Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FIVE

February 1173

Near Limoges, Aquitaine

Eleanor’s eyes intently searched the sky. It was the blanched, faded blue of midwinter, leached of color and utterly empty barren of clouds and her missing peregrine. Her vexation was all the sharperbecause the hunt had begun with such promise. When a heron had been flushed from the rushes along the river, she’d detached the leash and the falcon launched itself from its perch on her leather glove, soaring up into the sun as it sought to gain height over its prey. And then it was diving down upon the heron, faster than any arrow, a dark angel bearing death in its talons. But the heron veered abruptly and the falcon missed. As it hurtled past, the heron turned upon its attacker, and suddenly the falcon was the one in flight, fleeing before the larger bird’s thrusting beak. The triumphant heron checked its pursuit and flew toward the safety of its river refuge, while Eleanor’s thwarted peregrine disappeared over the horizon.

Her falconer had repeatedly issued the recall and swung the lure up into the air, to no avail. A quarter hour had passed by now, with no sign of the errant falcon, but Eleanor continued to probe the sky, as if she could compel its return by sheer force of will, all the while muttering some of the most colorful, creative obscenities that the Countess of Chester had ever heard.

Moving her mare in closer, Maud looked at the queen with mock horror. “What language, my lady! Luckily my brother the bishop is not within earshot. Does your lord husband know you have such a command of curses?” she teased, and Eleanor tore her gaze away from the sky long enough to give Maud a look that was more impatient than amused.

“Who do you think I learned them from?” Her falconer had come back into view, shaking his head in defeat, and she swore again, as angry with herself as with the lost bird. “She was not ready,” she admitted, “needed more training. But I only brought two from Chinon and the other falcon is ailing with a catarrh.”

“Then you had no choice,” Maud pointed out, “for your royal guest was keen to go hawking. And he seems well pleased, so the day has not been a total loss.”

Following Maud’s gaze, Eleanor saw that the King of Navarre was indeed in a jovial mood, bantering with their host, the Viscount of Limoges, and Maud’s brother. Roger had taken no active part in the hunt, one of the few bishops who obeyed the Church’s ban on hawking for those in holy orders, and Sancho was joking about his abstention with the heavy-handed humor permitted to kings. Feeling the women’s eyes upon him, Roger sent a smile winging their way, and then turned back to deflecting the royal gibes.

“He does look content,” Eleanor conceded, and that was no small achievement, for the Navarrese king had been growing restless and irritable as the days passed and Henry did not arrive.

“Madame!” Aimar, the Viscount of Limoges, was guiding his stallion in her direction. “I am so sorry about the loss of your falcon,” he said, unhappy that the day’s success would be marred by this setback. “I took pains that all would go well, had my chaplain begin the hunt with a prayer that the birds would not stray. But I can assure you that she will be found. Each time I’ve been unlucky enough to lose one of my falcons, it has always been retrieved by the local villagers.”

Eleanor knew he was probably right. Any peasant spotting a belled hawk with leather jesses would know at once that it was a lord’s bird and worth a goodly reward. But she could not shake off her chagrin, for she never willingly relinquished something that was hers.

With an effort, she brought her attention back to the conversation. Viscount Aimar was telling them what he’d just learned from King Sancho: that the Saracens were as avid hunters as Christians, and even though they were infidels, they’d come up with a most intriguing means of controlling their hawks-by covering their heads with leather hoods until they were ready to be set upon their prey. Eleanor was no less interested in this new method than Aimar, and made a mental note to mention it to Henry, whose passion for hawking bordered on obsession. Aimar’s servants had begun to unload the wagons, setting up trestle tables and unpacking stools so the hunting party could take refreshments in comfort, and Eleanor did her best to dismiss her wayward falcon, holding out her hand so the viscount could help her dismount.

Rainald assisted his daughter from her mare, and then hastened over to do the same for his niece, wanting to know if Maud would be journeying with him, Ranulf, and Rhiannon when they returned to England. To his surprise, she refused, and with his usual tactlessness, he blurted out, “Why? You’ve been here for months. Are you not ready to go home yet?”

“The queen has kindly extended an invitation to remain at her court, Uncle, and I was glad to accept. Why not? I am a widow with grown children, and Bertrada is old enough now to act as Hugh’s lady, does not need a mother-in-law to dog her steps. Besides,” Maud added, with a grin that belied her years and any claims to matronly dignity, “what fool would prefer Chester to Poitiers?”

Rainald still looked baffled, but Maud and Eleanor traded smiles, both well content with the role that the Countess of Chester had chosen to play: a surrogate sister for the queen who still grieved for her blood sister. Viscount Aimar was hovering close by, waiting to escort her to the table, and Eleanor was turning toward him when her uncle stepped between them, murmuring a deferential “A moment, if I may, my lady.”

Eleanor allowed Raoul to draw her aside, and as soon as they were out of the viscount’s hearing, he said, “Harry and Hal are likely to be arriving any day now, and we may not have many opportunities for private conversation. Do you think this time together has served to mend the rift between them?”

“No, I do not.”

“A pity,” Raoul said, because convention seemed to demand it; a father’s estrangement from his son would be considered tragic by most people. For him, it would be a blessing, a God-given chance that might never come again. His loathing for his niece’s Angevin husband was not personal. He’d not liked her French husband either. He wanted Aquitaine to be ruled by their own, wanted no more foreigners over them.

Eleanor was regarding him with a sardonic half smile. “You really ought to get Harry to teach you how to mask your thoughts, Uncle. If you were any more eager to see the breach widen between them, you’d be panting like yonder greyhounds.”

He shrugged. “I’ve never lied to you, lass. You know what I want and why I want it.”

She was the first to look away. “I just wish,” she said, so softly he barely heard her, “that you were not quite so happy watching the death throes of my marriage.”

It was then that the bearers shouted and a grey heron broke cover near the river, powerful wings taking it up into the sky over their heads. Most of the hunting party had already relinquished their falcons and were moving toward the tables. But Richard’s bird of prey still perched upon his leather glove. His reaction was instantaneous and his gyrfalcon exploded into the air with breathtaking speed. Like the peregrine, it rose rapidly, and then it was plunging earthward, its sleek white body blurring into a streak of light as it caught up with its quarry. They collided in midair and then plummeted to the ground, out of sight in the marsh grass.

“Release the dogs!” Richard yelled, but the greyhounds were already in motion, racing to subdue the heron before it could escape from the much smaller gyrfalcon. Richard had slid from his saddle and was running toward the death-struggle. When he and the bearers finally emerged from the reeds, he had the bloody heart of the heron in one hand and his beautiful, lethal hawk in the other. Eleanor had never seen him so excited, and she felt a surge of fierce pride as he headed straight for her, eager to share his triumph.

“Did you see her stoop, Maman? That was so fine a kill, well-nigh perfect!”

“Indeed it was, dearest,” she agreed, her own disappointment dispelled by Richard’s jubilation. Others were gathering around them, and Richard basked in the attention, feeding the heart to the gyrfalcon as he accepted their plaudits, whistling for the greyhounds so they could get their well-earned praise, too. Only Geoffrey stood apart, watching with an expression surprisingly jaundiced for a youngster of fourteen.

The men were as willing as Eleanor to prolong the moment, remembering the pride of their first kills. It was only with the arrival of a messenger for the Viscount of Limoges that they began to disperse, turning toward the tables now laid out with wine and food. Eleanor stayed where she was, though, flanked by her uncle and her son, for the expression on Aimar’s face was not that of a man who’d just received welcome news. After conferring briefly with the messenger, he moved hastily in her direction.

“Madame, I’ve just gotten word that King Henry has ridden into Limoges.”

That was no surprise, for Henry had sent word that he would reach Aimar’s city within a day or two of the start of Lent and this was Shrove Tuesday. Eleanor inclined her head, waiting for him to reveal what had disquieted him about her husband’s arrival.

“Your son the young king is with him, of course, as are the King of Aragon, the Count of Maurienne, and his daughter.” Aimar paused, obviously unhappy with what he would say next. “He is accompanied, as well, by the Count of Toulouse.”

No one spoke. Eleanor could see her suspicions mirrored on the faces of Richard and Raoul. She would sooner have broken bread with Lucifer than with Raimon St Gilles, and her husband well knew it. So why had he brought the count to Limoges?

Henry, Count Raimon, and the young King of Aragon had been ushered to the castle chambers set aside for them and were washing away the grime of the road. But Hal had remained in the great hall. His hair was tousled, there was a smear of dirt on his cheek, and his clothes and boots were mud-splattered, yet he still looked like one of the heroes in a troubadour’s song or geste, the handsome, dashing young knight who was without peer and existed only in a storyteller’s imagination. He was surrounded by those guests who’d not gone hawking, commanding their attention so completely that few at first noticed the hunting party had returned.

Following in Eleanor’s footsteps, Marguerite forgot etiquette and brushed past the queen in her haste to welcome her husband. At the sound of her voice, Hal sprang to his feet and swept her into a close embrace, a display of public affection that would have been considered unseemly in others but earned Hal indulgent smiles from even the most judgmental.

Hal showed more decorum in greeting his mother, his host, and their companions, but wasted no time in drawing Eleanor aside for a more private conversation. “I had an inspired idea,” he confided, “but I will need your help to bring it about, Maman. How often do so many of high birth gather together like this? We have no less than four kings, two queens, and a multitude of counts, earls, barons, and their ladies. What better setting could we have for a knighting ceremony? And what better time? We could do it next Wednesday…my eighteenth birthday,” he explained, as if Eleanor had been elsewhere on that auspicious occasion and needed reminding. “Will you talk to him, Maman? Will you make him see how perfect it would be to do it here, to do it now?”

As usual, Hal’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Eleanor found herself agreeing even though she did not think Henry would heed her. She knew she should remind Hal of his father’s stubborn insistence upon having him knighted by the French king, but she hadn’t the heart to interject reality into his dream. It was her son’s strength and his weakness that he could not conceive of defeat.

Having gotten what he wanted-his mother’s backing in this coming clash of wills with his father-Hal announced that he was greatly in need of a bath, and he and Marguerite exited the hall with an eagerness rarely shown for bathing. Eleanor turned to find her constable, Saldebreuil de Sanzay, at her side.

“You ought to have heard the lad, Madame,” he said, with the fond familiarity of one who’d known Hal all his life. “He was telling us some highly entertaining, if rather improbable, tales about past hunts. He claimed that one time he’d set a young gyrfalcon upon a crane, but the bird had a large fish in its beak and dropped it as the gyrfalcon began its stoop. His hawk shot right by the crane and went after the fish!”

The constable laughed so heartily that he began to wheeze, and Eleanor felt a pang, for this man had been her rock, her mainstay since her days as Queen of France. He’d always refused to reveal his exact age, and he’d gone to war against time with the same valor and fortitude he’d mustered against other foes, but it was a battle he was doomed to lose, and she was coming to understand that it would be sooner than either of them had anticipated. As their eyes met, his smile faded away.

“Have you heard, my lady? The Count of Toulouse rode in with your lord husband, the king. Do you know why he would bring the count here?”

“No,” she said grimly. “But I intend to find out.”

Henry had already bathed and changed his clothes and was getting his hair and beard trimmed when Eleanor entered his bedchamber. “Ah, there you are, love,” he said cheerfully. “How was the hawking? I’d wager your hunting was nowhere near as successful as mine.”

Eleanor felt a prickle of foreboding, for he sounded much too smug for her liking. She gestured in dismissal and the servants emptying the bathing tub abandoned their buckets and withdrew. The barber hesitated, scissors poised in midair. When Henry nodded, he quickly retreated, flustered by his queen’s icy demeanor. Henry showed no such misgivings, though, holding the scissors out to Eleanor with a grin.

“If you are chasing my barber away, you’ll need to finish the task he began. I assume you want a private conversation, although I’d not be adverse if you intend to jump my bones.” When she reached for the scissors, he surprised her by catching her hand and pressing his mouth to her palm. Past experience had taught her to suspect such high spirits, a reliable indication that he was up to something, and as she began to clip the curly bright hair at the base of his neck, she stared at the back of his head, wishing she had the power to see into his skull, into the serpentine, convoluted byways of his brain. It was surely one of God’s inexplicable jests that she’d taken both a lamb and a fox to her marriage bed.

“Did you meet the Count of Maurienne yet? He’s a likable man, amiable and quite reasonable. We struck a very advantageous deal for Johnny. If Count Humbert dies without a male heir, Johnny and his daughter…Adela, I think, no, Alice…will inherit Maurienne and Savoy. If the count does manage to sire a son, then he’ll settle the principality of Rousillon upon our lad. So whatever the outcome, there’ll be no more talk of John Lackland.” Henry swung around in the chair, so abruptly that Eleanor nearly sliced his ear. “Maurienne controls the Alpine passes, the trade routes into Italy. We’re gaining so much for so little, Eleanor…just four thousand silver marks and the pledge of alliance.”

“I am familiar with the marriage terms, Harry, and with your ambitions in Italy. The count is not the guest I’ve come to discuss, and you well know it.”

Henry’s mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. “Ah, you mean the King of Aragon. A fine lad, although I do wish he were not so young. Once Hal discovered that Alfonso will be able to rule on his own when he turns sixteen next month, he pounced upon that like a starving hound upon a bone, and gave me no peace. I will say this of our son, he does not lack for perseverance!”

“I do not give a besan for the King of Aragon! Why did you not warn me that you’d be bringing that weasel St Gilles back with you?”

Not at all put out by her flare of temper, Henry turned in his seat so they were face-to-face. “If it is any consolation, Count Raimon is no happier to be here than you are to have him.”

“Need I remind you, Harry, that I have a weapon in my hand? If you do not speak soon, I will not be responsible for what I do.”

Laughing openly now, he claimed the scissors, tossing them into the floor rushes. “I’d not want to lead you into temptation.” Without warning, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her down onto his lap. “Thirteen years ago, I made you a promise that I was not able to keep. Now I grant you that I rarely lose sleep over broken promises, but this is one wrong I am delighted to right.”

“Just what are you saying?”

“What happened thirteen years ago, love?”

“You went to war against Raimon St Gilles, asserting my claim to Toulouse. And you failed…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening. “You cannot mean that he has agreed to do homage for Toulouse?”

She was staring at him incredulously, and it occurred to Henry that he’d never before seen her at such a loss for words. “That is exactly what I mean, Eleanor. Now you understand why I said Count Raimon is not overjoyed to be here.”

“What I do not understand, Harry, is how you did it. I’d not have thought even Merlin could have wrought such a miracle!”

“Actually, love, it was not so difficult. For all his vices, Raimon is no fool and is quite capable of reading a map. On one side lie the lands of King Alfonso, my young ally who loves Raimon not, and with good cause. On his other, lie the lands of Count Humbert, soon to be my kin by marriage. These alliances had begun to pinch Raimon in his most vulnerable male parts, for he was becoming convinced that I was aiming to encircle and isolate him, with God knows what mischief in mind.”

Henry laughed again. “I had no intention of waging war, but Raimon expects others to be as false and treacherous as he is. And he could not rely upon the French king to pull his chestnuts from the fire this time, since he is no longer wed to Louis’s sister. So he decided that homage was a cheaper price to pay than blood, and he-”

He got no further, for Eleanor stopped his words with a passionate kiss. “You ought to have told me,” she chided, “but I forgive you.” She could forgive a lot for Toulouse. It had long been the litany of her House that the St Gilles family had stolen Toulouse, disregarding her grandmother’s rightful claim, and she’d persuaded both husbands to assert her title to the county. Neither had succeeded and Maud had given her some mordant, incisive advice: resign herself to its loss unless she meant to try again with a third husband. But Toulouse was not just her inheritance, it was Richard’s.

She kissed Henry again and then slid off his lap. “You may just have made amends for giving Gascony away.”

“Gascony?” Henry was genuinely puzzled. “I did not give Gascony away. It was our daughter’s marriage portion, and I specified that it would not happen whilst you still lived.”

“I know.” He had taken care to preserve her rights, but what of Richard’s? Passing strange, but he’d never understood that the succession to Aquitaine mattered no less to her than the succession to the English Crown did to him. She’d wanted a generous dowry for her daughter in far-off Castile, just not at Richard’s expense. But Gascony was yesterday, Toulouse was today.

“I’d best find Richard and let him know.” At the door she paused to favor him with the sort of smile he’d not gotten from her in several years-utterly spontaneous, admiring, and affectionate. “I’d given up hope that the day would ever come when I’d see Raimon kneel to do homage to me,” she admitted. “I only wish my father were alive to witness it, for he died thinking that Toulouse was lost to us.”

Henry started to say something, then stopped. But his expression was suddenly so guarded that Eleanor froze, her hand on the door latch. “Harry?”

It was not so much a question as a demand, and he acknowledged it by exhaling a pent-up breath. “Well…the truth is that he has not agreed to do homage to you, Eleanor.”

“I see.” She leaned back against the door, regarding him in silence that threatened to stretch into infinity. “He does homage to you, but not to me. What about Richard?”

Henry was thankful that he could reassure her on that point, hoping it would allay her disappointment. “Of course he’ll do homage to Richard.”

After another uncomfortable silence, she said, “It gladdens me to hear it.” But once she was out in the stairwell, she sank down on the stone steps, not wanting to face others until she was sure her rage was under control. It did not surprise her that Raimon St Gilles would dare to insult her like this. He was not a man to humble his pride before a woman, not unless forced to it. But Harry had not done that. He’d chosen to accommodate the Count of Toulouse because it was easier that way, easier for him.

Standing up, she brushed the dust from her skirts. When Maud had urged her to relinquish her hopes of claiming Toulouse, she’d offered other advice as well, no less pragmatic and unsentimental. You cannot change a man, Harry least of all. You will always come second with him, for his kingship will come first. And there in the stairwell of the Viscount of Limoges’s castle, Eleanor could hear her own response echoing down through the years, and Maud’s uncompromising reply: So you are saying, then, that I must accept Harry as he is. But what if I cannot? Then learn to love him less.

The Viscount of Limoges had given Maud a tour of his kennels, where his favorite greyhound bitch had recently whelped. As he escorted her across the bailey afterward, he offered her the pick of the litter once the puppies were old enough to be weaned. When Maud demurred, he insisted, saying with a smile, “You have been a Godsend to my wife. Sarah’s nerves were on the raw at the prospect of entertaining so many highborn guests, and you and our duchess have gone out of your way to put her at ease, doing what you could to make sure that nothing went amiss.”

Maud thanked him, thinking that only in Aquitaine would a duchess outrank a queen. They were passing the open doors of the stables, and she came to a sudden halt, having caught sight of a familiar figure standing by one of the stalls. Excusing herself, she stepped into the shadows of the barn.

Hal was currying a beautiful white stallion, so occupied in his task that he did not hear Maud’s approach. He swung around in surprise when she spoke his name, and then smiled in recognition. “Cousin Maud! Come take a look at my new palfrey. Shield your eyes, though,” he added with a grin, “lest you be dazzled by his radiance.”

His jest was not far off the mark; the horse was as perfect a specimen as Maud had ever seen. Hal had begun to comb out its silky mane, saying that it was as soft as his wife’s hair, playfully begging her not to repeat that to Marguerite, and then declaring that he’d settled upon a name: Morel.

Maud was not surprised by his choice; that was a popular name for knightly steeds in chansons de geste. “Dare I ask how you could afford such a magnificent beast? Have you taken to banditry in your spare time?”

Hal laughed. “Do not think I have not been tempted, Cousin. But Morel did not cost me even a denier. He is the product of a benign conspiracy between my mother and King Alfonso. He’d visited her at Poitiers last summer to discuss their mutual enemy, Count Raimon, and she arranged for him to bring Morel to Limoges. Spanish horses are the best in Christendom,” he said happily, “so she could not have given me a finer birthday present!”

“Indeed,” Maud agreed, reaching out to pat the palfrey’s muzzle. “You made mention only of your mother. Was Morel not a gift from both your parents?” She hoped that was so, for separate gift-giving was not an augury of a healthy marriage, but he was already shaking his head.

“No, Morel was my mother’s present. My father promised me four Iceland gyrfalcons when one of his agents next goes to Norway.”

Iceland gyrfalcons were quite literally worth a king’s ransom, so that was a very lavish expenditure from a man not noted for extravagant spending. “That was a most generous gift,” Maud said, feeling suddenly sad although she wasn’t quite sure why.

“Yes.” The terseness of his response made it seem incomplete, and Hal appeared to sense that. Raising his head, he met Maud’s eyes over the stallion’s back. “Assuming that he remembers,” he said, but without malice; she thought he sounded sad, too.

“Hal…” Maud was not sure if she should venture onto such unstable ground, but she’d begun to realize that there was no one to speak on her cousin Harry’s behalf; the only voices Hal heard these days were those hostile to his father. “I know you are disappointed that Harry refused to knight you.”

“I am disappointed that the weather did not allow us to go hawking today. I am disappointed that I lost three straight games of hazard to Hasculf de St Hilaire yesterday. But when my father denies me the rite of passage to manhood, I think a stronger term is needed than ‘disappointment,’ Cousin Maud.”

“He does not mean it that way, Hal, truly he does not. His intent is not to slight or demean you, nor to cause you pain. He has it in his mind that you need to be knighted by the French king, for that would do honor to you both. Limoges cannot hold a candle to Paris, lad. Surely it is worth waiting for a splendid ceremony at the French court?”

“No,” he said, “it is not worth the wait, not to me.” He’d not raised his voice, not showed any anger, but there was a finality in his words that discouraged Maud from persisting. Father and son were more alike than they knew, and that was not a thought to give her any comfort.

The Count of Toulouse made such an exaggerated obeisance before Eleanor that it bordered upon mockery. “My deepest sympathies, Madame,” he said blandly. “I can only imagine how disappointed you must be.”

Eleanor’s son was standing so close that their shoulders were touching, and she could feel the jolt of tension that shot through Richard’s body. Putting her hand casually on his arm, she gazed coolly at her adversary. “And why would I be disappointed, my lord count?”

Count Raimon’s eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. “Why because of the loss of your falcon, of course. I heard about your ill-fated hunt. Very bad luck, indeed.”

“Not at all. My falcon was found two days ago, none the worse for her mishap. You are not as well informed as you think, my lord count.”

Bending over her hand again, he said, “I rejoice in your good fortune, my lady.” He had oddly colored eyes, a pale golden-brown with yellowish glints. Wolf eyes, Eleanor thought, and as the count sauntered away, she said as much aloud.

Richard looked startled, and then laughed. “Great minds think alike, Maman. Alfonso calls him el lobo loco. The crazed wolf.”

Eleanor smiled. “ El lobo loco…I like that.” It was no surprise that Richard and King Alfonso had struck up an easy friendship, for they were of an age-fifteen-with many interests in common-a shared love of hunting and horses, a mutual loathing for Raimon St Gilles. Their rapport pleased Eleanor, for friendships of youth often forged the alliances of manhood.

“Alfonso has been teaching me how to swear in his language,” Richard confided. “Spanish curses are very satisfying, for they roll right off the tongue. Alfonso has a number of colorful names for el lobo loco: cabron, huevon, and my own favorite, hijo de mil putas. ”

Eleanor had an inkling of its meaning, but she did not want to deny Richard the pleasure of instructing her. “Dare I ask you to translate or is it too crude for my maidenly ears to hear?”

That amused Richard greatly. “You could teach a soldier to swear, Maman! It means ‘son of a thousand whores.’”

“Amen,” she said, and Richard grinned, making the sign of the cross. It was then that her uncles, Raoul and Hugh, reached them, with Saldebreuil de Sanzay a few steps behind. She was touched by their loyalty; they’d seen her talking with Raimon St Gilles and hastened over to offer their support. Viscount Aimar was also making his way toward her. She’d decided not to join Henry upon the dais while Raimon swore homage, not wanting to see his smirk, his silent gloating. But she was warmed now by the hatred filling the hall, all of it aimed at Raimon’s arrogant, dark head. And at least she would get to watch el lobo loco humble himself before her son; at least she would have that satisfaction.

A sudden stir indicated Henry’s entrance. Wasting no time with preliminaries, he took his seat upon the dais. Hal followed, looking very regal and very unhappy. Richard gave his tunic a quick tug, and hastened to join them. A silence settled over the crowded hall as the Count of Toulouse began his walk toward the dais.

Eleanor knew he must be dreading the ceremony to come, but no emotion showed in his face. Mounting the steps of the dais, he removed his sword, knelt before Henry, and placed his hands together, palm to palm in the universal gesture of submission. “My lord king and liege lord, I, Raimon St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, do willingly enter into your homage and faith and become your sworn man, and to you faithfully will I bear body, chattels, and earthly worship, and I will keep faith and loyalty to you against all others.”

Henry was as impassive as Raimon. “We do promise to you, as my vassal and liegeman, that we and our heirs will guarantee to you and your heirs the lands you hold of us, against all others, that you may hold said lands in peace.”

Rising then, he raised Raimon to his feet and gave him the ritual kiss of peace. Richard’s gaze briefly caught his mother’s, and he made a comic grimace, for he’d been complaining, only half in jest, that he’d sooner kiss a badger than his new vassal. But when Raimon glanced his way, he was appropriately solemn, showing the gravity that the occasion required.

What happened next, however, took him utterly by surprise. Instead of kneeling to him, Raimon moved toward his brother, knelt, and swore homage to Hal. Richard’s mouth dropped open; he looked bewildered and, then, enraged. When Raimon finally did homage to him, he made no effort to hide his fury, slurring his words in his haste to get his oath said, giving his kiss of peace with the distaste of one embracing a leper.

Eleanor was utterly still, heedless of the turmoil swirling around her. Her kinsmen and her vassals had watched in disbelief, and now they were turning to her, dismayed and angry.

“Eleanor!” Raoul was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. “What in hellfire just happened?” He’d been outraged that St Gilles would be swearing homage to a man who was Duke of Aquitaine only by marriage, while ignoring the woman who was Duchess of Aquitaine by blood right and the anointing of the Almighty. He’d consoled himself that St Gilles would be accepting Richard as his liege lord, but he’d never expected that homage would be done to Hal, too. There was no legal basis for it: Hal had been crowned as King of England, Duke of Normandy, and Count of Anjou. He had no claim to Aquitaine, no claim to Toulouse-until now.

“Christ on the Cross,” he sputtered. “What sort of double-dealing was that?” He already had his answer, though, sure that Eleanor’s hellspawn husband was seeking to add Toulouse to his own domains, to make it part of his Angevin empire. Glaring at his niece, he found himself wondering how much she’d known. But he dismissed that suspicion as soon as it surfaced, for all the color had drained from her face; even her lips were white.

“Eleanor?” he said again, alarmed by her pallor and her continuing silence. Eleanor ignored him, ignored them all, never taking her eyes from the dais, from the husband who had betrayed her yet again.

Henry stared at his wife in exasperation. “It never occurred to me that you would object. It is but a formality, after all, and I thought it would please Hal.”

“And did you spare even a thought as to how Richard would react?”

“For the love of Christ, woman, sometimes you act as if Richard is the only child of your womb and the rest are foundlings!”

“I am not speaking as Richard’s mother, but as Duchess of Aquitaine. Did you not see the reaction of my barons in the hall? You rekindled all of their suspicions, all of their mistrust in one grand gesture, Harry, and for what? If it is indeed an empty honor, as you allege, then why should Hal be pleased by it? And if it is not, better you tell me now if you have designs upon Toulouse. I have a right to know!”

Henry shook his head in disgust. “I am beginning to wish I’d never heard of Toulouse! No, I do not harbor any great scheme to annex it. Not that I expect your ranting, rebel lords to believe me. Aquitaine is one large lunatic asylum, and you clearly have been spending too much time there, Eleanor, or you would not have needed to ask me such an insulting question.”

“I would not have needed to ask you any questions at all if only you’d told me what you had in mind.”

“More fool I, but I thought you’d want St Gilles to do homage to Hal as well as Richard-to honor both your sons.”

More fool you. But the words never left her lips, for she knew now that the time for talking was done.

Lent was always the season of dread for cooks; not only was meat banned from every table, but so were eggs, milk, butter, and cheese. The cooks of the Viscount of Limoges had shown considerable ingenuity, though, offering up a seafood feast that pleased even the demanding palates of his royal and highborn guests. Only Henry took no enjoyment from the meal meant to celebrate the betrothal of his youngest son and the Count of Maurienne’s daughter.

In truth, Henry had never displayed much interest in food, eating and drinking sparingly even in those months when the menu was not so restricted. But on this last Sunday in February, it was Henry’s sour mood that was spoiling the revelries for him. His eyes swept the high table, coming to rest morosely upon the Count of Toulouse. He was beginning to think the man was accursed. For certes, he’d brought naught but trouble to Limoges.

Taking a swallow of wine without really tasting it, Henry tallied up the grievances he could lay at the count’s door. Richard had provoked a public quarrel with Hal over that ill-fated act of homage, and so now Hal was out of sorts, too. But instead of finding fault with Richard, Hal had concluded that his father was to blame for the botched affair. Henry was beginning to think that his eldest also held him accountable for the Great Flood and the Expulsion from Eden. In this at least, Hal and Richard were united, for Henry hadn’t gotten a civil word from his second son since the ceremony. It would seem, Henry thought, that Richard had inherited his share of the Angevin temper. The sad truth was that he did not know Richard well at all. He was Eleanor’s, had always been Eleanor’s.

As for his queen, he had no illusions that they’d made peace. They were operating under a truce at present, no more than that. Her public pose notwithstanding, he knew she was still aggrieved, for reasons that made no sense whatsoever. He could almost believe there was something in the water or air of Aquitaine that caused people to act so moon-mad. It was just as well that he’d be going into Brittany in a few days whilst she returned to Poitiers. Some time apart would give both their tempers time to cool.

The thought of Brittany diverted his attention to his third son. Mayhap he ought to take Geoffrey with him. It might be good to pass some time with the lad in the lands he’d one day rule. He did not know Geoffrey all that well, either, and he’d never meant it to be that way. He had wanted the same easy rapport with his sons that he’d enjoyed with his own father. Despite his best intentions, though, his children had been relegated to the outer edges of his life, unable to compete with the myriad duties and demands of kingship. But he’d remained confident that there would be time to make amends for those lost, early years, to forge a bond with his sons that could never be broken. He did not understand why it was now proving so difficult.

Fidgeting restlessly in his seat, he shifted so he could see his youngest son. John had been permitted to sit at the high table next to his future father-in-law. He was a solemn child, the only one of their brood with Eleanor’s coloring, a stranger not only to Henry but to his family, for John had passed the first years of his life with the nuns at Fontevrault Abbey. Henry thought he looked ill at ease, doubtless overwhelmed by all the unaccustomed attention. There was something about this forlorn little boy that touched Henry’s heart, and he was glad he’d been able to arrange such a promising future for the lad. Too often a younger son was shunted aside, valued more cheaply than his older brothers.

Henry’s gaze flicked from John, roaming the hall until he located William Marshal at one of the lower tables. The young knight was surely the ultimate example of the sorry fate that could befall a spare son. Will had been offered up by his father as a hostage, a pledge of John Marshal’s good faith. Marshal, a man of no scruples whatsoever, had promptly broken his oath, and when warned by King Stephen that his small son would pay the price for his treachery, his response had been so cold-blooded, so pitiless that it had soon passed into legend. Go ahead and hang Will, he’d told Stephen. He had the hammer and anvil with which to make other and better sons. Will’s life had been spared only because Stephen could not bring himself to hang a five-year-old child.

It was a story Henry had never forgotten; he was not easily shocked, but that had shocked him profoundly. Once he’d chosen Will as one of Hal’s household knights, he’d wondered occasionally how Will had dealt with a memory like that, wondered if his ambition and steely sense of purpose could be rooted in that sad history. Turning his gaze back to John, he watched the child play with the food on his trencher and felt a surge of pride that he could provide so well for all his sons, thankful that Johnny would prosper in a world so often cruel to unwanted children.

Once the meal was finished, servants began to clear away the trestle tables so there would be room for the entertainment Viscount Aimar had arranged: performances by troubadours, tumblers, and, he promised, an amazing act involving a dancing bear. Seats were positioned on the dais for all the royal guests, Count Humbert, and the Count of Toulouse. Henry stopped a nurse from ushering John off to bed, swooping the boy up onto his lap. “There you go, lad, the best seat in the hall,” he said fondly, and John, regarding him gravely with Eleanor’s enigmatic eyes, perched on the arm of his chair like a bird about to take flight. The little boy seemed more comfortable once Joanna joined them, for she’d often been with him at Fontevrault, and she was so outgoing and confident that Henry thought she could coax a turtle from its shell. Smiling into her upturned, laughing face, he wondered why sons could not be as easy to please as daughters.

“My lord king?” Count Humbert had risen from his chair. Seeing that he wanted to talk, Henry rose, too, allowing Joanna and John to share his seat. The count made amiable, polite conversation for several moments before raising the one issue still to be settled between them. “We have agreed that your son and my daughter will inherit Maurienne and Savoy when I die. But we have not yet discussed what young John will bring to the marriage. What lands do you mean to confer upon him prior to the wedding?”

Henry had anticipated this demand, knowing that he’d have to offer something of value since the marriage contract was weighted so heavily in his favor. “Of course,” he said affably. “It is my intention to endow John with three castles: Chinon, Loudun, and Mirebeau.”

The count had spent time poring over maps of Henry’s domains, so he was familiar both with the castles and their strategic location, forming a triangle between Normandy and Aquitaine. “That is satisfactory,” he said, smiling.

Henry had no time to savor the moment, though. Hal was on his feet, staring at them accusingly. “You cannot give those castles to John. They are mine!”

Henry swore under his breath. “We shall discuss this later,” he said hastily, intent upon reining Hal in before the other guests took notice of their dispute. “It is true these castles are in Anjou, but you will not be the loser for it,” he assured his son. “I will make other provisions for you.”

“Promises can be broken.” Hal glared at his father, fists clenched at his sides. “I was invested with Anjou and it cannot be partitioned without my consent-which I will never give!”

Henry’s face flamed. “I told you this is neither the time nor the place. We will discuss this later!”

“There is nothing to discuss.” And to Henry’s fury and frustration, his eldest son turned away, stalking down the steps of the dais and shoving his way through the suddenly silent crowd. Flushed with embarrassment, Henry could only watch. But Hal never looked back.

Henry paced the solar as if it were a cage, his fury rising with each step. Eleanor had made herself comfortable in the window-seat, sipping from a wine cup as she watched her husband’s fuming. When Hal finally entered, Henry crossed the solar in three strides, slamming the door shut with enough violence to reverberate out into the stairwell.

“How dare you shame me like that before the court!”

Few men could stand up to Henry in one of his Angevin furies. Even kinsmen like Ranulf and Rainald feared getting scorched by those flames. Only his cousin Roger was not daunted by the royal rage; during their clashes over Thomas Becket, they’d once had a public shouting match that earned Roger a reputation as a man who was utterly fearless and utterly foolhardy. But Eleanor saw now that Roger had a rival in recklessness, for Hal did not flinch.

“How dare you give away my castles!” he shot back. “And without even a word to me beforehand!”

“I told you,” Henry snapped, “that I’d make sure you were compensated for their loss!”

“I do not believe you,” Hal said flatly. “Why should I? You handle the truth carelessly, and your promises ebb and flow like the tides. I reach for one, and all I grasp is a handful of foam and sand.”

Henry could not remember the last time anyone had dared to defy him like this…not since Thomas Becket. “I am done with making excuses for your rash, heedless behavior. For too long, you have been playing the fool instead of learning the duties of kingship. You have done nothing to earn my trust…or my respect. Until you do, you’ll be kept on a short leash, and that is a promise you can rely upon.”

Hal flushed, hot color surging into his face and throat. “Say what you will. Your threats and insults and mockery will change nothing. I will never agree to relinquish those castles-never!” Blinking back tears of rage, he whirled then, fled the chamber before his emotion could overcome him, before Henry could stop him.

With a powerful thrust of his arm, Henry cleared the table, sending wine cups, flagon, and candles flying. Eleanor rose without haste, tilted her cup and poured wine onto the smoldering floor rushes. “I think the viscount would rather we did not burn his castle down,” she said, and Henry gave her a look that all but ignited the air between them.

“I suppose it was too much to hope that you’d be helpful,” he said scathingly.

She did not respond at once, regarding him pensively. Hal had nothing of his own, neither castle nor crofter’s hut. Yet now he planned to give three valuable Angevin castles to six-year-old John and he did not think Hal would be resentful? How could he be so blind?

“I could not take your side, Harry,” she said, “for I believe Hal is in the right. I would do all I could to mend this breach between you, I swear I would, if only you could see that…”

“‘Hal is in the right’?” he echoed. But because there had been no anger in her voice, his own anger began to ebb away. “He is a credulous, idle spendthrift, and, God pity him, a lamb amongst wolves. How can you not see that, Eleanor? I will not let my son become a puppet for the French king, and if he blames me now, so be it. In time he will understand that I was acting in his best interests.”

She was taken aback by the sadness that swept over her. It was both unexpected and unwelcome. She looked at him, this man who’d been husband, lover, partner for more than twenty years, and she felt such a confusing welter of emotions-regret, resentment, a painful sense of loss-that her words caught in her throat.

“I am sorry, Harry,” she said, and there was such sincerity in her voice that he forgave her with a fleeting, mirthless smile.

“So am I, love. Life would be far more peaceful if you’d given me only daughters as you did for Louis. Mayhap we could make a trade-Hal for Louis’s little Philippe. He seems like a docile, biddable lad.”

Even now he could still make her smile. “‘A docile, biddable lad’ would drive you to drink, Harry. It would be like riding a timid, meek gelding who shied at every shadow.”

“You’re right,” he admitted, wryly amused by how well she knew him. He did indeed prefer a mettlesome stallion, but he also wanted one that was broken to the saddle. Fortunately even the most spirited horse could be tamed with enough patience.

A gale was brewing, and by dark, the winds had picked up, rattling shutters, tearing off shingles, and testing the castle walls for points of entry. A fire roared in the hearth of Henry’s bedchamber, but he could still hear the muted sounds of the storm, wailing into the night like the cries of the damned. That was an unusually morbid thought for him, but his confrontation with Hal had inflicted some deep wounds and he was still brooding about it hours later.

“Your move, Harry,” his cousin prompted, and with an effort, he forced his attention back to the chessboard. His distraction had cost him; Roger, a skilled player, had maneuvered him into an untenable position. To gain time, he signaled for wine, and one of his squires hastened over with a flagon.

Ranulf stood and stretched. He’d smothered several yawns and had begun to drop hints about the lateness of the hour. But Henry did not want him to leave, not yet. These two kinsmen of his could be relied upon to give sound advice, for Roger had a good head and Ranulf a good heart. Once he’d summoned them, though, he’d found himself reluctant to unburden himself, not wanting to start the bleeding again. His son’s defiance hurt more than he was willing to admit, and talking about it would change nothing.

But if he did not want to confide in them, he still wanted them to stay, trusting them to keep his ghosts at bay. Pushing away abruptly from the table, he said, “I cannot keep my mind on this game tonight. Sit in for me, Uncle.”

Taking the seat Henry had vacated, Ranulf studied the chessboard and whistled softly as he saw his predicament. “You are too kind,” he said dryly. “You could at least provide me with a flag of surrender.”

“When did a Welshman ever roll over and play dead?” Henry perched on a corner of the table, but he was too restless to sit for long and soon he was wandering aimlessly about the chamber, picking up and discarding items at random. This was going to be a long night. He briefly considered going to Eleanor’s bedchamber, but if he was no longer wroth with her, he was still disappointed by her stubborn defense of the indefensible. A pity Rosamund was so far away. Tumbling a wench might make it easier to sleep. But he could not very well ask Aimar to find him a bedmate, not with his queen under the same roof. Jesu, she’d stab him with his own dagger, like as not!

A soft knock at the door drew all their attention, given the hour, and they watched as one of the squires hurried over to open it. After a brief exchange with someone out in the stairwell, he turned back toward Henry, frowning in perplexity.

“The Count of Toulouse is without, Your Grace, seeking a few words with you. Shall I admit him?”

Raimon St Gilles was the last man Henry had expected to see, the last one he wanted to see. His curiosity got the better of him, however, and he nodded. Entering the chamber with his usual swagger, the count made a perfunctory obeisance, then said brusquely, “I have urgent information for you, my lord king. But it is not meant for other ears, must be given in private.”

Henry hesitated, but boredom won out. “Go down to the hall,” he told his squires, “and see if you can find some mischief to get into.” He stopped his kinsmen, though, as they started to rise. “The Bishop of Worcester and Lord Ranulf are staying. I would trust them with the surety of my soul.”

“With all due deference, my liege, I do not,” Raimon objected.

“With all due deference, my lord count, it is not open for debate.”

Raimon scowled at Roger and Ranulf, who looked back at him coolly. “Very well. I shall rely upon your discretion and honor, my lord bishop, Lord Ranulf, for I am putting my life at risk by coming to the king.”

As he’d expected, that riveted their attention upon him. “When I swore homage to you, my liege,” he said, “I vowed to keep faith with you until my last breath, and I am here to prove my sincerity.”

His words and his delivery were too theatrical for Henry’s taste. “What have you come to tell me?”

“You are in peril, my lord. A conspiracy is forming against you, and the conspirators are very highborn and very dangerous. It is a plot that crosses borders, involving the King of France, the Counts of Flanders, Boulogne, Champagne, and Blois. They are casting a wide net, my liege, are seeking to draw in the King of Scotland, too.”

“What you call a ‘conspiracy,’ my lord count, they most likely would call ‘statecraft.’ So they are forging another alliance, hoping to protect their interests. How is this any different than what they’ve done in the past?”

“Because in the past, they did not have a rival claimant for the English crown.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Go on,” he said coldly.

“I am sorry, my lord, but your son, the young king, is an eager participant in the plot against you. The French king and the Count of Flanders have played skillfully upon his lack of experience and his poor judgment, convincing him that he can gain power only by rebellion. He has been persuaded that there is no other way to claim his just due.”

Henry opened his mouth to deny St Gilles’s accusation, to insist that his son would never betray him like that. But he could not, for there was a chilling plausibility about the count’s revelation. “How do you know all this?”

“I have many enemies, my liege, so I try to make sure that I am rarely surprised. I am sure you have spies at the French court, just as Louis has spies at yours. Mine are better informed, for they are better paid.”

Until now, Roger and Ranulf had kept silent. But Ranulf could no longer restrain himself, his suspicions feeding upon his inherent dislike of Raimon St Gilles. “You have made a most serious accusation, my lord count. I do not doubt that the French king is scheming with others to thwart the king at every turn. But I do not believe that Hal would ever connive to harm his father, and if that is what you are alleging, you will need more convincing proof than the whispers and conjectures of paid spies and informers.”

Raimon would have ignored Ranulf’s challenge had Roger not chimed in, too, saying skeptically, “I agree with Lord Ranulf. What proof can you offer?”

“To you, my lord bishop-nothing. I care not if you doubt what I say. My concern is for you, my lord king,” he said, swinging back to Henry. “I do not know the ultimate aim of their conspiracy. It may well be that the young king intends only to compel you to give him a share of your domains. Rumor has it that he has demanded you turn over England or Normandy to him. And I doubt that the French king wants to see you dethroned. That would set a fearful precedent, after all. As for the others, I daresay they have less interest in preserving the sacred inviolability of kingship.”

He paused then, for dramatic effect, well aware of the impact that his next words would have. “Alas, my liege, I have not told you all of it. You are nurturing vipers in your own nest. The young king is not the only one to heed the blandishments of your enemies. Your sons Richard and Geoffrey are implicated as well, doubtless swayed by their mother. For as much as it pains me to say it, your queen is involved in the conspiracy, too, doing all she can to turn your sons against you and stir up rebellion in her lands.”

Ranulf choked on his wine, began to cough so violently that he sounded as if he were strangling. Roger had long cultivated the polished persona of a prince of the Church, rarely giving others a glimpse of his inner self. Now he gaped at Raimon, too stunned to hide his dismay. Gratified by their reactions, the count glanced toward Henry, but here he met with disappointment, for the king’s face was utterly impassive, an inscrutable mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts.

“Is there more?” Henry asked, and his voice, too, was dispassionate. When Raimon shook his head, he said, “I will remember what you have done, my lord. Never doubt that.”

This was not the response the count had been expecting, but he’d obviously been dismissed and he withdrew reluctantly, disquieted and dissatisfied. Henry strode toward the door, slid the bolt into place with a loud thud. Only then did he turn back toward the other men, who were watching him mutely, no more able to read his expression than the Count of Toulouse.

“Well,” he said, “now we know where the snake went after it was thrust out of Eden.”

“Never have I heard such poison spewed from a man’s mouth,” Ranulf said indignantly. “Thank God you were not taken in by his malice, Harry!”

“I daresay there is some truth in what he said,” Roger cautioned, anxious lest his cousin dismiss the count’s warning out of hand because he’d gilded it with lies. “I do not doubt his claim that a conspiracy exists. Nor do I doubt that St Gilles has seized upon it to settle a few grudges of his own.”

“Eleanor warned me that he had an evil heart and a corrupt soul. I ought to have paid her more heed.” Henry had begun to pace, too angry and agitated to keep still. “I knew he hated her, of course, but it never occurred to me that he would dare to strike out at a queen, my queen. And he was not content with that, he must malign my sons, lads of fourteen and fifteen. A wonder he did not think to throw Johnny into the fire, too!”

Ranulf and Roger traded glances, for they both caught the omission-no mention of Hal.

Henry’s shock was giving way to rage. “I swear by the Rood that St Gilles will rue this day. I can only deal with one enemy at a time, but his reprieve will not be for long. That, too, I swear upon the Holy Cross.”

“What will you do, Harry?”

Henry had stopped before the hearth, standing so close he was in danger of being singed by the leaping flames. “On the morrow, Uncle, I shall go hunting,” he said, and at another time, he would have been amused by their bewilderment. “All know how I love the chase, so that will arouse no suspicions. Whilst I am off ‘hunting,’ I will send word to the castellans of my border castles, instructing them to lay in supplies, enough to withstand a siege, and to strengthen their garrisons. When Louis moves against me, he will find that we are expecting him.”

As Roger’s eyes met Ranulf’s again, he saw that they shared the same concern. And because he knew his uncle was too kindhearted for utter candor, Roger realized that it would be up to him. “Only a madman would credit St Gilles’s venomous accusations against your queen and younger sons. But I very much fear that there is some truth in his charges against Hal.”

Henry was silent for so long that they thought he was not going to answer. When he finally turned away from the fire, they saw there was no need for words; his answer was plainly writ in the anguished slash of his mouth, the glimmering grey eyes, the first time that either man had seen him on the verge of tears.

“I know,” he said huskily. “God help us both, I know.”

Eleanor’s dream was unraveling, besieged by an undercurrent of noise and flashes of light. She came back to reality with reluctance, instinctively aware that these were still the hours of night, the hours of sleep. As soon as she moved, she winced, for her thigh muscles were sore. Memory came flooding back-her husband’s return from his hunting trip, long after dark, after she’d gone to bed. She’d awakened to his embrace, his mouth hot upon hers, his beard scratching her throat. His lovemaking had been impassioned, intense, and yet oddly impersonal, for she suspected that any soft female body would have satisfied his need. His side of the bed was empty, but still warm, and she jerked the bed hangings aside, blinking in the glare of torchlight.

A quick glance at a notched wax candle confirmed her suspicion that it was much too early to be awake. Henry was already dressed, though. Sitting on a coffer, he was pulling his boots on, and she wondered if he meant another day’s hunting. “Why are you up at such a God-forsaken hour?” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her voice, but offered no explanation, and she sat up with a sigh, knowing sleep was lost to her now, too.

A servant had fetched wine and bread to break their fast, and Henry poured a cup, carried it across the room, and handed it to Eleanor. “I want you to take Geoffrey with you when you go back to Poitiers,” he said, and she looked up at him in surprise.

“I thought he was accompanying you into Brittany. Has there been a change of plans?”

“Yes.” But he did not elaborate, instead began to buckle his scabbard belt, further proof that he had a journey in mind. Eleanor tugged at her hair, finding it caught under her hip; she’d braided it before going to bed, but Henry had unfastened it during the night. Drinking her wine, she wondered where he meant to go if not into Brittany.

The festivities at Limoges were over. The Kings of Aragon and Navarre had departed for their own lands, as had many of the attending barons and their ladies. John had been sent back to Fontevrault Abbey to resume his studies; his little bride-to-be would accompany Eleanor to Poitiers, there to be raised with Constance and Alys and Joanna. Only the Count of Toulouse still lingered, uncaring that none wanted him there, putting Eleanor in mind of a vulture hovering over carrion, awaiting his chance to swoop down to feed. She was sure he was up to no good, and she was glad she would soon be seeing the last of Limoges, glad she would be going home to Poitiers, favored of all her cities. Watching Henry as he moved around the chamber, she was jolted to realize that this might well have been the last time she’d share his bed.

“Where do you go from here, Harry?”

Before he could respond, the door swung open and Hal entered. “Why did you summon me so early, Maman?” he complained, yawning. “I’d hoped to remain abed for-” He stopped abruptly as Henry moved into his line of vision. His eyes cut from his father to his mother in the rumpled bed, and to Eleanor’s surprise, he flushed deeply. She was astonished; surely he could not be embarrassed by this proof that she’d spent the night with Harry? And then, as he gave her a look of silent reproach, she understood. To Hal, she’d been sleeping with the enemy.

“The summons was mine,” Henry said, regarding his son with a lack of emotion that Eleanor found troubling. “I am returning to Normandy this morn, and you are coming with me.”

Hal was still off balance, but he tried now to regain his footing by saying emphatically, “I think not.”

“You are not being given a choice.” Henry’s voice was toneless, and to Hal, his gaze was as piercing and predatory as those Iceland gyrfalcons he’d promised but would never deliver. Hal glanced back at Eleanor, seeking guidance. But this woman seemed like a stranger to him, clutching blankets to cover her nudity, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in wanton disarray, utterly unlike the coolly poised, elegant mother who was his lodestar and mentor. As their gazes crossed, she shook her head, almost imperceptibly, signaling that she did not know what his father intended.

“You need not look to your mother for assistance,” Henry said, still in that matter-of-fact manner that Hal found more disturbing than outright anger would have been. “It is only natural that a mother bird should protect her chicks, but when it is time for a fledgling to leave the nest, he is on his own.”

Hal was quick to seize his father’s metaphor and turn it back against him. “But that fledgling cannot learn to fly if his wings are clipped.”

“Clever lad,” Henry said softly, and it was not a compliment. “Lest you’ve forgotten, I warned you that you’d be on a short leash until you prove it is no longer needed. So for the foreseeable future, you’ll be closer than my own shadow. And since you’ve been keeping dubious company of late, I am dismissing those self-seekers and sycophants who are leading you astray, men such as Hasculf de St Hilaire, Adam d’Yquebeuf, and Juhel de Mayenne.”

Hal’s outraged gasp was audible to both his parents. “You cannot do that!”

“It is done,” Henry said tersely, and his son whirled to face his mother, an involuntary, stunned cry of “Maman!” escaping his lips.

Eleanor’s eyes locked with his, sending a message that was both reassurance and warning. “I understand your reluctance, Hal,” she said, “but you are not in a position to resist. You must do as your father commands.”

Normally a King’s leave-taking was a chaotic, noisy event, but those who’d gathered in the inner castle bailey to watch Henry’s departure were subdued and somber. Some of Hal’s knights lurked in the shadows, unwilling to call the king’s attention to themselves, but William Marshal strode out into the chilly March sunlight, a silent affirmation of loyalty to his unhappy young lord. Eleanor noted the gesture and approved. Marguerite and Hal were embracing; he brushed tears from her cheeks with his fingers before taking his stallion’s reins. His defiant gaze raked the bailey, finding sympathy from most of the onlookers, for this was Aquitaine; these were his mother’s vassals. Only the Count of Toulouse looked satisfied with his disgrace. As their eyes met, Hal leaned from the saddle and spat.

Seeing that they were about to depart, Eleanor moved forward, trailed by her uncle, constable, and Viscount Aimar. “My lord husband,” she said, “go with God,” and Henry acknowledged her farewell with a formal “Madame,” brushing his lips to her outstretched hand. Searching for his other sons, he found them standing on the steps of the great hall, and gave them a grave salute, then signaled his men to move out.

Hal had recovered his aplomb by now and he blew kisses to his wife, winked at his cousin Maud, and smiled at his mother before putting the spurs to his stallion. The last glance he cast over his shoulder, though, was a long, meaningful look aimed at William Marshal.

Marguerite had begun to sob in earnest, and Maud put a supportive arm around the girl’s shaking shoulders. But it was then that her eyes came to rest upon Henry’s queen. Eleanor was standing with her uncle Raoul and her son Richard, and as Maud looked at them, it seemed to her as if their faces were carved from stone. She instinctively made the sign of the cross to ward off a superstitious sense of foreboding, and then turned back to console Hal’s weeping young wife.