Devil's Brood

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

June 1177

Paris, France

Marguerite’s bedchamber was shadowed and still, although outside the morning sun was bathing Paris in blinding white light. As Hal entered, one of his wife’s attendants rose from her seat by the bed and came to meet him. Most of her ladies were high-spirited, pretty girls, but Agace was well into her forties, for she’d been with the young queen since the latter’s childhood, and they often seemed like mother and daughter to Hal. He was thankful that she’d been with Marguerite during her delivery, and he was heartened now by her vigil, sure that no evil would befall Marguerite as long as the formidable Agace was on guard.

“How is she this morn?” he asked softly, and smiled when she assured him that Marguerite had passed a peaceful night. “Our lad,” he said, “is doing well, too. His wet-nurse said she got him to take a little more milk, and that is surely a good sign, no?”

Agace regarded him somberly, wondering if he was truly so oblivious of his son’s danger. Marguerite’s labor had been long and difficult and at one point, they’d been terrified that her life was bleeding away. She’d finally given birth to one of the smallest babies Agace had ever seen, his skin so red he seemed badly sunburned. She’d been so sure he was stillborn that she burst into tears. The midwife had breathed life into his little lungs, but she was not sanguine about his chances of survival, telling Agace privately that the baby had many battles ahead of him. Three days had passed since his birth, and Agace saw no great improvement in his condition. No one had told Marguerite of their fears, but Agace knew she shared them. Each time she cradled her son, she seemed spellbound by his every breath, mesmerized by the feeble sound of his heartbeat.

The midwife had been far more candid with Hal than Marguerite. To no avail, Agace now realized. He could not face the fact that his son might die, and so it was not going to happen. Hal’s reality was whatever he wanted it to be. She felt honor-bound to warn him, nonetheless, that he ought to be braced for the worst, as it was not for mortal men to understand the mysterious workings of the Almighty. “My lord, the midwife said that babies born early are-”

“Hal?” Marguerite’s voice came sleepily from the bed, and he hastened to her side, Agace and her forebodings forgotten.

“I am right here, my heart.” Leaning over, he kissed her gently. “I have something for the new mother,” he said, producing an object swathed in silk. Marguerite unwrapped it to reveal an ivory box and, inside, a delicate opal ring set in gold filigree. Sliding it onto her finger, Hal kissed her again. “Opals are said to be lucky.”

She smiled, praying that he was right, for their son needed all the luck he could get. “How is he this morn?”

“Fine. All agree he is a handsome little lad, bearing a strong resemblance to his father. Except that he is as bald as an egg, of course!”

“Go and fetch him for me, Agace,” Marguerite said, and the older woman was happy to obey. She did not have far to go, for Marguerite had insisted that the baby’s cradle be placed in the antechamber; she would have had it beside her bed if Hal and Agace had not objected, fearing that a newborn’s wailing would rob her of the sleep she so desperately needed. She had reluctantly acquiesced, but now she said resolutely, “I am going to keep him with me tonight. I feel much stronger, Hal, and it will ease my mind to have him close at hand.”

Through the open doorway, they heard Agace’s voice and the answering murmur of the wet-nurse. “If you insist,” Hal agreed, pretending to admire her new ring so he could press a kiss into the palm of her hand. “He does not cry much, is a very good baby so far, no trouble at all…once again taking after his sire.”

The scream was like the slash of a sword, splintering their last moment of peace into an infinity of pain. It was followed at once by another choked cry and then, weeping. Hal swung toward the sound, his expression one of denial and disbelief. But Marguerite knew better, and she began to sob.

Eleanor and Amaria were playing a desultory game of chess, for it was too hot to concentrate. They’d opened the windows of their bedchamber in hopes of attracting an evening breeze, but the air still simmered with the day’s heat, offering no relief. Muted sounds came drifting in, the arrival of late riders, a barking dog, the tolling of distant church bells. Eleanor glanced again at the chessboard and then sat back with a sigh. “Let’s keep this till the morrow, Amaria.”

Smothering a yawn, Amaria rose and stretched. “Shall I pour you some wine, Madame?” Eleanor nodded and then they both turned, hearing the sounds of footsteps in the stairwell. There was a soft knock and the door swung open, almost simultaneously.

“Harry?” Eleanor stared at her husband in surprise. “What are you doing back in Winchester?”

As Henry stepped forward into the circle of light cast by the candles, Eleanor frowned, thinking he looked exhausted, shadows lurking like bruises under his eyes, his mouth so tautly drawn that she could not imagine those lips ever curving in a smile. “Dame Amaria,” he said politely, “I need to speak with my wife in private.” And Eleanor was suddenly frightened.

Once Amaria had departed, Henry moved toward Eleanor and seated himself across the table from her. He seemed to be favoring his left leg, and she said, “You’ve hurt yourself.”

“It’s nothing, an old injury that has flared up again.” He did not speak for several moments, but she did not urge him, sure that she did not want to hear whatever he’d come to tell her. “There is no easy way to say this,” he said at last. “On June 19 in Paris, Marguerite gave birth to a son. The baby came before his time, was too frail. He only lived for three days.”

Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Harry…those poor children. A wound like that will never heal…”

“I know.”

She dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I will want to write to them.”

He nodded, and for a time there was only silence. When he got to his feet, he moved as slowly as an old man, and she realized that his pain was physical, too; his limp was much more pronounced now. “Thank you for telling me,” she said, and he nodded again.

He hobbled to the door, and then paused, searching for words of comfort even though he knew there were none. “He was baptized ere he died. At least there is that. They’ll know his innocent soul has gone straight to God’s embrace.”

“What was he named?”

He seemed reluctant to answer, and when he finally murmured, “William,” she understood why. That had been the name of their firstborn, the son who’d died two months before his third birthday. Their eyes met and held, and for an anguished moment, they were grieving-not for the grandson they’d never seen-but for the son whose death had left such a ragged, gaping hole in their lives, the son whose death seemed even more tragic as the years went by and Hal’s follies mounted. What if their Will had lived, if he and not Hal had been the heir? That was not a question either of them had ever asked aloud, but it was one that occurred to them both on those nights when sleep wouldn’t come and they lay awake in the dark, trying to understand how things had gone so terribly wrong for their family.

After leaving Winchester, Henry passed a week at Stanstede in Sussex, waiting for a favorable wind to cross to Normandy. During this time, he gave the church at Wicumbe to the Godstow nunnery in Rosamund’s memory, and he learned that the French king had gotten a papal legate to threaten an Interdict against his domains unless he stopped delaying the marriage of his son Richard to Louis’s daughter Alys. But his leg injury was not healing as he’d hoped, and he returned to Winchester until his health improved.

The summer heat wave continued; August was even hotter than July. Eleanor and Amaria had taken a wooden embroidery frame out into a secluded corner of the gardens, and they were frowning over their handiwork. “Let me show you again how to make a couched stitch, Madame,” Amaria said, hiding her surprise that the queen handled a needle so clumsily; she had assumed that everything came easily to Eleanor.

“Let me try.” Eleanor knotted a length of silk thread, did her best to imitate Amaria, and stabbed her thumb with the needle. “Damnation!”

Neither one had heard the soft footsteps and they were startled now by laughter. Amaria turned to find they were being watched by a slender woman about Eleanor’s age, fashionably dressed in a sapphire-colored bliaut, girdled at the hip with a jeweled belt. Her dark eyes agleam with amusement, she sauntered forward, saying, “I never thought I’d see Eleanor of Aquitaine with a needle in her hand.”

Amaria was startled by the familiarity, but when she glanced at Eleanor, she saw that while the queen was surprised by this stranger’s appearance, she was also pleased. “Shall I fetch a thimble, my lady?” she said, assuming that if Eleanor did not want time alone with the other woman, she’d say so. When she didn’t, Amaria made a tactful withdrawal.

“Do sit down,” Eleanor said, gesturing toward the other end of the bench. “What are you doing here, Maud?”

Maud sat. “I was disquieted to hear that Harry had delayed his return to Normandy. I’d never known him even to acknowledge a physical infirmity, much less change his plans because of one, and I feared that he must be at death’s door.”

“No, but he has been in enough pain to make him loath to ride a horse, much less make a Channel crossing.”

“What ails him?”

“He did not tell you?”

“You know how difficult it is to pry an answer out of Harry. He muttered some foolishness about taking one misstep too many. Did he have an accident and if so, why did I not hear about it?”

“Because,” Eleanor said, “it happened three years ago, when he was kicked in the thigh by an unruly horse.”

“Ah, yes, I remember that.” Maud was not surprised that Henry should be troubled by an old wound, for that often happened in their world. Poor Harry, she thought. It must be an infection of the bone. “I am so sorry about Hal’s baby, Eleanor.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor said simply, acknowledging Maud’s sympathy at the same time that she indicated the hurt was still too fresh to probe. “Does Harry know you are here with me?” she asked, with just the hint of a challenge.

Maud took it up without hesitation. “Yes, he does. I got his permission ere I sought you out.” Answering the question that Eleanor had not asked, she said, “Had he refused, I would have respected his wishes.”

That was a diplomatic declaration of loyalty, a discreet warning that she would not be putting herself or her family at risk for Eleanor’s sake. Eleanor did not blame her, though. “I am gladdened to see you, Maud,” she said, and smiled. “You’ve always had an ear for choice gossip, and I hope you’ve a scandal or two to share.”

“A few. But you must be hungry for word of your children. Shall I begin with them?”

“Actually, Harry has been good this past year about keeping me informed of family matters. He notified me when Joanna came ashore at Naples, and when she reached Palermo at Candlemas, he sent me an account of her spectacular entry into the city. It was night and there were so many torches flaring that the city seemed on fire. Joanna was mounted on a white palfrey, clad in her best robes, with her hair loose about her shoulders, a magnet for every eye. She and William were wed less than a fortnight after her arrival, and that same day she was crowned by the Archbishop of Palermo.”

Maud knew her own daughter would have been overwhelmed by such splendor and ceremony, but Joanna was made of stronger stuff and she suspected that Eleanor’s daughter would have enjoyed being the center of attention, the brightest star in the firmament. She hoped that the fates would be kind to Joanna, that she would find contentment in her new life and her new island home.

“Harry has also informed me whenever Richard or Geoffrey have won a victory over Poitevin or Breton rebels,” Eleanor continued, “and he even kept me apprised of John’s prospects, telling me that he plans to make John Lord of Ireland, and letting me know last summer when he plight-trothed John to your brother William’s daughter Avisa.”

“So you know of that, too? Harry is certainly determined to make sure that none ever call John ‘Lackland’ again.” The proposed marriage could make John Earl of Gloucester one day since William did not have any male heirs. But the earl did have two other daughters, and Maud knew their husbands were very disgruntled by the marriage settlement, for under normal circumstances, the earldom would have been divided between all three daughters. The Viscount of Limoges had been so outraged when Henry refused to allow Rainald’s earldom of Cornwall to pass to his wife and her sisters that he’d been in rebellion ever since. Maud hoped that the earldom of Gloucester would not prove to be as disruptive. She hoped, too, that John appreciated how lucky he was; few youngest sons were so lavishly provided for.

“Well,” she said lightly, “I did promise you some good gossip. I’m sure you’ve heard that Hugh Bigod died on pilgrimage-proof that the Almighty has a sense of humor-and his son Roger is feuding fiercely with his stepmother, Hugh’s widow. There are rumors that Louis is considering wedding his youngest daughter, Agnes, to the Emperor of Byzantium’s son. The Earl of Essex is in the Holy Land with the Count of Flanders, and Harry’s sister Emma is in Wales with child.”

Eleanor wondered if Emma had welcomed the news of her pregnancy. The pressure to produce a male heir could be intense, as she well remembered from her years with Louis. But a child also sealed her fate; a barren wife could hope for the dissolution of her marriage. “All that is interesting, Maud, but hardly scandalous or shocking.”

“This next story is both. One of your vassals, the Count of La Marche, suspected his wife of infidelity. He repudiated her and had her supposed lover put to death, on Easter, of all holy days. But his only son died suddenly soon thereafter, and he is said to be in despair, stricken as much by guilt as by grief. It seems his ‘proof’ of adultery was not as conclusive as he first thought, and now he fears that God took his son as punishment for executing an innocent man.” She paused then, almost imperceptibly. “And Rosamund Clifford died last December at Godstow nunnery.”

“Ah,” Eleanor said, “I see.” That explained the mystery, then, why she’d withdrawn from the court. “Harry has not been very lucky of late, has he?”

“I’d say not,” Maud agreed. Noting Eleanor’s apparent indifference to Rosamund, she wondered if she should make any mention of Harry’s latest leman, and decided to be circumspect for once.

Eleanor seemed to have read her mind, though. “So tell me, Maud…who is Harry swiving these days? Somehow I doubt that he’s been living like a monk just because Rosamund wanted to live her last days as a nun.”

Maud grinned. “No, not Harry. He’s had bedmates, of course, this past year. And I’ve heard talk that he’s taken up with the daughter of the Lord of Conches, but her name escapes me at the moment.”

“Most likely it escapes Harry, too,” Eleanor said, but she sounded cynically amused, not bitter.

Maud studied the other woman thoughtfully. “I must say that you seem to be faring much better than I’d have expected.”

“Better than I’d have expected, too,” Eleanor admitted. “The first two years were the hardest, and not just because I was so cut off from the rest of the world. I still had hope, then, you see, and hope can be both a blessing and a curse. But it has been much easier for me at Winchester. It helped greatly to be able to spend so much time with Joanna last summer, and to see my sons again, of course. And, as you can tell, Harry is a more gentle gaoler these days. We had one dreadful storm at Falaise and several lesser tempests after that, but lately the weather has been almost peaceful…almost.”

“Yes, I can see that Harry’s wounds are not quite as raw. But neither are yours, and that surprises me. You are still his prisoner, after all.”

“Good of you to point that out,” Eleanor said dryly. “Trust me, I am not likely to forget.” Rising, she said, “Come, walk with me.” They moved from the sun into the shade, halting under the spreading branches of a medlar tree. “When Emma came to visit me,” Eleanor said after a silence, “she expressed surprise that I seemed to have been examining my conscience, and I told her that it helped to pass the time. Time is a prisoner’s worst enemy, Maud. Suddenly there are so many empty hours to fill, endless days to get through. So, yes, I have been thinking a great deal about my past and my future. I even came to understand why Harry and I misunderstood each other so fatally.”

“And what did you decide?”

“Harry has always seen me, first and foremost, as his wife. But I have always seen myself, first and foremost, as the Duchess of Aquitaine.”

Maud had reached that same conclusion, but she hadn’t expected Eleanor to see it, too. “So if you had it to do over again…?”

“I would have paid more heed to your sound advice,” Eleanor said with a slight smile. “And I would have listened more to the mother, less to the duchess. I did not realize how grievously Joanna would be hurt, and I should have. Nor is Joanna the only one to suffer for our family mistakes and misjudgments. I am sure my older daughters have been sorely troubled, too.”

“And John,” Maud said, thinking of the wary little boy she’d seen at the Nottingham Christmas Court.

“Yes, and John,” Eleanor agreed. “Say what you will of us, Maud, Harry and I do nothing by halves. I still think that I was in the right and he was in the wrong. You cannot treat a mettlesome destrier the way you would a plodding sumpter horse, not without goading it to defiance or utterly breaking its spirit, and I fear that the mistakes he has made and continues to make with our sons will haunt him till the end of his days. But when I look back upon the scorched, barren battlefield that our marriage has become, I can take no pride in being right.”

Maud had cocked her head, regarding Eleanor with something almost like awe. “By God,” she said, “you truly have changed!”

“No…not yet,” Eleanor said, with another ghostly smile. “But I am trying.”

Eleanor was surprised when Henry did not appear for dinner in the great hall, for it was filled with highborn guests, including three bishops. Taking his steward aside after the meal, she got from him a reluctant admission that the king’s leg was worse. As she and Amaria made their way back to her chamber, she came to a sudden halt, sent Amaria on ahead, and impulsively headed for Henry’s bedchamber.

The antechamber was crowded, as always, but Henry’s brother Hamelin was guarding access to the inner sanctum, and he reacted to Eleanor’s entrance with outrage, barring the door with his own body.

“Oh, for the love of God, Hamelin,” Eleanor snapped, “stop acting like a damned fool and let me by.”

“Indeed, I will not. The king is ailing, and he does not need to be vexed by unwelcome visitors, especially those who might prove injurious to his health!”

“I do not have time for this nonsense!” Over Hamelin’s shoulder, she could catch a glimpse of her husband, and called out, “Harry, will you tell this dolt to admit me?”

To her annoyance, he took his time in thinking it over. “Let her pass, Hamelin,” he said at last. “I promise to be on my guard.”

When Hamelin grudgingly gave way, she swept by him disdainfully, then slammed the door in his face. “Thank you, my lord husband,” she said, with sarcasm that Henry pretended to take at face value.

“Glad to be of service. You must miss being able to order men around.” Moving to the table, he poured wine for himself. “Why are you here, Eleanor?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“My lucky day,” he muttered, but he poured a second cup for her.

“If I promise to be on my best behavior,” she said, “can we conduct this conversation sitting down?” When he hesitated, she scowled at him, a scowl he’d seen hundreds of times over the years. “Jesu, Harry, must you be so stubborn? Does your doctor have to tie you to a chair to get you off that bad leg?”

He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “No, he just has to set you on me.” Limping across the chamber, he sat down heavily upon his bed.

Eleanor followed with their wine cups. Pulling a chair closer to the bed, she studied him critically. “Your fever has returned, else you’d not look so flushed. Harry, how do you expect to heal if you will not get the rest you need?”

“Enough,” he said impatiently. She noticed, though, that he settled back against the pillows with a sigh of relief. “So…what do you want to talk about?”

“I heard something very interesting in the hall today-that you and Louis are locking horns again, this time over Richard’s marriage to Alys. And no, it was not Maud who told me; I overheard your justiciar talking with Ralf de Glanville. Is it true that you are facing the threat of an Interdict?”

“Not a serious one. Louis complained last year to the Pope that I was unduly delaying the marriage. To placate him, the Pope agreed to send a legate with a papal bull that would lay my lands under Interdict, but he gave the legate no instructions to publish it, for the Holy See does not want another breach with England. Louis has been making such a pest of himself, though, that the legate insisted that I meet with them to discuss the matter-which I’ll gladly do if this blasted leg ever heals.”

“When you meet them, what then? I know you’re not keen on the marriage.”

“Why should I be? You think I want to hand another son over to Louis, trussed up like a Martinmas stoat? That worked out so well with Hal, after all. And the girl brings no marriage portion to speak of. I must have been mad to agree to the betrothal.”

Eleanor knew why he had, of course. He’d been eager to get Louis to acknowledge his sons as his heirs, Hal for England and Normandy and Anjou, Richard for Aquitaine, and Geoffrey for Brittany. She’d often thought it was ironic that one of his purest impulses-his desire to protect the succession for Hal-had been such an unmitigated disaster. “So what will you tell Louis and the legate?”

“That I am quite willing to have the marriage take place-once Louis fulfills his side of the bargain and turns over the dowries he promised-the French Vexin for Marguerite and the city of Bourges for Alys.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened at the sheer audacity of the demand. “Harry, Louis did turn over the Norman Vexin to you, and we both know he never promised Bourges for Alys.”

“The Norman Vexin was mine by rights; why would I settle for that? And I am sure Louis would have offered Bourges if it had occurred to him at the time. What father would want his daughter to go to her marriage bed as a pauper?”

“Louis would sooner give you every drop of blood in his body ere he’d surrender Bourges. So what are you really after?”

He shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Very well. Clearly, you are seeking to put Louis on the defensive. If he backs off from insisting upon the marriage, you are then free to look for a more profitable bride for Richard. If he agrees to provide a dowry, you still win. My guess is that you are simply trying to make the problem go away, mayhap beguile Louis into making a peace that will allow you to meddle in the Auvergne and Berry, where you and the French have competing claims.”

Henry had forgotten how sharp she could be, had forgotten how much he’d once enjoyed talking to her about the stratagems, subterfuges, and feints that were such an important part of a king’s arsenal. Reluctant to admit that she’d read him so easily, he did not reply.

Eleanor sipped her wine while she mulled over the implications of this latest clash between Henry and Louis. “What does Richard think of all this? Since Alys is his betrothed, I assume you did mention it to him?”

He surprised her then by saying, “As it happens, I did. We talked about this ere he returned to Poitou last summer. He showed very little interest in the subject, was much more interested in discussing the aid I’d provide against the Poitevin rebels.”

That rang true to Eleanor. She knew Richard had never indicated the slightest desire to wed Alys; she doubted that he’d ever given much thought to the girl at all. “So you are saying that Richard is indifferent, cares little whether he weds her or not.”

“That sums it up rather well. For certes, he is not burning to take a wife. Unlike Geoffrey, who keeps dropping hints heavier than anvils, reminding me that he is in his nineteenth year now and Constance is sixteen, more than old enough for the holy state of matrimony.”

That rang true, too, for Richard had nothing to gain by wedding Alys and Geoffrey had a great deal to gain by wedding Constance. Their marriage would validate his claim to Brittany, and he’d no longer be dependent upon Henry’s good will, would have power of his own. Eleanor suspected that the very reasons which made the marriage so attracttive to Geoffrey were why Henry seemed in no hurry for it to happen. But that was a worry for a later time, and more Geoffrey’s concern than hers. The hardest part of confinement was accepting the fact that she could no longer influence the course of events or even the interactions in her own family.

“It sounds,” she said, “as if you have the situation well in hand.”

He shot her a suspicious look. “And that sounds as if you are actually supporting me in this.”

“Why would I not? I agree that we can do better for Richard than Alys, and I’d like nothing better than to see Louis discomfited and humbled. He proved to be an even worse ally than he was a husband.”

“As you ought to have known,” he pointed out, and she acknowledged the truth of that with a rueful smile. He had propped himself up on his elbow and was regarding her so impassively that she realized she had not the slightest idea what he was thinking. “So,” he said, after a brief silence, “you’d raise no objections if I disavowed the plight-troth. But what if Richard truly wanted to wed the girl?”

“In that case, I would fight for the marriage till my last breath,” she murmured and saw that she’d finally managed to startle him.

“Your honesty is commendable, if rather reckless, for you’ve hardly reassured me of your good faith should I set you free.”

“Could you ever trust me again, Harry?”

He did not even pause for breath. “No, never.”

“Exactly,” she said. “So what would be the point of telling you what I thought you’d want to hear? I know marriage is not usually fertile ground for the truth, but mayhap a little truth-telling might have helped us avoid some of the grief of recent years.”

He was openly skeptical. “Are you saying that you’re going to forswear lies from now on, speak only God’s truth? I’ll believe that when unicorns roam the English countryside.”

“Go ahead,” she challenged, “ask me a question, then. But I ought to warn you that the rules of the game apply to you, too.”

He considered it, but she knew he was never one to refuse a challenge. “Very well. Do you regret the rebellion?”

“You can do better than that, Harry. Of course I do. Ask me something less obvious.”

“What do you regret? That you set my sons against me? Or that you lost?”

“Better,” she conceded. “Both. Now…your turn. Answer me honestly. If I’d demanded that you put Rosamund Clifford aside, would you have done so?”

“No.”

“And if I’d asked it of you?”

That gave him pause. “I am not sure,” he admitted. “I just do not know, Eleanor.”

“Fair enough. Your turn.”

She’d expected a question about Rosamund, for she knew he still thought jealousy was at the root of their estrangement. But what he asked was far more dangerous. “That day at Falaise…why did you not seek my forgiveness?”

She exhaled a soft breath. “Ah, Harry, we are getting into deep waters here.”

“An honest answer. Your rules, remember.”

“Very well. I did not want your forgiveness, not then.”

“And now?”

“Yes, I would ask your forgiveness now. But only if you asked mine in return.”

“Are we back to Rosamund again?” he said wearily. “So if I said I was sorry for taking her to my bed, that would have satisfied you? That would have been enough?”

“Indeed not! If you truly think I would rebel because you had a sugar-sop on the side, you do not know me at all and you never have.”

He frowned, but kept to the rules of the game, saying honestly, “Then I do not understand. But whatever answer you offer for your betrayal, it can neither explain nor justify your treachery. You were my wife. You owed loyalty to me above all others.”

“Obviously I did not see it like that,” she said coolly. “And if you’d wanted a meek little dormouse for a wife, you ought to have married your Rosamund. You cannot have it both ways, Harry. You wanted Aquitaine, enough to overlook that I was nine years older than you and had not given Louis a son and had a reputation that was frayed around the edges. You used my lands as a stepping-stone to the English throne. It seems hypocritical to bemoan the fact that I was not and would never be a docile, gentle creature without an independent thought in her head. You knew what you were getting with me. I was never one for sailing under false colors.”

“Yes, I wanted Aquitaine. But I also wanted you, and you know it. Do not make our marriage sound like such a one-sided bargain. You got what you wanted, too, Madame. I gave you a crown, and a better life than ever you’d had with Louis Capet. And you repaid me with the worst sort of betrayal. My sons would never have rebelled against me if not for you!”

“And you wonder why I did not seek your forgiveness? Because you blamed me for all and yourself for nothing! The mistakes were always mine, never yours. And nothing has changed, has it? You still see yourself as the innocent one, the victim. Well, I have just one last question for you, my lord husband. Come December, it will begin my fifth year as your prisoner. When you are forced to face the fact that our sons are still chafing under your stranglehold, what then? Who will you blame when they rebel again, Harry? And they will, for you seem utterly unable to learn from your mistakes!”

Henry started to swing off the bed, grimaced in pain, and fell back against the pillows. “I want you gone from this chamber, would to God I could have you gone from my life!”

Infuriated at being dismissed as if she were a servant, Eleanor got to her feet without haste, defiantly taking her time. “I never thought I’d be saying this, but you are a fool, Harry Fitz Empress, as much of a fool as Louis. You are the one who is alienating our sons, not me. I said you could not learn from your mistakes. Worse than that, you cannot even acknowledge them!”

“I’ll acknowledge one mistake right now. I ought to have pressured the Pope to annul our marriage, ought to have insisted that I would no longer tolerate you as my wife or queen. Had I done that, you’d be cloistered in some remote Irish nunnery today and I’d be rid of you for good!”

Eleanor strode to the door, then turned back to face him. “You are not only blind to the truth about our sons. You are equally blind to the truth about us. We’ve been wed for twenty-five years, have shared a bed for more than twenty of those years. I bore you eight children and we buried one together. 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.” And confident that she’d had the final word for once, she walked out and closed the door quietly behind her.