forfeit to his prince when he died.”

Eleanor agreed that Rhodri ap Rhys had been visited far more than he ought by the Grim Reaper. Thinking the man might better have been named Job than Rhodri, she said, “So how did he cope?”

“He dealt with his disappointments as he’d dealt with his blind daughter, by seeking to change what could be changed and accepting what could not. He taught me to acknowledge my mistakes, to learn from them, and then put them aside. He never let me forget that the morrow might bring greater glory than yesterday’s ills, for none of us know the Divine Plan of Our Saviour. In that, we are all blind, and see through a glass, darkly.”

Rhiannon smiled again, a smile that spilled sunlight into the dimly lit chamber. “And indeed, good did come with the bad. Ranulf came back to us, filling the hole left in our hearts by Cadell’s death. When we least expected it, my father found a male heir to save his lands and I found joy beyond imagining. And Ranulf…he found what he most needed, a way to heal, to escape a past weighted down with regrets and remorse and guilt. Not a day passes that I do not thank the Almighty for His Blessings, but not a day passes that I do not thank my father, too, for teaching me that there is a time for every purpose under the heaven and the greatest gift we can offer Our Lord God is to pray with a loving, humble heart, ‘Not what I will, but what Thou wilt.’”

Eleanor’s eyes searched the other woman’s face, but she felt letdown, hoping for more than that. “You make it sound so simple,” she said, and Rhiannon shook her head so vehemently that her veil swung from side to side.

“Oh, no,” she said. “It is not simple at all. Indeed, it may be the most difficult task you ever undertake in this life, my lady. But think upon this. What other choices have you?”

If Eleanor had been surprised by Rhiannon’s unexpected visit, she was dumbfounded by the identity of her next visitor. On a cold, overcast day in late December, that same mournful servant announced the arrival of the Lady Emma, sister of the English king.

Emma had taken one disapproving glance at Eleanor’s accommodations and sent the plump, moon-faced Edith to the great hall. “The wench does understand the word for ‘wine’?” she asked, seating herself beside Eleanor with a rustle of silken skirts. “Or is she likely to come back with verjuice or buttermilk?”

“No, ‘wine’ was one of the first words I taught her,” Eleanor said with a smile. “Whatever are you doing here in Wiltshire, Emma? Rhiannon said you were attending Harry’s Christmas Court at Windsor.”

“I was, but I chose to leave earlier than I’d first planned. It was not as entertaining as I’d hoped.”

Eleanor studied her sister-in-law with curious, speculative eyes. They’d always gotten along well enough, although they’d never been confidantes; the twenty-five-year gap in their ages had not been conducive to greater intimacy. She’d always thought Emma was one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen; like Hal, she’d inherited Geoffrey le Bel’s striking good looks. She was fashionably fair, with cornflower-blue eyes and sunlit flaxen hair hidden now by wimple and veil, blessed with good bones, deep dimples, and an ethereal, delicate appearance that led people, especially men, to miss the steel in her spine. Now she busied herself in placing a cushion behind her back before saying nonchalantly,

“I brought you a New Year’s gift, a tame magpie in a wicker cage. Alas, though, a clumsy servant let it escape.”

“I thank you for the thought,” Eleanor said, although she was not disappointed, for she did not fancy keeping a captive bird as a pet, unable to soar into the sky as God intended. “But if you are returning to Wales, surely Sarum is greatly out of your way?”

“It would be, if I were going back to Wales. But I intend to take ship at Southampton by week’s end, assuming the winds are favorable. I want to visit my son.”

Eleanor remembered that Emma had a small son, born of her first marriage. As the young Lord of Laval, he’d not been able to accompany her into Wales, yet another reason for Emma to begrudge her marriage to Davydd ab Owain. “I am gladdened to see you,” she said, “but I’ll admit to some surprise. Most people seem to fear that the king’s disfavor is contagious.”

Emma’s shoulders twitched in a graceful shrug. “I doubt that Rhiannon had much gossip to share with you, whereas I have enough scandals and rumors and idle talk to entertain you for months to come. Consider it my good deed for the year.”

They were interrupted then by Edith’s return, carefully balancing a tray with wine cups and wafers. She was a good-hearted girl, and beamed when Eleanor thanked her in her own tongue. Motivated as much by boredom as anything else, Eleanor had begun to learn a few phrases of English; on her bad days, she feared that she might be fluent in English by the time her captivity ended, either by release or death.

“I am assuming that you are as innocent of recent happenings as a cloistered nun,” Emma declared, taking a swallow of wine and grimacing at the taste. “Harry’s son Geoff is now the Bishop of Lincoln, as the Holy Father approved his election, and he was formally welcomed into his city in August. But Harry then decided that he should continue with his schooling ere he is actually consecrated and will be sending him to Tours for further study, much to Geoff’s relief.”

Eleanor had always had a good relationship with Geoff, but she was sure that was one more casualty of the rebellion, as badly ruptured as her friendship with Ranulf. She thought it a pity that her husband had not found a destiny for his son that was a more comfortable fit, but she refrained from commenting, not wanting to risk alienating Emma with criticism of her brother.

“I imagine Rhiannon told you of Rainald’s death, and that Richard and Geoffrey had some success against rebels in Poitou and Brittany. It looks as if marriage negotiations for Joanna are on again, and the King of Sicily is sending envoys to the English court in the spring.”

Eleanor frowned, saying nothing. She’d approved of the match, which would give Joanna a crown and a husband likely to treat her well, but now she could think only that if her daughter were sent off to Sicily, she might never see the girl again.

“As for the Clifford slut, Harry makes no secret that she shares his bed, but he has so far refrained from flaunting her at court. When he needs a woman to grace his table or act as hostess, he relies upon Marguerite, most likely in a vain attempt to mollify Hal.”

Rosamund Clifford was the least of Eleanor’s troubles. “‘A vain attempt,’” she echoed. “Are you saying that Harry and Hal are at odds again? It was my understanding that they’d made peace and all was well between them.”

“On the surface, it is,” Emma said, pausing to sip more wine. “They were together day and night this year past, riding the length and breadth of England as they dealt with the duties of kingship. They made a pilgrimage to Canterbury to give thanks to St Thomas, held forest courts in Nottingham and York, forced the Earl of Gloucester to yield Bristol Castle, met with the Welsh princes this summer, then traveled north to receive the allegiance of the Scots king and his barons. I suspect Harry is trying to keep Hal so busy that he does not have time to collect new grievances, but if so, it is not working as well as he’d hoped.”

Eleanor thought it interesting that Emma had dismissed her husband with that casual phrase, “the Welsh princes,” but she was far more intrigued by the possibility of dissention between father and son. “What are Hal’s grievances?”

“The usual complaints-not enough money, not enough time to himself, not enough authority of his own. As long as they are yoked together, Hal is going to be utterly overshadowed by his sire, and he likes it not. Lately he seems to be looking for reasons to disagree with his father, although he does have the right of it in their squabble about the forest courts. But I find it hard to believe that he is truly so concerned with the injustice of it, think he is just using the issue as a way to assert his independence.”

“What do you mean, ‘the injustice of it’?” Eleanor asked, and Emma smiled, thinking that she sounded more like the prideful Duchess of Aquitaine at that moment than a royal prisoner resigned to her fate.

“During the rebellion, Harry had proclaimed free hunting in the royal forests. But he’s had a change of heart, and he is now amercing stiff fines against those who took him at his word. Even his justiciar protested, producing the royal writ authorizing such trespasses. Harry would not be dissuaded, though, and ordered both barons and clerics into his court as he traveled around the country. Not a popular move for certes, one that has stirred up resentment against him.”

“He must be in great need of money,” Eleanor said thoughtfully, “to resort to such drastic measures. The cost of putting down the rebellion must have been higher than he’d anticipated.”

“I daresay you’re right,” Emma agreed. “But I think he also sees it as a way to reassert the authority of the Crown, reminding his subjects and vassals that the lax days of the past are gone for good. He has always been strong-willed, but he is less amenable to compromise now than he once was, less concerned about the fairness of his decisions. His seizure of the earldom of Cornwall is a good example of that.”

“Rainald’s earldom?” Eleanor paused for a moment to recall the late earl’s family circumstances. He’d claimed the vast earldom through his wife, a great heiress who’d also been unstable of mind. They’d had three daughters and a sickly son, who’d not survived his father, leaving him with a natural son, Rico, who was barred from inheritance by his out-of-wedlock birth. But even lacking a male heir, the earldom should have been divided among his daughters and their husbands.

“That does not sound like Harry,” she said. “God knows, he could be stubborn once he made up his mind, but he was rarely arbitrary, and the only time he was truly unjust was when he exiled Becket’s kin and household in a fit of fury.”

Emma shrugged again. “Well, if he has indeed changed for the worse, you must bear some of the responsibility for that, no?”

She’d half-expected Eleanor to flare up, and was surprised when the other woman nodded. “Yes, I suppose I must.”

“Good heavens,” she said, faintly mocking but without real malice, “has captivity caused you to examine your conscience, Sister?”

This time it was Eleanor’s turn to shrug. “It helps to pass the time,” she said composedly and, as their eyes met, Emma was suddenly glad that she’d followed this inexplicable impulse and detoured to Sarum.

“I promised you scandal, too,” she said. “But alas, it is not one you’ll take pleasure in, for it involves your niece, your sister Petronilla’s elder daughter.”

“Isabelle? What has happened?”

“It seems she took those troubadours’ tales about courtly love too much to heart, or at least her husband thought so. Flanders was apparently not fertile ground for notions of romance and besotted swains and unrequited love. Philip caught Isabelle with one of his knights in compromising circumstances. She swore that they were not lovers, as did the man, but Philip was not convinced. He ordered the knight to be beaten nigh onto death with a mace, then hung by his heels over a cesspit until he suffocated.”

“Jesu,” Eleanor breathed. “What did he do to Isabelle?”

“Well, he would not end the marriage, for then he’d lose her inheritance, Vermandois. So he somehow ‘persuaded’ her to assign her rights to him.” Emma dropped all pretense of insouciance and said, with a hard edge now to her voice, “Better we not know how he managed that.”

“Indeed,” Eleanor said, just as grimly. “God help the girl. It does not matter if she was guilty of adultery or not, does it? The mere appearance of impropriety was enough to damn her.”

Emma nodded, and they both fell silent for a time, contemplating the bleak future of Isabelle of Vermandois and the sad fate of her alleged lover. “I never thought I’d say this,” Eleanor said finally, “but I am glad that my sister is dead. She’d be half mad with fear for her daughter, whilst knowing there was little she could do.”

Emma decided to overlook the unsatisfactory quality of the wine and drained her cup. “There is something else you need to know, Eleanor. Last month, Harry met with Cardinal Ugo Pierleoni, a papal legate he’d invited to England.”

“Harry sought the cardinal out?” Eleanor was astonished, for no papal legate had set foot on English soil during the twenty-one years of her husband’s reign. It did not take her long to guess why Henry wanted to consult a papal legate, and she said, with a thin smile, “So he wants to see if the Pope would be agreeable to the dissolution of his marriage.”

“Well, ostensibly the cardinal’s mission was to settle the interminable feuding between the Sees of York and Canterbury, but I think you can safely assume that the question of your marriage came up in conversation.”

“He’d have no trouble finding grounds for annulment,” Eleanor conceded. “Louis and I made use of that reliable pretext, consanguinity, and Harry could invoke it, too, for we are actually more closely related by blood than Louis and I were. Or if he wanted to break new ground, I suppose he could raise the specter of treason. But then he’d find himself in the very same predicament that faced Louis. Once our marriage was ended, he’d lose any claim to Aquitaine. Somehow I cannot envision Harry being quite as trusting as Louis, bidding me farewell to return to my own duchy, knowing how happy the French king would be to come to my defense, how eager to fulfill his obligations as my liege lord.”

“I agree,” Emma said. “However much Harry might want to rid himself of you, he’d not be willing to yield up Aquitaine, either to you or Richard. It is a tangled coil for certes, a Gordian knot. But this I know. If there is a man capable of escaping that maze, it is my brother.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said reluctantly, “you may well be right. At least I will not be taken by surprise now. Thank you, Emma, for the warning.”

“You are welcome.” Emma rose without haste, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her wimple. “There is one more matter,” she said, “one more good deed I can do for you. Rhiannon told me about the milkmaid.” Her gaze flicked toward the oblivious Edith, an expression of disdain turning down that lovely mouth. “I think I can do us both a good turn, for one of my ladies-in-waiting has been pining away in Wales. I’d send her back to Normandy, but she has no family there. She’s thrice a widow, but barren, and she is too proud to impose upon cousins. Why not speak with her? If she suits you, I’ll be spared her sulks and complaints, and at the least, you’ll have an attendant who speaks French.”

“Would she be willing? It could be argued that serving me is a form of captivity in and of itself. Since she’s not taken vows, I assume the quiet of the cloister holds no appeal for her.”

Emma’s smile was dismissive. “Trust me, she’ll thank God fasting for the chance to escape from Wales.”

Eleanor let her reach the door before she spoke again. “Emma…I have to ask, if only out of curiosity. Why did you come to see me? Why did you warn me that Harry is pondering an annulment?”

Emma paused, silent for so long that Eleanor decided she was not going to answer. “Let’s just say,” she said, “that it was a gesture of good will, one unhappy wife to another.”

Amaria de Torigny was a still-handsome woman in her forties, with wide-set dark eyes, strong but comely features, and more curves than were fashionable. She bore Eleanor’s scrutiny with equanimity, and answered readily enough when she was asked of her history. Yes, she was indeed kin to the abbot of Mont St Michel, a second cousin, she believed. And yes, she had been wed three times and thrice widowed, first as a lass to a neighbor old enough to be her grandfather, then to a Norman knight, and lastly to the steward of the Breton lord, Andre de Vitre, adding that she’d entered the service of the Lady Emma after her last husband’s death.

“And you have no wish to try matrimony a fourth time?” Eleanor queried, both curious and wanting to be sure Amaria could be content in the seclusion of Sarum.

“It would take a brave man to take me to wife, given my sad marital history. To be widowed twice is not so out of the ordinary, but when you lose a third husband, people start to take notice,” Amaria said, so matter-of-factly that Eleanor almost missed it, the faintest gleam of very dry humor.

“And you have no close kin?”

“Yes…I do, Madame,” Amaria corrected, sounding surprised. “I have several brothers and a sister who is a nun at Fontevrault Abbey, and of course, my Laval cousins.”

“I must have misheard the Lady Emma,” Eleanor said, “for I thought she said that you had no children or family back in Normandy.”

“The Lady Emma misspoke. I bore my second husband two babes, one who died when we overlay her in our bed and one who was stillborn. And the Laval cousins I mentioned are kin to Lady Emma’s late husband.”

Eleanor was quiet for a moment, assessing what she’d so far learned. This was a strong woman, strong enough to have buried two children and three husbands and survived. Yet there was something that did not ring true about the entire matter. Emma was not particularly interested in the personal lives of others, and may well have forgotten that Amaria had lost two babies in infancy, assuming that she’d even known. But how could she have forgotten that Amaria was kin to her husband?

“You are wondering what pieces are missing from this puzzle,” Amaria said unexpectedly. “May I speak candidly, Madame?”

“I wish you would.”

“The truth is that the Lady Emma had her own reasons for her offer to you. I have been with her for a year and a half now, and I think I have worn out my welcome. But I am her late husband’s cousin, and so she would not want to dismiss me out of hand. If I entered your service, my lady, my family back in Laval would feel that she’d done right by me. It is true you are in disgrace, but you are still the Queen of England, and that would not fail to impress my brothers.”

“What have you done to displease Emma?” Eleanor asked, although she thought she already knew the answer to that.

“I have my share of failings, Madame, as do we all. But the one that seems to vex the Lady Emma the most is my unfortunate habit of speaking my mind too forthrightly. I’ve never learned the art of dissembling, and it seems that is highly valued in a lady’s maid. Apparently too much candor can become tedious, or so Lady Emma tells me.”

“I suspected as much,” Eleanor said, suppressing a smile. Any woman who’d tell a queen to her face that she was “in disgrace” would not flourish in the artificial, mannered society of the highborn. The “art of dissembling” was more than a virtue in the corridors of power; it was a survival skill.

Amaria was watching her intently. “I suppose I’ve ruined my chances,” she said, sounding resigned but not apologetic. “I did not think it was likely you’d take me on, in truth. Thank you, my lady.”

As she started to rise, Eleanor waved her back. “You are too hasty, Lady Amaria. As it happens, I think you’ll do very well.”

“Truly?” Amaria hid neither her surprise nor her pleasure. “I’d never have wagered on that outcome, my lady!” she said and grinned. “If my outspokenness did not put you off, I feared you might be suspicious, wondering if this was not a plot concocted by Lady Emma and the king to place a spy in your household.”

Eleanor laughed outright. “The thought did cross my mind. But I could see no profit in it. You see, Amaria, the victor rarely bothers to spy upon the vanquished.” She rose then, indicating the interview was over. “You may tell the Lady Emma that I will be pleased to have you join my household, such as it is.”

Amaria had gotten to her feet as soon as Eleanor rose. “You will not be sorry, my lady. Well, at least I hope not,” she amended and curtsied before moving toward the door. There she paused. “Madame…I would not pretend to know the king’s mind, have only seen him briefly. But at Windsor he seemed surprisingly tense and troubled for a man you call the ‘victor.’” And then, fearing she’d overstepped her bounds before she’d even entered Eleanor’s service, she curtsied again and backed out the door.

Eleanor sat down again on the settle. There was some satisfaction in the image conjured up by Amaria’s words. As wretched as she was, she wanted Harry to be miserable, too. And yet, she was aware of an underlying sense of sadness. Theirs may have been the first war in which there were no winners, only losers.