Devil's Brood

CHAPTER SEVEN

March 1173

Poitiers, Poitou

The window-seat was cushioned, and sunlight was filtering into the solar over Maud’s shoulder, for they were double windows and covered with thin sheets of horn, which admitted more light than the usual linen screens. A blazing hearth and woolen wall hangings shut out the chill, and the fireplace had a feature that Maud had not seen before: a stone hood that kept the smoke from escaping into the chamber by funneling it up the chimney. The floor rushes were fresh and fragrant; Maud had been impressed to learn that they were changed weekly, for she knew some English barons who’d consider it extravagant to replace them more than once a year. One of Eleanor’s musicians was strumming a plaintive melody on his gittern, two of her ladies were embroidering pillow covers, and her favorite greyhound was sprawled, belly-up, before the fire. A third attendant was reading aloud for their entertainment the sorrowful tale of star-crossed lovers Tristan and Iseult. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene, and Maud thought again that they knew how to live well in Aquitaine. Little wonder Eleanor had yearned for her homeland during her years of marital exile, for neither Paris nor London could match the splendors-or the comforts-of Poitiers.

Eleanor was not stitching as her ladies were, and Maud realized that she’d never seen her friend with a needle in her hand. Her aunt, the Empress Maude, had not been one for embroidery either. Maud supposed it was a small but subtle form of rebellion, for even queens were expected to do needlework, to occupy themselves with womanly tasks.

As for herself, Maud did not object to this particular domestic duty. She was a skilled seamstress and enjoyed exercising her imagination with needle and thread. Her current project was an elegant chrysom cloth of fine linen. In four years of marriage, her daughter-in-law Bertrada had already given birth to three children, and so Maud thought it only logical that there’d be a need again for christening attire in the coming twelvemonth. She was sorry Bertrada was not with her at Poitiers, for she’d become quite fond of the girl, but her daughter-by-marriage had insisted upon returning to England with Ranulf, Rhiannon, and Rainald.

She’d been surprised that Hugh had not taken Bertrada when he’d departed on pilgrimage after Christmas to the holy Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela. Their separation might be for the best, though, giving Bertrada time to recover from her last confinement. She knew of no woman who’d want to face the birthing chamber every year, much less a lass who was barely seventeen.

Thinking of difficult deliveries called John’s birth to mind, and she glanced toward the queen. Eleanor was seated at a table, occupied with pen and parchment, which aroused Maud’s always-lively curiosity; a letter must be very private indeed if it could not be entrusted to a scribe. She was amusing herself by speculating about the nature of her friend’s confidential message when the door suddenly banged open, with enough force to startle them all.

Richard swept into the chamber like a whirlwind; that was the only way Maud could describe his dramatic entrance. He was so flushed that he seemed to be feverish, and he looked eerily like his father in his rage. He was followed by Raoul de Faye and a third man who was a stranger to Maud. Slamming the door behind him, Richard strode toward his mother, paying no heed to the others in the solar.

“You’ll not believe what that damned fool has done, Maman! He fled from Chinon Castle and has taken refuge at the French court!”

Eleanor rose so swiftly that her chair toppled over into the floor rushes. One glance toward her attendants was all it took; rising, they quickly departed the chamber. So did the musician. It never occurred to Maud that the queen’s dismissal applied to her, too, and even if it had, she’d not have stirred from the window-seat. Nothing short of a direct command would have sufficed, given Richard’s remarkable revelation about Hal. God help him, what had that reckless lad done now? And why was Richard so distraught over his brother’s disgrace? From what she’d observed, there was little love lost between them.

“How do you know this, Richard?”

“He was with me when the message came from…Well, better we mention no names.” Raoul gazed coolly in Maud’s direction, seeing her not as his niece’s friend but as the king’s cousin. “It is true. Hal has bolted and the cat is amongst the pigeons for certes.” Spotting a flagon and cups, he moved to the table and began to pour for them, saying, “Wine will not make the news go down any easier, but it cannot hurt.” Glancing over his shoulder, he beckoned his messenger to come forward. “Tell the queen what you told us.”

The man removed his hat with a flourish, then knelt before Eleanor. “My lord dared not commit words to parchment, Madame, lest it fall into the wrong hands. But Lord Raoul knows his identity, as do you, my lady. He bade me come straightaway with the news of the events at Chinon. Your son, the young king, did indeed take flight. When King Henry learned of it, he rode after him in all haste. But the young king made great speed, covered more than a hundred miles in less than a day and night. And he had planned ahead, for fresh horses were awaiting him at Alencon. King Henry continued on, though, as far as Argentan. But he’d gained no ground, and at Argentan, he was told that Lord Hal had suddenly veered east. He gave up the chase, then, knowing further pursuit was futile, and the young king soon reached safety in the lands of the French king’s brother, the Count of Dreux.”

“Hell and Furies!” Eleanor had begun to pace, her skirts swirling about her ankles. “What was he thinking?”

“When does he ever think?” Richard straddled a chair and accepted a wine cup from Raoul. “If he were to sell his brain, he could claim it had never been used.”

Eleanor did not seem to be listening. Reaching the hearth, she stopped suddenly. “Morel! Jesu, I ought to have seen this coming.” Seeing that they did not understand, she said, “He did not take his new stallion, left him behind with me at Limoges. He did not want to risk losing him, for he was planning his escape as early as that.”

The messenger still knelt and Raoul reached out, helped the man to his feet. “You’ve done well, will be rewarded for your service. Go down to the great hall and get a meal, then tell the steward to find you a bed.” As the man withdrew, moving with the stiffness of one who’d spent many hours in the saddle, Raoul brought a wine cup over to Eleanor. Rather pointedly, he did not offer any to Maud, but she did not notice the snub. She was dismayed by Hal’s folly, but troubled, too, by the implications of this mystery messenger. Raoul de Faye had paid one of Henry’s lords or knights to spy upon him, and Eleanor had known about it-and approved.

Eleanor looked at her wine cup, seemed about to drink, then set it down. “How did Hal manage to get away? It could not have been easy, not with Harry watching him like a hungry hawk.”

“To give the lad credit where due, he was right clever about it. He got Harry to drop his guard by seeking his forgiveness, then feigned a toothache to be able to see an apothecary, and once he’d been given a sleeping draught, he put it in his father’s wine.” Raoul laughed, but Eleanor did not.

“Does it matter how he did it?” Richard sounded impatient. “What matters is that he has put us entre la espada y la pared. ” This was another Spanish expression he’d picked up from the young King of Aragon, one he obligingly translated for them now, saying it meant “between the sword and the wall.”

Eleanor seemed lost in her own thoughts and did not respond. Stepping forward, Raoul put his hand on her arm. “The lad is right. Hal’s flight was a signed confession of his guilt and confirmed all of Harry’s suspicions of a conspiracy with the French. This means we no longer have time as our ally, Eleanor. Hal has flushed our quarry and whether we are ready or not, the hunt is on.”

Eleanor frowned. “I am well aware of that, Uncle!”

“My God…” Maud’s whispered words seemed to echo in the sudden silence. She was staring at Eleanor in disbelief. “You are conspiring against Harry?”

Eleanor stiffened, for she’d not expected Maud to sound so horrified. “Leave us, Uncle,” she said, adding, “You, too, Richard,” when her son did not move. He did not look happy about it, but he followed Raoul from the solar.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Maud rose and crossed the chamber, not stopping until she was close enough to look into Eleanor’s eyes. “Is it really true, then? You are part of this plot?”

Eleanor could have said that she had not fully committed herself, for it was technically true, but that was a sophistry. The conspiracy might still be in its initial stages, but she’d known since Limoges that there’d be no turning back. “Yes,” she said, resisting the impulse to say more. She’d not have thought that she’d need to explain herself, not to Maud, but the other woman was regarding her now as if they were strangers.

“Whatever grievances you have against Harry, I cannot believe you want him dead!”

“Of course I do not,” Eleanor snapped. “Neither do my sons, nor Louis, either, for that matter. Can you imagine Louis, of all men, plotting regicide? I daresay he hopes to bleed away some of Harry’s strength, to keep him from expanding his empire at Louis’s expense. He hopes, too, that my sons will be easier to deal with than Harry. That may well be true for Hal, but not for Richard, as he’ll learn to his cost.”

“You keep saying ‘my sons.’ But they are Harry’s sons, too. And however you think he has wronged you, Eleanor, nothing could justify turning a man’s children against him.”

Eleanor was taken aback by the hostility in that accusation. “You think I did that? No, Harry handled that quite well all by himself. My sons love him not, and why should they? They barely know him. Richard and Geoffrey call him the Aquilon, a Norman name for the north wind. He sweeps into their lives, wreaking havoc, and then moves on, with nary a backward glance. And when he does pay them heed, it is only to make use of them in his various schemes and stratagems.”

“That is what kings do. And can you truly say that you have not done it, too? That you are not using Richard to protect Aquitaine?”

“Richard’s interests and Aquitaine’s interests are one and the same. There is no conflict there.”

“And what of Hal? It seems to me that you are seizing upon his discontent to right your wrongs. How fair is that?”

“You could not be more mistaken,” Eleanor said coldly. “Hal did not need me to prod him into rebellion. That was Harry’s doing, not mine. Hal is a crowned king, yet he has nothing to call his own. Harry denies him even the semblance of independence, much less any real authority. And when Hal has protested, Harry seeks to content him with empty promises. Let me tell you what Hal says of those promises-that they are counterfeit coin. And he is right.”

“Harry may not be a perfect father. But he does love them, Eleanor. You know he does!”

“Yes, I’ll grant you that. But he sees them as pawns on his imperial chessboard. He’ll never treat them as men grown, for in his eyes, they’ll always be children, children in need of his guidance and superior wisdom. He is convinced he is in the right and is utterly unwilling to compromise. Why should he? He is the puppeteer, after all, the one pulling the strings. But neither Hal nor Richard are puppets, as he is about to discover.”

“I do not deny that Harry is stubborn or that he makes mistakes, some of them grievous. Certainly he has erred with Hal. But there had to be another way than this, Eleanor!”

“I thought so, too-once. I talked myself hoarse trying to reach him, Maud, trying to make him see that he is the one sowing seeds of rebellion. But he’d not listen, not if it meant sharing power. I’ve told him that he governs as if he never intends to die, and it is no jest. You know what happens to saplings trapped in the shadow of a massive oak; their growth is stunted. Well, I am not going to let that happen, not to my sons. Harry made Hal a king and it is time he acknowledges him as one. As for Richard, he will rule Aquitaine with me until he grows to manhood, and then he will be accountable to the Almighty, not the King of England. And once Geoffrey weds Constance, he will-”

“Geoffrey, too? But he is just fourteen!”

“Need I remind you that when Harry was fourteen, he hired routiers and went off on his own to England, intending to help his mother fight Stephen.”

“Yes, and when the routiers balked at his promises of payment and threatened to desert, leaving him stranded, he asked Stephen to lend him money to return to Normandy. Stephen was so amused by his sheer bravado that he did! Does that sound like your ordinary fourteen-year-old, Eleanor? For this is what it comes down to, does it not? How could you have forgotten the mettle of the man?”

“I do not need you to lecture me about Harry’s capabilities. After twenty years of marriage, I’d say I know him far better than you do.”

Maud shook her head slowly. “I am beginning to think that Harry is not the only blind one in your family. You once described Louis as ‘dithering at every royal crossroads.’ He is not going to defeat Henry Fitz Empress, not in this life or the next. Neither are striplings like Hal or Richard. Nor are you. Oh, I know you can match Harry in shrewdness and daring and ice-blooded resolve. But you cannot take the field against him, can you? Why do you think I am so distraught over this madness? Because this is a war you cannot hope to win!”

Henry was facing a far more formidable coalition than just Louis and her sons, but Eleanor was not about to reveal that to Maud, for it was painfully apparent that she’d greatly misjudged the other woman. She said nothing, and after a moment, Maud moved, shivering, to the hearth, feeling cold to the very marrow of her bones. “Why did you let me stay in the solar? I would to God I’d never heard a word of all this, for what am I to do now with what I know?”

Eleanor did not doubt the sincerity of her distress, but she had no sympathy to spare for Maud’s misery. “There is nothing you can do.”

Maud’s nerves were so raw that it took very little to inflame her temper. “How can you be so sure of that?” she challenged. “How do you know that I’ll not tell Harry what I’ve learned?”

“Because,” Eleanor said, “you love your son as much as I love mine.”

To Maud, there was something ominous in that matter-of-fact statement. “What are you saying, Eleanor? That my son is to be held hostage for my good behavior?”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, the only sign that she was now as angry as Maud. “No, I am saying that your son Hugh is one of Hal’s most enthusiastic allies. He has pledged his honor and the vast resources of Chester’s earldom to this rebellion. So you’d best hope that you are wrong about this being a war we cannot win.”

Maud gasped, losing color so rapidly that she looked ill. “I…I do not believe you. Hugh is in Spain! Would he have gone on pilgrimage if he were conspiring against the Crown?”

It was a feeble hope, though, and Eleanor was quick to snatch it away. “The rebellion was not to begin so soon. That is why Raoul and Richard were so vexed with Hal. Hugh expected to have plenty of time to make his pilgrimage, and I’d wager that he planned to pray at Santiago’s holy shrine for victory. Not that he shares your doubts about the outcome. He sees Hal as an anointed king, one he wants to serve, and there are many young lords who share his convictions.”

Maud reached out, grasped the back of the closest chair for support. She had never been so frightened as she was at this moment. If Hugh was in rebellion, her daughter Beatrix’s husband might well be implicated, too, for he’d been bedazzled to be the brother-in-law of the Earl of Chester. “It is not enough that you’ve poisoned your own well,” she said bitterly. “No, you must poison mine, too!”

“Jesus God, you sound just like Harry! He cannot admit that our sons have minds of their own, and it seems that neither can you. I did not subvert Hugh’s loyalty, did not lead him astray. I never even discussed Hal’s grievances with him. The choice was his.”

“I love my son dearly, but I am not blind to his failings. He lacks the attributes of leadership, has always been easily influenced. It would not take much to convince him that he’d be embarking upon a great adventure. Hal would have been just as easily persuaded, and there’d be many at the French court eager to do the persuading. But you could have put a halt to it, Eleanor. If you’d warned Hal that this rash intrigue could be his ruination, he’d have listened to you. But you did not, and I’ll never forgive you for that.”

She was turning toward the door when Eleanor spat, “You have not been dismissed yet, my lady countess.”

Maud paused, then dropped a deep, mocking curtsy. At that moment, she wanted only to strike out, to make Eleanor hurt as much as she was hurting, and she had the weapon at hand. “What is there left to say, Madame? Unless you wish to discuss those rumors of your involvement in the conspiracy?”

“What are you talking about?”

Maud feigned surprise. “Harry did not tell you, then? The Count of Toulouse sought him out at Limoges and warned him that you were plotting with the French king against him.”

Eleanor stared at her. “What sort of game are you playing, Maud? Why should I believe you? Even if that swine St Gilles did come to Harry with his suspicions, how would you have known about it?”

“I know because my brother and my uncle were in Harry’s bedchamber when St Gilles brought his baneful offering. Roger held his tongue, of course, having had practice in keeping the confidences of the confessional. But Ranulf knew that I could be trusted with secrets, mayhap because I’d kept so many of his, and he told me what happened. Should you like to know Harry’s response? He was outraged that St Gilles should dare to malign you like that. Not for a heartbeat did he wonder if it could be true, as he proved by sending Richard and Geoffrey back with you to Poitiers.”

Eleanor’s throat had tightened, but she was not about to let Maud see that her words had wounded. “That does not surprise me. His pride would keep him from believing it.”

“Not pride,” Maud said, “trust.” And confident that she’d gotten the last word, she made her departure.

Eleanor exhaled a ragged breath and sat down abruptly on the settle. She’d been shocked by Maud’s judgmental response, and she felt betrayed by a woman she’d long trusted. She was hurt and disappointed, but above all, she was angry, and there was no dearth of targets for her fury-Maud for her disloyalty, Hal for his foolhardy flight from Chinon, Raoul for taking pleasure in the wreckage of her family, Louis for simply being Louis, Raimon St Gilles for being even more treacherous than she’d realized, Harry for his obstinacy, his arrogance, and his faith in her. The remainder of her rage she spilled over onto herself-for caring about his pain, pain he’d brought upon himself. She swore aloud, using all of Henry’s favorite oaths, but it did not help, and when she was nudged by her greyhound, she gratefully accepted the dog’s silent sympathy. She invited the animal up onto the settle beside her, and was taking what comfort she could from the abiding, absolute loyalty shining from those slanted dark eyes when the door opened and Raoul entered the chamber.

“I am guessing that you did not patch up the rift with our troublesome countess,” he said, “for when I passed her in the stairwell, she drew her skirts about her as if I were infected with the pox.”

Eleanor hastily blinked back the tears that had begun to trickle from the corners of her eyes, knowing her uncle would see them as womanly weakness, for he constantly feared that her regrets might give way to remorse and, then, repudiation of their plans. “No, we did not ‘patch up the rift.’ She greatly disapproves of our intentions and was not shy about expressing that disapproval.”

“Why in Our Lady’s Name did you allow her to remain in the solar, Eleanor?”

“She asked me the same question,” Eleanor said, with a mirthless smile. “Because Maud is not a woman to be dismissed as if she were a maid servant.” She conveniently ignored the fact that she’d tried to do just that moments ago. “Because she would have to be told sooner or later, especially now that Hal has forced our hand. And because I thought she would understand…”

“You ought to have known better. It was only to be expected that her kinship to the king would count for more than her friendship with you. Blood always wins out. What happens now? Will she try to warn Harry?”

“No, she will not,” Eleanor said, with enough certainty to ease his qualms. “As you say, Uncle, blood will out. Her love for her son is greater than her loyalty to Harry.”

Dinner was an elaborate affair as Eleanor was entertaining William le Templier, the new Archbishop of Bordeaux, and John aux Bellesmains, the Bishop of Poitiers. The first course was being served when her steward was called aside, listened intently to the message being murmured in his ear, and, with apologies, hurried from the hall. He soon returned and hastened toward the high table. “Madame, the king is here! He has just ridden into the bailey.”

Eleanor set her wine cup down with a thud. All along the length of the table, she saw her guests reacting to this startling news, none of them with pleasure. Raoul paled and Saldebreuil de Sanzay frowned and, for a brief moment, an expression of unease shadowed Richard’s face. Geoffrey, less practiced in concealing his emotions, looked downright alarmed. Although she maintained her public poise, Eleanor was shaken, too, for she was not ready to face her husband. What if she’d been wrong about Maud’s keeping quiet? She’d departed the morrow after their confrontation; could she have gone to Harry, after all?

The steward glanced around the table, saw the tension, and began to laugh. “Ah, no, Madame, ’tis the young king, your son!”

Hal’s unexpected arrival loosed chaos in the hall, for he had to be welcomed by the clerics and the other guests and apologies had to be made for interrupting the dinner. But at last they were gathered in the privacy of Eleanor’s solar, all family except for her venerable constable, Saldebreuil. Hal was lounging on the settle, with Marguerite sitting so close that she was practically in his lap. Geoffrey was hovering nearby, eager to begin bombarding his elder brother with questions. Raoul and Eleanor’s other uncle, Hugh, were also in high spirits, treating Hal as if he were returning from a battlefield triumph. Only Richard stood apart, and when their eyes met, Eleanor shot him a silent warning to mind his manners. She’d long been troubled by the strain between her two oldest sons, and she did not want Richard to spoil Hal’s homecoming by starting a quarrel; as young as he was, his sarcasm could be lethal, and she did not want him exercising it at Hal’s expense.

Hal was relating the story of his escape from Chinon, with a flair for the dramatic that would have done justice to the Song of Roland. He was extravagantly complimented for his cleverness, and only his mother spared a thought, however reluctant, for the injury he’d inflicted upon his father. “I never doubted,” he concluded, “that I would get away, not for a moment. Just as I knew my knights would be there for me. I am indeed blessed to have such loyal men. And such a fair wife,” he added, laughing and dropping a kiss upon the tip of Marguerite’s nose.

She laughed, too, blushing very becomingly. “What happened once you reached my father’s court?”

“I was welcomed as a king ought to be. Louis made me a new great seal and I was given lavish quarters in his Paris palace, and as soon as word spread of my arrival, the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne traveled to the French court to meet with me, as did the Count of Blois and-” Hal broke off, sat upright on the settle, and glanced over at Eleanor, blue eyes bright with excitement. “But first I must tell you, Maman. I was knighted in Paris!”

It was impossible not to share in his joy, and he was immediately inundated with praise; even Richard bestirred himself to offer a laconic congratulations. After a moment to reflect, Raoul began to laugh. “Well, it was not the way he’d expected it, but Harry got his wish. Hal was knighted by the French king!”

Hal looked over at Raoul and shook his head. “I was not knighted by the French king.” That drew all their attention, as he’d hoped, and he paused to heighten the suspense. “I asked the most worthy, honorable man I know to confer knighthood upon me. I asked Will Marshal.”

There were exclamations of surprise and astonishment, for they did not see why Hal would have chosen a mere knight to perform such a significant ceremony when he could have had it done by a king. Only Eleanor understood and, crossing the solar, she leaned over and kissed her eldest son on the cheek. “That was a very generous gesture, Hal. I am sure Will was greatly honored by it.”

Hal separated from his wife long enough to rise to his feet and give his mother an exuberant hug. “I had trouble convincing him that I was serious, but once I had, he was overwhelmed.”

“Loyalty like his should be rewarded,” she said approvingly. “It does not hurt to let the world know, too, that you value fidelity. A great lord is expected to show great generosity to his vassals and knights. It makes others all the more eager to serve you.”

“I suppose,” he said vaguely, for the truth was that he’d not considered the political ramifications of his choice. It had been an impulsive act, a way to honor a man he greatly respected, the embodiment of knightly chivalry. Sitting down again beside Marguerite, he smiled up at his mother. “I know it was not easy for Will to defy my father. I am sure he had misgivings, and I think he overcame those misgivings because of you, Maman.”

“Me? What do you mean, Hal?”

“Once we were safely in French territory, naturally we wanted to celebrate. We celebrated so much, in fact, that the next morn I felt as if the bells of Notre Dame were going off inside my head. Even Will drank enough to loosen his tongue. He started to talk about you, Maman, about how he owed you his very life, about what a great queen you were and what an honor it had been to serve you whilst he was one of your household knights.” He grinned. “He sounded smitten, if truth be told!”

Eleanor was pleased, but Marguerite looked puzzled. “What did he mean about owing her his life?”

Hal slid his arm around her waist, quite happy to enlighten her. “It happened five years ago in Poitou, darling. My mother was ambushed by the de Lusignans. To save her from capture, Will and his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, fought like demons. She got away safely, thank God, but the earl was slain and Will was wounded and taken prisoner. Will had no money for the ransom, although he lied and pretended that he had kin willing to pay it. He knew sooner or later they’d find out the truth, but he was desperate to buy as much time as he could. Then-as he described it-the miracle happened. His captors announced that his ransom had been paid by the queen and set him free. When he returned to Poitiers, grateful beyond words, my mother not only gave him a position in her household, but she provided him with a destrier and chain mail, thus winning his heart for all eternity!”

Marguerite was regarding Eleanor with wide, admiring eyes. She’d been astonished by some of Hal’s stories about his mother-that she’d gone on crusade with Louis and their caravan had been attacked by Saracens, that her ship had been captured by pirates in the pay of the Byzantine Emperor, only to be rescued in the nick of time by the King of Sicily’s fleet-but this one sounded as if it came straight from a minstrel’s tale. “You have led the most remarkable life,” she blurted out, “like Iseult or Guinevere!”

Both of those legendary queens had also been faithless wives, but Eleanor knew that her daughter-in-law’s insult was an innocent one, and she smiled at the girl before turning back to Hal. “You mentioned a number of highborn lords. Have they fully committed themselves to our rebellion?”

“Indeed they have, all of them! It was very easy to come to terms with them, Maman. I promised the Count of Blois two hundred pounds a year and the castle of Amboise. The Count of Flanders shall have the county of Kent, a thousand pounds a year, and the castles at Dover and Rochester, and his brother, the Count of Boulogne, shall have the county of Mortain in Normandy and the Honour of Hay in Wales. Best of all, Louis thinks that the King of Scotland will also commit to our cause in return for Northumbria and the earldoms of Huntingdon and Cambridge for his brother. We can count, too, upon Raoul de Fougeres and most of the Breton barons, and in England, the Earls of Chester, Leicester, Norfolk, and Derby. Not to forget your lords in Poitou, Maman. Has there ever been such a redoubtable alliance? Not since all those Greek kings sailed for Troy!”

At least he’d retained some of his tutor’s lessons, Eleanor thought, but she was appalled by his blithe admission that he’d given away so much of his inheritance. The others were staring at him with the same amazement; only Marguerite seemed untroubled by Hal’s shortsighted, misguided mistake. From the corner of her eye, Eleanor caught a glimpse of her second son. Richard’s lip had curled, his disdain so obvious that she knew he was about to pounce, and that would only make matters worse. Moving quickly to forestall him, she said, “Hal, as gladdened as I am by your visit, I am somewhat surprised by it, too. I know you avoided your father’s domains, but even so, the danger was great. He’d pay handsomely to get you back in his control, and our world is full of men who’d betray their own mothers for a handful of deniers. Why did you take such a risk?”

The risk had been part of the appeal, but Hal knew better than to confess to that to his mother. “I came,” he said, “to bring my brothers back with me to Paris.”

Hal and Marguerite had been the first to withdraw; after yawning and complaining, very unconvincingly, that he was exhausted from his journey, he’d gone off to Marguerite’s bedchamber, their laughter giving the lie to his professed intent to sleep. Richard and Geoffrey were the next to go, eager to start packing. Alone in the solar with her uncles and her constable, Eleanor sat down wearily on the nearest seat, an uncomfortable coffer chest. “You need not say it, Raoul,” she warned. “Hal has made a grievous mistake. I know that all too well.”

“A pity Hal does not,” Raoul observed, but without heat. He was not heartbroken that his grandnephew should be disposing of his lands with such careless abandon, and as his eyes met his brother’s, he saw that Hugh agreed with him. Aquitaine could only benefit by it. Richard had been quick to see that, too, saying scornfully before he departed that Hal could slice England up six different ways from Sunday as long as Aquitaine remained intact. “We have to look upon the bright side,” Raoul continued. “Yes, Hal is pledging to give away most of his inheritance ere he even comes into it. But when Harry hears of this, he is like to have an apoplectic fit and that would solve our troubles rather neatly.”

Eleanor raised her head, and there was nothing of the niece in the look she gave him. “You have said enough,” she said, and Raoul knew better than to argue, not when she sounded like that. He excused himself, and Hugh soon followed.

“Madame.” When Eleanor turned toward him, Saldebreuil rose and limped over to her. “This does not bode well for a quick resolution of the rebellion. Your lord husband will never agree to honor your son’s promises, and Hal’s new allies will not be willing to make peace unless he does. Do you think you can talk sense into the lad, make him see that he’s blundered into a den of thieves?”

Eleanor appreciated his candor, the bluntness of an old soldier who knew his days were dwindling, freeing him to speak his mind. “It is too late for that. He has already struck these Devil’s deals and cannot repudiate them…at least not until he wins,” she added, with a queen’s cynical understanding of statecraft. “Damn Louis for this! The rest of them are no better than wolves on the prowl. But Hal is wed to Louis’s daughter, and he owed him better than this.”

Saldebreuil thought that Eleanor’s analogy was an apt one, for Hal was indeed a lamb let loose amongst wolves. Thankful that their young duke was not as trusting as his elder brother, he sat down again, for his bones were beginning to ache. “What will you do, my lady? If you send Richard and Geoffrey to Paris, there will be no turning back.”

“I know,” she said. “But you saw the looks on their faces. They’d set out tonight if it were up to them. How could I tell them not to go? I cannot do what Harry has done, treat them like feckless, flighty children. Richard would never accept that, and Geoffrey is already very jealous. If he were not permitted to go to Paris, too, he’d never forgive Richard.”

Events were taking on a momentum of their own and choices were being made for her, much to her dismay. If only she did not have to rely upon Louis. If only she could take command of this ill-assorted coalition. But men like Philip of Flanders were not likely to pay heed to a woman. And for a moment, she could hear echoes of Maud’s tart-tongued reminder that she could not take the field herself.

Looking up, she saw that Saldebreuil was watching her with the protective concern allowed an old and devoted retainer, and she mustered up a smile for his benefit, before saying grimly, “Raoul was right when he said that whether we are ready or not, the hunt is on. Hal’s rebellion has become a war, and it is a war we must win.”