Time and Chance

CHAPTER NINE

June 1160

Chester, England

Friday, the twenty-fourth of June, was the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and Chester’s annual fair was in full swing. Booths and stalls had been set up in front of the abbey of St Werbergh’s Great Gate, and merchants were doing a brisk business. Enticed by the aroma of freshly baked apple wafers, Eleri fumbled in the purse dangling from her belt. Finding only a few farthings, she scowled, then tugged at her sister’s sleeve.

“I wish to God our kings minted money of their own. I hate having to use English coins for everything. Speaking of which, do you have any, Rhiannon? I want to buy the children some wafers.”

“Ranulf gave me a full purse. Here, take what you need.”

They’d been speaking in Welsh, and Eleri now glanced toward the young Englishwoman standing a few feet away, one of the Countess of Chester’s ladies-in-waiting. “Your French is much better than mine, Rhiannon. Ask her if she wants a wafer, too.”

Isolda did, and Eleri was soon shepherding the children toward the baker’s booth. Left alone with Isolda, Rhiannon made polite conversation for a while, but the other woman’s responses were so terse that she soon gave up the attempt, unsure whether Isolda’s discomfort was a reaction to her blindness, her Welsh blood, or both. Reminding herself that there were plenty of Welsh made uneasy by her blindness, too, she concentrated instead upon the sounds and smells of the fair.

The savory aroma of the baked wafers mingled with the fragrances of perfumes and spices and the more pungent odors associated with summer heat and crowds and animals. Rhiannon had never been to a fair before; they had nothing of this scope in Wales. But Eleri was skilled at acting as her sister’s eyes and she’d been providing vivid descriptions of the activities and fairgoers.

The variety of goods for sale was truly amazing, she’d reported: bolts of linen and silk, cowhide boots, felt hats, jars of honey and olive and almond and linseed oil, wines and cider and candles and even a bright green African parrot in a wicker cage. Equally remarkable was the range of entertainment offered. There were acrobats and jugglers and musicians and a rope dancer and archery contests, bouts with the quarter staff, wrestling matches, and cock fighting. There were also cutpurses and thieves and harlots on the prowl, keeping their eyes peeled for the sheriff’s men, and an occasional belligerent drunkard. For Rhiannon, it was an experience both exhilarating and overwhelming.

“Lady Isolda, where are they selling cider?” Getting no answer, Rhiannon repeated her question. But again there was no response. With a pang of dismay, she realized that the other woman had gone off, leaving her alone. She had a moment of instinctive panic, which quickly subsided once she remembered that Eleri would soon be back.

Still, it was unnerving to be surrounded by jostling strangers, people she could neither see nor understand, for although Ranulf had taught her French, most of the Chester fairgoers were speaking English, and that only increased her sense of isolation. Damning Isolda under her breath, she stumbled when someone bumped her from behind. Her first fear was that a cutpurse had seen her as an easy target, but she soon realized that something else was amiss. All around her, people were pushing and shoving. They did not seem fearful, though, for they were laughing and shrieking. Confused, she struggled to keep her footing, but she was caught up in the surging crowd like a twig carried along by flood waters. She was soon dizzy and disoriented, her cries for Eleri going unheard. When an elbow slammed into her ribs, she reeled backward, losing her balance.

She did not fall, though. An arm snaked around her waist, keeping her upright, and a familiar voice murmured soothingly in Welsh, “Easy, darling, I’ve got you.”

Rhiannon gasped with relief, but also astonishment. “Hywel? Whatever are you doing here?”

“What I do best, rescuing a damsel in distress. Of course I usually have to fend off dragons, not greased pigs, but-”

“Greased pigs! What are you talking about, Hywel?”

“That was the cause of all the commotion. One of the greased pigs escaped from its pen and made a dash for freedom, with a pack of eager youths in noisy pursuit.” Hywel chuckled and gave Rhiannon a hug. “It must have been a Welsh pig, for he ran circles around those English lads, and when last seen, was heading west as fast as those stubby little legs would carry him. Now… why are you wandering about Chester’s fair by yourself and where is that roving husband of yours?”

“You first,” she insisted, as he led her toward the greater security of the closest booth.

“We happened to be passing by and decided to stop in at the fair. Why else did we make peace with the English except for the opportunity to shop in Chester?”

Rhiannon wished he wouldn’t joke about the peace, for she still fretted-especially late at night-that it would not last. “My turn,” she said. “We are visiting Ranulf’s niece. She was waylaid by the abbot, told us to go on into the fair. Eleri is at the baker’s booth with the children, hers and mine.”

“And Ranulf?”

“He had to ride over to one of his Cheshire manors and meet with his steward. We’re staying with Maud until he gets back. Can you wait until she joins us? I would like you to meet her.”

“We did meet,” Hywel said, smiling at her surprise, “in Poitiers last June. Did Ranulf never tell you?” Hearing his name called then, he gave an answering shout. “Over here!” Turning back to Rhiannon, he said, “You remember my foster brother, Peryf ap Cedifor?”

“Of course,” she said, holding out her hand for Peryf to kiss. The sound of his voice was just as she remembered, gruff and so deep that she’d envisioned him as a veritable giant, a vast, sturdy oak of a man. It had come as a shock when Ranulf described Peryf as being only of average height, nowhere near as tall as Hywel.

“And here is my son, Caswallon,” Hywel said fondly as they were joined by a youth of fifteen. “You remember the lovely Lady Rhiannon, lad?”

The boy nodded, ducking his head. He had inherited neither his father’s uncommon height nor his coloring, the fair hair and dark eyes that gave Hywel such a striking appearance. Caswallon had hair the shade of rust, a multitude of freckles, and greyish-green eyes that looked at life sidelong, rarely head-on. Unlike Peryf, Caswallon’s physical description tallied well with Rhiannon’s mental image of the boy, as one easily overlooked. Each time Rhiannon had met him, he’d been so tongue-tied that all of her maternal instincts were aroused. The problem, she suspected, was most likely Hywel; it might well be daunting for a shy youngster, growing up in the shadow of such a celebrated and flamboyant father.

“Rhiannon, I’ve been looking all over for you! Why did you not stay by the-Oh!” Eleri’s indignant protest was forgotten at the sight of the Welsh prince. “Lord Hywel, what a surprise! What brings you to Chester?”

“Lady Eleri, you know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth,” Hywel professed gallantly. After dispatching his son to buy more wafers and cider for them all, he and Peryf ushered the women toward the shade of a nearby elder tree. “I’m sorry that we’ll miss seeing Ranulf. I rely upon him for gossip about the English king’s court.”

Eleri giggled; her sister had long ago noted that she laughed immoderately at all of Hywel’s jokes. “Well, you are in luck,” she declared, “for Rhiannon and I have a truly wicked scandal to relate, one involving a nun and a count’s son!”

Hywel was immediately intrigued. “Do not keep us in suspense, sweetheart. And spare none of the lurid details!”

Eleri was happy to oblige. “You remember when the Count of Boulogne died on that ill-fated expedition against Toulouse? Naturally the English king at once began to think about finding a suitable husband for the count’s sister Mary, the new heiress to Boulogne. Unfortunately, Mary also happened to be the abbess of Romsey’s nunnery. Now that would have discouraged most men from pursuing any matrimonial schemes.”

Eleri stifled another giggle, adding archly, “The Church does not look kindly upon marriage for its Brides of Christ, after all. But the English king is not one to balk at trivial obstacles like holy oaths of chastity. So… he either coerced or coaxed our Mother Abbess out of Romsey, somehow obtained a dispensation-to the horror of his own chancellor, Becket-and married the new countess off to his cousin Matthew, younger son of the Count of Flanders!”

Rhiannon saw no humor in the tale, for it troubled her that Henry felt so free to play by his own rules; moreover, she could not help sympathizing with the convent-bred Mary, wondering how willing a bride she’d been. But Hywel and Peryf were roaring with laughter.

“Bless you, lass, that is more than choice gossip. It is almost too good to be true, for it has all the classic elements of a truly great scandal; the best ones always involve the Church, the Crown, and clandestine conspiracies. Throw in a virgin nun-bride and it is well nigh perfect!”

Eleri joined in their mirth, delighted with the success of her story. They were laughing too hard to hear the approaching female footsteps, lightly treading upon the summer grass. “What,” Maud asked, “is provoking so much merriment?” Her dark eyes widened as they turned toward Hywel. “If it is not the poet-prince!”

Hywel kissed her hand with his usual panache. “I am flattered beyond words that you remember me, my lady.”

“You… beyond words? Now why do I doubt that?”

Hywel grinned. “Why are the most beautiful of women always the cruelest?” After introducing Maud to Peryf, he collected his son, just returning with a sackful of wafers and several cider flasks. Munching on the wafers, they corralled the children and sauntered back toward the booths, stopping to watch as a daring youth juggled knives and axes and even flaming torches.

It was a dazzling performance, and the audience responded with generous applause and a shower of coins. Leaving the juggler to count his booty, they moved on. Eleri soon dropped back to walk beside her sister. “It is shameless,” she hissed, “the way Maud is flirting so blatantly with Hywel! You’d think she’d have more pride, would you not?”

Rhiannon made a noncommittal reply. She would much rather Hywel do his flirting with Maud than with Eleri, for the widowed countess was far more worldly than her little sister and better able to deal with Hywel’s formidable charm. While she was convinced that Eleri loved her husband, she knew, too, that Hywel was dangerously adept at seduction, and she wasn’t sure his friendship with Ranulf would restrain him if Eleri offered encouragement. No, better that he turn that beguiling smile upon Maud, a more worthy adversary in every sense. Even without sight, she could detect the unmistakable sparks flying between them, and she found herself wondering about that first meeting of theirs in Poitiers.

They were strolling side by side, Maud’s arm linked in Hywel’s, and their laughter drifted back upon the breeze, bringing a fresh frown to Eleri’s face. Peryf had fallen in behind them, escorting Maud’s ladies-in-waiting, Clarice and Isolda, who’d hastily reappeared to attend her mistress. Eleri was keeping watch over the children, and Caswallon trailed after the others, digging in his sack for the last of the wafers.

Up ahead, a crowd had gathered and they were starting in that direction when Maud was intercepted by another woman. What drew Rhiannon’s attention was the contrast between their voices. While the stranger seemed delighted by the chance meeting, Maud showed little enthusiasm, sounding polite but wary. The woman was talking with considerable animation, arousing Rhiannon’s curiosity, for her demeanor bespoke an intimacy that Maud was not acknowledging. She was almost upon them when her husband’s name was unexpectedly thrust into the conversation.

“I am gladdened that you are so well, Lady Maud. Tell me… how is Ranulf? How has he been faring?”

Rhiannon came to an abrupt halt. She knew suddenly, with a certainty that owed nothing to logic, that this was Annora Fitz Clement, the woman Ranulf had once loved to distraction. She felt the blood rushing to her face, and for a moment, all she could hear was the thudding of her own heart. And then Maud had slid an arm around her shoulders, saying warmly:

“Ranulf has been faring very well indeed, Annora. And here is the proof, a woman dearer to me than any sister could be, the Lady Rhiannon… Ranulf’s wife.”

The rest of the introductions passed in a blur for Rhiannon. Annora made the proper responses, saying that she’d heard Ranulf had wed a Welsh cousin, and offering her belated congratulations and well-wishes. But the liveliness had drained from her voice and the conversation soon trailed off into an awkward silence. Rhiannon did not doubt that she was being subjected to a critical scrutiny, and she felt a rush of rage, directed against Annora and the Almighty in equal measure, that she could not even look upon her rival’s face.

She hoped that she’d regained her poise, although she knew that betraying color still stained her cheeks. As uncomfortable as the encounter was, it would have been far worse if not for Maud. The other woman’s silent support was as bracing as the arm around her shoulders, and Maud made a conspicuous point of introducing Rhiannon’s children to Annora, while mentioning ever so casually that Ranulf was not expected back in Chester for several days. Annora soon found an excuse to withdraw, but her presence continued to be felt long after she’d vanished into the crowd. Rhiannon felt no surprise at that. She, above all others, needed no one to tell her of Annora’s ghostly tenacity, for had she not haunted the shadows of their marriage for fully ten years?

“Is that the one?” Eleri squeezed Rhiannon’s arm. “The woman Ranulf was so besotted with? I thought her quite plain. He could surely have done better for himself, dearest!”

“He did,” Maud said emphatically, “he did.” Lowering her voice for Rhiannon’s ear alone, she murmured, “I never cared much for Annora, always found her to be rather forgettable. In fact, she seems to be fading from memory even as we speak.”

Rhiannon’s smile was forced. “No,” she said, “I’ll keep nothing from Ranulf. What if he learned from others that we’d met this woman? How would I explain our silence?”

“As you wish, Rhiannon. It matters for naught, though. I’d wager Ranulf has spared nary a thought for Annora in years.”

Rhiannon said nothing, wishing she could be as sure of that as Maud. She yearned to ask if Annora was truly plain, or if that was merely a sister’s loyalty. But her pride kept her quiet, as did her common sense. What did it matter, after all, if Annora was no great beauty? Ranulf had still loved her, had risked his life and his immortal soul for that love.

They continued on, pausing to watch an acrobatic tumbling act. Judging from the hearty applause of the audience, the performance was a good one. Rhiannon smiled as Gilbert and Mallt cheered and clapped, but not even her children’s pleasure could banish Annora from her thoughts.

“Rhiannon?” Hywel’s breath was warm on her cheek. “How are you doing, darling?”

“I am well enough,” she insisted. “Why should I fear a memory?” Hywel knew that few temptations were as seductive as memories of lost youth and lost love. He suspected that Rhiannon did, too. “You’ve nothing to fear from any other woman, sweetheart. And if you ever get tired of that husband of yours, I’ll be camping outside your door in the blink of an eye!”

“You’re such a liar,” Rhiannon laughed. “I do not doubt that you are a good lover, but you are an even better friend.”

“You have it backward,” he said. “I am a good friend, an even better lover.” And his eyes shifted from Rhiannon to Maud, who spoke little Welsh, but who seemed to understand exactly what he was saying.

Winchester was in the grip of an oppressive August heat wave, and Petronilla was not surprised to find the castle gardens deserted. She was turning to go back into the great hall when she spied a recumbent figure sprawled on one of the turf benches. He had a cap pulled down over his face to shut out the sun’s glare, but she still recognized her half-brother. Moving swiftly along the graveled path, she bent over and shook his shoulder. “Jos!”

Joscelin opened his eyes, blinking up at her drowsily. “Petra? What is it?”

“I’ve been searching everywhere for Eleanor. Have you seen her?”

“Not since dinner this morning.” Yawning, he slid over to make room for her on the bench, an invitation she ignored. “Why are you seeking Eleanor? Is something amiss?”

“That is what I am trying to find out. I heard that an urgent letter arrived for her from Normandy.”

“So?” Joscelin yawned again. “Mayhap it is just a love letter from her husband, telling her how much he misses their bedsport.”

“Harry is not a man for writing love letters,” Petronilla said impatiently, and Joscelin gave her a quizzical look.

“Not to you, no. But since I see no reason why Eleanor would share hers with you, how do you know what he writes? Why are you always so ready to find fault with the man, Petra?”

“Why do you think? Because he neglects our sister shamefully!”

“For the Lord’s pity, woman, he gave her a crown!”

“And you truly think that is enough?”

“Mayhap not in one of your Courts of Love, but we dwell in the real world. And you’re not going to convince me that Eleanor, of all women, would prefer trinkets and roses and maudlin poems to a throne!”

“Jesu, men can be so dim-witted! Of course Eleanor enjoys being England’s queen. But she is Harry’s wife, too, and that wife has been sleeping alone for nigh on eight months now. If that is not neglect, what is? I can assure you that Raoul was never away from my bed for more than a fortnight!”

“Was that before or after he left his wife for you?” Joscelin jeered and she snatched up his cap, smacking him across the shoulders, only half in jest.

“Petra, I do not doubt that Raoul indulged your every whim. You were all of nineteen and he was nigh on fifty when he first seduced you… or was it the other way around?” Laughing, he ducked as she sought to pummel him again. “What else did he have to do but pamper and cosset his young bride? Whereas Harry rules the greatest empire since the days of Charlemagne. And if you think our Eleanor does not lust after that empire as much as she does Harry, then you’re dafter than a Michaelmas goose!”

Petronilla cast her gaze heavenward. “Why am I talking to you about this? You know as much about women as that poor milksop Eleanor married!”

“No one on God’s green earth could ever call Harry a ‘milksop,’ so I assume we have moved on and are now flaying the French king?”

“Of course I meant Louis,” Petronilla said, and called Louis a highly uncomplimentary name that cast serious doubts upon his manhood, much to Joscelin’s amusement.

“You have a very unforgiving nature, Petra. Do you judge all of us men so harshly, or just Eleanor’s husbands?”

But Petronilla had lost interest in bantering with her brother. “There you are, Eleanor,” she cried, hastening to intercept the woman just coming in the garden gate. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“So I heard.” Eleanor motioned for Joscelin to move over so she could sit down. “Harry wants me to return to Normandy straightaway.”

“You do not look very happy about it,” Joscelin said, wondering why women must make life so confoundedly complicated. “I thought you missed the man?”

“Of course I miss him, Jos. I’ll be glad to watch English shores recede into the distance, too. But Harry’s news was not good. The word out of Paris is that Louis’s queen is finally pregnant again.”

Petronilla and Joscelin were both startled. “Well,” Petronilla said at last, “how likely is it that he’ll sire a son? After three daughters, I’d say the odds are not in his favor.”

Joscelin almost reminded them that women were usually held responsible for the sex of a child, thought better of it in time. “I agree with Petra,” he commented instead. “With Louis’s luck, it is bound to be another lass.”

“I hope so,” Eleanor said, surprising even herself by the depth of her bitterness. “God Above, how I hope so!”

The French King’s palace was situated on an island in the middle of the River Seine, the Ile-de-la-Cite. When his future sons-in-law, the Counts of Champagne and Blois, arrived at the Cite and sought an audience, they were escorted toward the royal gardens at the far western tip of the island. This first Tuesday in October was as mild as midsummer, and the gardens were glowing with mellow golden sunlight under a sky the color of polished sapphire. Pear trees and cypress provided deep pockets of shade, hollyhock and gillyvor flamed along the fences, and butterflies danced on the breeze like drifting autumn leaves.

It was the most tranquil of settings, a private Eden tucked away in the very heart of Paris, but the French king was deriving no solace from his island haven, pacing nervously along the walkways, heedlessly trampling the acanthus borders underfoot. He was trailed by two bishops, his brother Philippe and Maurice de Sully, the new Bishop of Paris, while his chancellor, Hugh de Champfleury, was slouched in a trellised bower, an unread book open upon his lap. Even Louis’s dogs seemed affected by his anxiety, subdued and lethargic, not bothering to bark as Theobald and Henry of Blois entered the garden.

As distracted as he was, Louis still summoned up a wan smile at the sight of the young men; although they’d not yet wed his daughters, he’d already come to think of them as kinsmen. “I could not concentrate upon matters of state,” he confessed. “Even during Mass, my thoughts wandered from God’s Word to my wife’s lying-in chamber. Her pains began last night, and the midwives say the babe ought to be delivered by sun-down.”

Theobald and Henry already knew this; most of Paris knew by now that the queen was in labor. They hastened to assure Louis that Constance would soon present him with a fine, healthy son, telling him what he desperately needed to hear. Louis never thought to question their sincerity and was heartened by their apparent certitude. He had to believe that all would go well, for the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. What would befall France if he could not provide a male heir? And if he could not, what did that say about God’s Will? He had convinced himself that his marriage to Eleanor was cursed in the Almighty’s Eyes, as proven by her failure to give him any sons. But what if Constance failed, too, in a queen’s primary duty? What if the fault lay, not with his queens, but with him? The fear that God might be judging him so harshly, as a Christian, a man, and a monarch, was almost more than Louis could bear. How could the Lord have blessed Eleanor with four sons and still deny him an heir for France?

The afternoon trickled away with excruciating slowness. Twice the midwives sent word that all was progressing as it ought. Louis wandered back into the great hall, almost at once bolted outside to the gardens again. He let his brother talk him into a game of chess, but more often than not, he found himself staring blankly at the chessboard while Philippe fidgeted impatiently. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the River Seine turned from blue to amber, and the last of summer’s warmth faded into memory for another year. But Louis seemed oblivious to the dropping temperature. He was leaning against the stone wall, gazing out at the orchards and open fields of the left bank, when he heard a throat being cleared behind him. “My liege…”

He was suddenly, irrationally, afraid to turn around. For a moment, his hands clenched on the wall, his palms digging into the rough stone surface. And then he pivoted to face his confessor. The priest was haggard, his gaze downcast. “My lord king,” he said, very low, “God has given you a daughter.”

Louis closed his eyes, feeling a sorrow so intense it was akin to physical pain. How had he sinned, that the Almighty had forsaken him like this? Four daughters. He was in his fortieth year, and two wives had failed to give him sons. Two daughters he’d gotten from Eleanor in fifteen years of marriage, and then she’d borne the Angevin one son after another. Where was God’s Justice in that? Making a great effort, he said dully, “Thy Will be done.” Remembering, then, to ask, “And Constance?”

The priest flinched as if he’d taken a blow. “You must be strong, my liege,” he entreated. “You must remember the Almighty tests us in ways we cannot always comprehend. The queen is dead. The midwives.. they say she began to bleed profusely when the afterbirth was expelled. They could not save her…”

“Constance is dead?” For a merciful moment, Louis was uncomprehending, and then he sagged against the wall as if his bones no longer had the strength to bear his weight. His confessor hovered helplessly at his side, and his brother Philippe halted several feet away, shocked speechless for once. It was the Bishop of Paris who took charge.

“Was she shriven?”

The priest flushed, shamed that he’d not thought to assure the king of that straightaway. “Oh, indeed! I cleansed her of her earthly sins and placed the Body and Blood of Our Lord upon her tongue. You need not fear for her salvation, my lord king. She died in God’s Grace.”

Louis said nothing, but tears had begun to spill silently down his face. When the Bishop of Paris suggested that they go to the royal chapel and pray for the queen’s soul, he nodded numbly, clutching at the familiar comfort of prayer as a drowning man would grasp at anything that might keep him afloat. “Then… then I would see her,” he mumbled, and none of them could be sure if he meant his dead queen or his newborn daughter.

Theobald and his brother watched as the other men ushered their grieving king from the gardens. They had been vastly relieved to hear that Constance had given Louis another girl, for if Louis did not beget a son, any man wed to one of his daughters might be able to assert a claim on her behalf. But the French queen’s unexpected death changed the equation dramatically. As their eyes met, Theobald said softly, “Are you thinking what I am?”

“Adela?”

Theobald nodded. “Adela,” he said, and they both smiled.

Torrents of rain had turned Rouen’s narrow streets into impassable quagmires, and those who lived close to the river were becoming increasingly fearful of flooding. The beleaguered citizens had begun to feel as if they were under siege and they could only hope that the storm would die away as the day did. As night fell, though, the winds intensified, rattling shutters and tearing thatch and shingles from roofs, chasing sleep from all but the boldest households.

Torches and rushlights flared in the castle, keeping the dark at bay. Entering the nursery to bid her children good night, Eleanor was puzzled to find it still brightly lit. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, she understood. What nurse would dare argue with an empress?

Maude was seated on a bench by the hearth, manipulating a puppet at her eldest grandson’s urging. She looked so uncomfortable that Eleanor had to conceal a smile. Her duties as queen often severely restricted her role as mother, but when she could find time for her children, she was quite willing to play with them, to her mother-in-law’s bafflement. She still remembered Maude’s startled expression the day she’d come upon them in the gardens, chasing dragonflies. Games like hoodman blind and hot cockles and hunt-the-fox were alien activities to the dignified, aloof empress. Even with her own sons, she’d always maintained a certain reserve, and it was a great tribute to both Hal’s charm and his persistence that he’d been able to coax Maude into this impromptu puppet show.

Eleanor wasn’t surprised by her son’s success, for Hal had a sunny nature, an impish smile, and a cheerful determination to get his own way at all costs. It was a pity, though, that he was the only one of Maude’s grandchildren to warm toward her. Even if she’d found it easier to unbend with them, the fact that she saw them so seldom made it difficult to establish any true intimacy. Both little Tilda, Maude’s namesake, and Geoffrey were intimidated by this somber, austere stranger, and were sullen and shy in her presence. Three-year-old Richard did not share their unease; his utter fearlessness was a source of both alarm and pride for his parents. But he had no liking for Maude’s lectures on decorum and discipline and, to judge by the mutinous pout on his face now, he and his grandmother had clashed again.

As Eleanor entered the chamber, Maude hastily put the puppet aside. The children swarmed around their mother with joyful squeals. Because they were infrequent, her visits to the nursery were always occasions of excitement. Her embraces were scented with perfume, and a perch upon her silk-clad lap was a jealously guarded privilege. Without even being aware of their knowledge, her children knew that she was beautiful and glamorous and not like other mothers. They knew that their father was someone of importance, too. He had a booming laugh, a hoarse voice, and was always surrounded by noise and confusion and fawning attention. Like a great gusting wind, he swept all before him, and his children were usually left wide-eyed and awed in his wake.

It took a while to get the children calmed down, and a while longer to convince them that bedtime was inevitable and nonnegotiable. Only Hal, in his sixth year, was given a reprieve. But he was unable to resist teasing Richard about his good fortune, and the younger boy kicked him in the shins, setting off such a squabble that Eleanor and Maude left the nurses to deal with it and made an unobtrusive departure.

Entering the solar, they settled themselves before the hearth with wine and wafers, and Eleanor then showed her mother-in-law the letter she’d just gotten from Bishop Laurentius, who was working with her to replace Poitiers’s cathedral of St Pierre with a splendid new structure. Watching as Maude enthusiastically studied the proposed plans, Eleanor smiled to herself, remembering how sure people had been that she’d never get along with Henry’s mother.

To widespread disappointment and universal astonishment, though, they had established a cordial relationship from the first. Maude the mother may have had qualms about her son’s controversial bride, but Maude the empress had readily appreciated Aquitaine’s worth as a stepping-stone to the English throne. It helped, too, that Eleanor had so swiftly dispelled any fears that she would be a barren queen, unable to bear sons as her enemies had often alleged. Eleanor had a theory of her own: that Maude had recognized a kindred soul, for they both were strong-willed women in a world ruled by men, loath to allow others to dictate their destinies. Nor did it hurt that they so rarely lived under the same roof. Acknowledging both the truth and the wry humor of that observation of her husband’s, Eleanor laughed softly.

Maude glanced up quizzically from the bishop’s letter. “I’m glad to see you are in better spirits. I detected some tension between you and Henry at supper tonight?” Her voice rose questioningly, but she would leave it to Eleanor to satisfy her curiosity or not, too proud to meddle overtly in her son’s marriage.

“That must have been when I was tempted to pour my wine into his lap,” Eleanor said dryly. She well knew that in any serious clash of wills, Maude would back her son utterly and unconditionally, whether he was in the right or not. But her mother-in-law could still sympathize with minor marital woes, for she’d been a wife, too, and so Eleanor felt free to voice her complaints, one woman to another.

“Ever since we got word of the French queen’s death, Harry has been impossible to live with. He has been like a bear with a thorn in his paw, lashing out at anyone who gets within reach, and my patience is well nigh gone.”

“That Angevin temper is his father’s legacy,” Maude said regretfully. “Will seems to have been spared it, but Geoffrey had his share, too. I do understand Henry’s disquiet, though. It was troubling enough to learn that the French queen had gotten pregnant, having to worry that she might give Louis a son. But now…” Shaking her head, she said, “In some ways, this was the worst possible outcome.”

“I know,” Eleanor agreed morosely. “If Constance had birthed a son, we were prepared to make another marriage offer, between the lad and our daughter. But how do we stop Louis from making a disastrous marriage of his own now that he’s free to wed again?”

Maude nodded, her brows puckering in anxious thought. “I suppose the most dangerous alliance would be with the House of Blois, for they bear Henry a grudge more bitter than gall. Give them half a chance and they might even try to resurrect Stephen’s hollow claim to the English crown. But there are other alarming prospects, too. I would not like to see Louis look for a bride amongst the kinswomen of the Count of Toulouse-”

“Jesu forfend!” Eleanor said sharply, and took a deep swallow of wine, for the very thought left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Before she could express herself further upon the unpalatable subject of Raymond de St Gilles, the door banged open and her husband strode into the solar, trailed by Thomas Becket.

One look at Henry’s face and Eleanor half-rose from her seat. “Harry? What is wrong?”

“You will not believe the news out of Paris. Louis has found himself a bride already.”

Eleanor was startled. “So soon? Who?”

“Adela, the fifteen-year-old sister of the Counts of Blois and Champagne,” Henry said grimly.

Eleanor caught her breath, while Maude let hers out slowly. For a moment, neither woman spoke. Eleanor rallied first, seeking to find a few sparks of comfort midst the ashes. “Well, at least we have time to consider our options whilst Louis mourns for Constance. Mayhap by then we’ll have thought of a way to thwart the marriage-”

“Not bloody likely. He plans to wed the girl straightaway.”

“God in Heaven!” Maude was genuinely shocked. “His wife has been dead less than a fortnight. Where is his sense of decorum and decency?”

“Buried with Constance, it would seem,” Becket said acidly; like Maude, he was deeply offended by such a blatant breach of the proprieties. “It is a sad commentary upon our times when a man of such reputed piety goes right from his wife’s funeral to a young bride’s bed.”

“Lust is not the motivation for this marriage,” Eleanor said impatiently. “I doubt that even Cleopatra could kindle Louis’s ardor. No, the forces behind this union are far more sinister. Louis has always been one for doing what is proper, what is expected of him. It would never have occurred to him of his own volition to wed again with such unseemly haste. Harry and I have long suspected that he was listening more and more to the House of Blois. What more conclusive proof do we need?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Henry said. “And if Theobald and his brother could coax Louis into going against his own nature like this, Christ only knows what they’ll prod him into doing next. Disavowing the marriage plans of our children, God rot them!”

The scenario he suggested seemed all too plausible to the others. Seeing upon their faces confirmation of his own fears, Henry cursed again, using words he rarely uttered in his mother’s hearing. “I will not let those misbegotten, treacherous whoresons cheat me out of the Vexin,” he vowed. “I swear by all that’s holy that I will not!”

Stalking the solar as if it were a cage, he paced back and forth while they watched. For Eleanor, there was always something mesmerizing about her husband’s bursts of frenetic, creative energy. She often teased him that she could actually hear the wheels turning as his brain accelerated, but she was genuinely fascinated by his ability to cut through excess flesh to the bone. He’d halted abruptly, staring into the hearth’s smoldering flames with such a glazed intensity that she knew he was mentally miles away at the French court. When he finally turned around, it was with a smile that put her in mind of cats and stolen cream.

“What have you come up with, Harry?”

“I think,” he said, “that Louis is right. There is much to be said, after all, for the holy state of matrimony.”

Eleanor blinked, then began to laugh. “Louis will have an apoplectic seizure,” she predicted gleefully. “But can you be sure of the Templars?”

“What do you think?” he said, with such utter assurance that she laughed again, never loving him more than at that moment. Only the presence of his mother and chancellor kept her from showing him just how much, then and there.

Maude and Becket had not been as quick to comprehend as Eleanor. They spoke now in unison, in the aggrieved tones of people who feel shut out and do not like it in the least. “What are you going to do?”

Henry’s smile was full of mischief, faintly flavored with malice. “I am going,” he said, “to invite you to a wedding.”

On All Souls’ Day, the second of November in God’s Year 1160, a solemn church ceremony joined in wedlock Henry and Eleanor’s eldest son and the daughter of the French king. Because of the extreme youth of the bride and groom, a papal dispensation was required. But it so happened that there were two papal legates then at the English king’s court, and they graciously agreed to waive any objections to the union. Louis was not invited to the wedding. Henry explained when asked that they’d assumed Louis was too busy preparing for his own nuptials to attend.

Afterward, there was an elaborate wedding feast in the great hall of Rouen’s castle. Fresh, sweet-smelling rushes had been put down upon the floor, the walls were adorned with richly woven hangings, the trestle tables draped in white linen, set with silver saltcellars and gilded cups and flagons and even knives, for while dinner guests were usually expected to provide their own cutlery, no expense had been spared to make this a memorable meal.

Regrettably, the Church calendar had not cooperated, for All Souls’ Day fell on a Wednesday that year, and Wednesday was traditionally a fast day to remind Christians of another infamous Wednesday, when Judas had accepted blood money for his promise to betray the Son of God. Denied the meat that was the fare of choice, the royal cooks labored long and hard to create a fish menu that would still satisfy the highborn guests. The meal consisted of three courses, each containing three or four dishes, and it soon became apparent that the cooks had done themselves proud, both in the quality and variety of the cuisine: baked lampreys; gingered carp; jel lied pike in aspic; a spiced salmon pie baked with figs, raisins, and dates; almond rice; cucumber soup; apple and parsnip fritters; and a dish valued all the more for its rarity, sea-swine or porpoise pudding.

Each course concluded with a sugared subtlety sculpted to resemble swans or unicorns, and the servers were kept busy refilling cups with claret and hippocras and a sweet, heavy wine from Cyprus. Minstrels sang and provided music with harp and lute. The fortunate guests agreed happily amongst themselves that this was a meal to savor, one worthy of the tables of the king’s chancellor.

Since the little bride was not yet three, it had been wisely decided to excuse her from the revelries, although Hal had been given a seat upon the dais. So far he was acquitting himself well, seduced into good behavior by the sheer novelty of it all and aware, too, that his mother was keeping a sharp eye upon him. The candles turning his bright hair into a crown of gold, he watched his seat-mate, Cardinal William of Pavia, and modeled his manners after the papal legate’s. His proud parents beamed at him fondly, but Eleanor prudently concluded that it would be best to send him off to bed before he got tired and cranky and began to act more like a rambunctious five-year-old than a young king in the making.

Hal wasn’t the only one on his best behavior. Festivities like this usually bored Henry beyond endurance, for he never liked sitting still for long; even during Mass, he was likely to start squirming on his prayer cushion and whispering to his companions if the priest’s sermon was not mercifully brief. Since he had no particular interest in what he ate or drank, he could not see the purpose in lingering over a meal, which was why he was so willing to let Thomas Becket wine and dine guests on his behalf. But this was his son’s wedding day, after all, and he wanted it to be a pleasant memory for Hal. And if murmurings of the feast’s splendor were to echo all the way to Paris, so much the better.

Reaching for his wine cup, he took a sip, then put it aside. He preferred his wine watered-down, but since he was sharing a cup with Eleanor, he’d deferred to her taste for the products of her Gascony vineyards. The other guests were seated on cushioned benches, but those privileged few upon the dais had the luxury of oaken chairs and Henry leaned back now in his, his gaze sweeping the table.

His mother was chatting amiably with the papal legates, Becket slicing bread for Petronilla, Eleanor beckoning discreetly to Hal’s nurse, the Bishop of Lisieux sharing a joke with the Archbishop of Rouen. At the far end of the table were two knights whose presence had stirred speculation and envy among the other guests. A seat upon the dais was a highly coveted honor, and there were many in the hall who felt themselves to be more deserving than Robert de Pirou and Tostes de St Omer. They were eating heartily of the dessert just set before them, a delectable concoction of cream of almonds and pears floating in heavy syrup, taking care not to get stains upon the white tunics and blood-red crosses of the Templars.

Leaning over, Eleanor laid her hand on Henry’s arm. “The Templars seem to be enjoying themselves,” she said softly. “I assume that they had no misgivings about yielding up the castles of the Vexin to you, then?”

“They were quite reasonable,” Henry said blandly. “And why not? They were to hold the castles only until Louis’s daughter wed our son. And as two papal legates can attest, that condition has now been met.”

Eleanor’s fingers slid along his wrist, began to caress his palm. “I think you could outwit the Devil himself on a good day,” she murmured and laughed when he reminded her that the Counts of Anjou were alleged to trace their descent from the Devil’s daughter.

“My father liked to tell that story,” he said, grinning. “Mayhap we ought to name our next daughter after her? How would you fancy adding a Melusine to our brood, love?”

“Only if you agree to name our next son Lucifer,” she parried and Henry laughed loudly enough to turn heads in their direction. Despite his chaplain’s gentle chiding to thank the Almighty for his manifold blessings, he tended to take God’s Favor for granted. But as he looked now into Eleanor’s shining eyes, he felt a sudden surge of gratitude for all that was his: an empire that stretched from the Scottish borders to the Mediterranean Sea, the most legendary queen since Helen of Troy, sons to found the greatest dynasty Christendom had ever known.

Lifting Eleanor’s hand to his mouth, he kissed her fingers, one by one, and then raised his voice for silence. “I would have us drink,” he said, “to the health and happiness of my beloved son, England’s next king.”

When Louis learned of the wedding in Rouen, he was furious. He could not do much to punish Henry and Eleanor, but he struck back at the Templars, expelling their Order from Paris. Theobald of Blois then convinced him that this was not enough and they began to fortify Theobald’s castle at Chaumont-sur-Loire, casting an eye toward Henry’s lands in Touraine.

This was a mistake. Not bothering to summon the knights of Anjou, Henry hired mercenaries instead and swooped down upon Chaumont. Theobald had boasted that the fortress was impregnable, but Henry took it in just three days, sending shudders of alarm reverberating as far as the walls of Paris.

Sharon Kay Penman

Time and Chance