Time and Chance

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

March 1168

Poitiers, Poitou

The sky was the shade of milky pearl. The streets would soon be astir, but for now William Marshal was riding alone through a sleeping city, hearing only the rhythmic clop of his stallion’s hooves and the high, mournful cries of river birds. It promised to be a splendid spring day. Will could learn to like the climate of his queen’s domains, for this Wednesday morn four days before Easter was milder than many an English summer’s afternoon.

Ahead lay the soaring tower of Maubergeonne, the great keep of the ancestral palace of the Dukes of Aquitaine. Will picked up the pace a bit, and was admitted into the bailey by yawning guards, for he was known on sight to the garrison. Their yawns were contagious and Will stifled one himself; sleep hadn’t figured prominently among the night’s activities. Nor would he have any time to steal a nap. This was the day his uncle, Earl Patrick of Salisbury, was to escort the queen to Lusignan Castle and Will would be part of the party. But he was one and twenty, young enough to consider sleep well lost in the pursuit of pleasurable sins.

The stables appeared empty. He assumed the grooms were cadging breakfast from the cooks, for few men had the fortitude to confine themselves to the traditional two meals a day. His own hunger was waking; not that it ever truly slept. As a squire, he’d earned the nickname of Scoff-food for his impressive appetite. Thinking about that now, he grinned; luckily, he was tall enough to eat his fill without fear of getting a paunch like his uncle Salisbury.

He’d unsaddled his stallion and was turning to fetch a bucket when he heard the voices. It sounded as if they were coming from the loft and he cocked his head, listening. He could make out no words, but the speakers sounded young and angry. As he emerged from the stall, hay rained down upon his head and he glanced up in time to see a youngster teetering on the edge of the loft. The boy made a grab for the ladder as he went over, managing to grasp one of the rungs. He dangled there for a hazardous moment, kicking in vain as he sought a foothold. But before he could panic, he heard a voice say with reassuring calm, “Easy, lad. If you think you can hold on for a few more breaths, I’ll come up to get you. If not, just let yourself drop and I’ll catch you.”

The boy squirmed to get a glimpse of the man below him and almost lost his grip. “I’m letting go,” he gasped and came plummeting down, feet first, showing an admirable confidence in Will’s ability to break his fall. The impact was more forceful than Will had expected and he staggered backward under the boy’s weight before setting him safely onto the floor. As he did, another head peered over the edge and he snapped, “Get down here now!” not wanting to have to make two rescues that morning.

He’d gotten his breath back by the time the second youngster obeyed. They both had reddish-gold hair dusted with straw, ruddy faces scattered with freckles and streaked with dirt. The boy Will had caught looked to be about twelve, but Will knew he was actually only ten and a half, the other one a year younger. A passerby might have taken them, as scruffy as they were, for two brawling stable lads, but Will knew better. They were the heirs to Aquitaine and Brittany.

He regarded them disapprovingly, but they bore up well under the scrutiny, theirs the confidence of young princes already knowing to whom they were accountable and to whom they were not. “I do not suppose,” he drawled, “that you want to tell me what you were squabbling about.”

Richard’s shoulders twitched. “I do not suppose so, either.”

Will would have let the matter lie if Richard hadn’t come so close to splattering himself all over the stable floor. Casting an accusatory eye upon Geoffrey, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to put the fear of God into the lad and said coolly, “Want to tell me how your brother fell? You would not have pushed him, by any chance?”

But putting the fear of God into Geoffrey was easier said than done. The boy glared right back at him. “Why should I listen to you? For all I know, you’re just one of the lowborn stable grooms!”

That insult rankled a bit with Will, for he was very proud of his new knighthood. Squatting down so that his eyes were level with Geoffrey’s defiant ones, he said, “Why should you listen to me? Well, I can think of two reasons, lad. As it happens, I am a knight in the Earl of Salisbury’s service. And in case it has escaped your notice, I am also much bigger than you. I’d wager I’d have no trouble at all dunking you in one of the horse troughs-accidentally, of course.”

He saw rage flash in Geoffrey’s narrowed blue eyes; he saw a sharp glimmer of intelligence, too. The boy might be spoiled, but he was no fool. His fury at being threatened was dampened by the realization that he did not want any more attention than they’d already attracted. “I do not believe you’re a knight,” he said scornfully, and content that he’d gotten the last word, he stalked away.

Will shook his head, glad that he wasn’t a Breton. Richard was still lingering, watching with alert interest as he returned to the stall and began to rub his stallion down. “Geoff has mush for brains,” he said after a few moments. “Who ever heard of a groom wearing a sword?”

“You’re welcome,” Will said dryly and the boy blinked. It did not take him long to figure it out, though.

“I suppose I was lucky you were here,” he said, sounding as if he were not sure whether it should be a challenge or an apology.

“I suppose you were,” Will agreed amiably, and when he reached for a brush, Richard stepped forward and handed it to him.

“Why not have a groom do that?”

“A man ought to take care of what’s his, or at least know how to,” Will said. “Want to help?”

Richard hesitated only a heartbeat. “I guess so.”

“Give me that towel over there, then,” Will directed, and this time the silence was companionable. “So… I take it you’re not going to tell on Brother Geoff? Admirable. But if it were me, I’d want to see him punished.”

Richard had his father’s smoky eyes, his gaze already more guarded than that of many men. “He will be,” he said, and Will bit back a smile.

“I see. So you’d rather dispense justice yourself.”

Richard hesitated again and then grinned. Will showed him how to inspect the stallion’s feet, looking for bruises to the sole or pebbles wedged between the frog and the bar, and when he finally left the stables, he’d acquired a second shadow.

Richard scuffed his feet, kicking at an occasional rock. “Are you going to Lusignan Castle with my mother and Earl Patrick?” Will confirmed that he was, and Richard shot him a sideways glance edged with envy. “They’ll not let me come,” he complained. “They said it was no reason to interrupt my studies.”

Will thought Richard’s safety might be a consideration, too, for it was less than two months since Henry had stormed Lusignan Castle and taken it from its rebellious owners. He was not about to say so, though, sure that would only make the journey all the more irresistible to Richard. By now they’d reached the great hall, and as they climbed the shallow steps, Will reminded Richard that Lusignan was less than twelve miles distant so it would entail only an overnight stay. That did not seem to give Richard much solace, and he soon abandoned Will in favor of pursuing his own interests.

For Will, nothing mattered but breakfast, and he elbowed his way toward the tables. As soon as he was recognized, he found himself fending off jests about his nocturnal hunting expedition and speculation about his quarry. Will took the teasing in stride and helped himself to sausages and fried bread. His uncle and the queen were seated at the high table and he watched them for a while, wondering if others noticed the coolness between them.

There were no overt signs of animosity, of course; Queen Eleanor would never be that obvious. But Will knew she’d been displeased by her husband’s decision not to name her as regent in his absence, instead placing her under the protection of his deputy, Salisbury. Will thought the king could hardly have done otherwise. Even though he’d quelled the January revolt with a heavy hand, some of the rebels remained on the loose. Will had heard so many stories about Henry Fitz Empress’s willful queen that he was unsurprised by Eleanor’s lack of feminine timidity. This was the same woman, after all, who’d coaxed the French king into taking her on crusade.

The king had departed Poitiers three days earlier for Pacy in Normandy, where he was to discuss peace terms with Louis. Will hoped he would not soon return, for he was thoroughly enjoying this time in the queen’s service and was in no hurry to see it end. One of the more observant knights had begun joking that he was smitten with the queen, warning him that King Henry might tolerate lovesick minstrels trailing after his lady, since that was the custom of the Courts of Love so popular with highborn women, but he’d take a much dimmer view of lovesick knights.

Will had deflected the gibes with his usual good humor, knowing it was actually much more complicated than that. He did not approve of Queen Eleanor. How could he, for she’d defied virtually every tenet of those conventions meant to govern female behavior. And yet he could not deny that she cast a potent spell.

He’d never imagined he could harbor lustful thoughts about a woman old enough to be his mother, but he did. For all that he knew the queen’s youth was long gone, he thought she was still one of the most desirable women he’d ever laid eyes upon. Her enemies whispered that she must practice the Black Arts to keep the years at bay. Will suspected her continuing beauty had more to do with the fact that God had been so generous with His gifts than with a Devil’s pact. Common sense told him, too, that a queen was bound to age more gracefully than a potter’s widow, for she had the best that their world could offer.

Not that he entertained any delusions about acting upon his wayward yearnings. He was far too practical and far too honorable. If he’d have gone to his grave before revealing the name of Magali, his Poitiers bedmate, he was not one to fantasize about seducing his queen. But he could admire her from a respectful distance, as he was doing this morning in Poitiers’s great hall. She was fashionably attired in a gown of forest green, her face framed by a veil and wimple whiter than snow, laughing at something her son was saying. Will had not noticed Richard’s approach until then. The boy straightened up and backed away, displaying his courtly manners. As he did, his gaze happened to wander toward Will, and he grinned suddenly, almost conspiratorially. It occurred to Will that he now had a friend in the royal household, and he grinned back at the boy.

Eleanor tilted her face toward the sky, luxuriating in the warmth of the spring sun on her skin. The very air of Poitou had a different tang. English air was like inhaling fog. Misted mornings and drizzle and the pungent scent of the sea-that was what she’d most remember about the realm Harry’s father had called “that godforsaken isle.” The damp winters in Paris had saturated its air in moisture, too. Amazing that she’d survived so many years of exile without succumbing to consumption. Even the colors seemed brighter now that she was back in her own lands. She could taste nature’s bounty on the wind, hear the rhythm of life in the rustling of newly budding trees.

They were only a few miles from Lusignan by now and she hesitated when Salisbury proposed that they stop for a time, as her instinct was to push ahead. But as she glanced around at her traveling companions, she changed her mind. Renee was no horsewoman and she was casting wistful looks at the whispering grass and beckoning roadside shade. Several of Salisbury’s knights had the pinched pallor of men badly hungover. While neither Louis nor Henry was much of a drinker, Eleanor could not say the same for the men of her own family and this was an expression quite familiar to her. Even young Marshal was nodding sleepily in the saddle. Her resentment of Salisbury notwithstanding, she did not want to oppose his every suggestion from sheer contrariness, and she nodded her assent.

Three of the men at once sprawled in the grass, arms shielding their eyes. Renee set about unpacking a wicker basket, and soon had two young knights eager to be of assistance. Salisbury was seeking to ease a cramp in his leg, complaining jokingly to his nephew about his “elderly, aching bones.” Will was nodding sympathetically, but Eleanor knew he could not begin to comprehend the ailments of age. When she’d been one and twenty, she couldn’t have, either.

Jordan, her trusted clerk, was nursing a swollen ankle, but he’d insisted upon accompanying her. Now he limped toward her, proffering a flagon and cups from Renee’s basket. She let him pour for them both, then found a convenient tree stump to sit upon, spreading her skirts carefully to avoid splinters. She was more restless than usual today, for she’d slept poorly the night before, troubled by fragmented, dark dreams she could not recall upon awakening.

Will Marshal was looking after the horses, leading Eleanor’s mare over to graze in a patch of sweet spring grass. Eleanor watched him approvingly; he was never one to shirk duties or responsibilities. She knew full well that he was in the early stage of infatuation, but she felt sure he’d get through it without embarrassing either one of them. There was a faint satisfaction, too, in knowing this young knight did not think her charms had aged or her appeal withered. Because of his vulnerability, though, she’d taken care not to flirt with him. Her life was complicated enough without adding the hint of scandal. She stared down into the dark amber liquid in her cup, an ugly, unbidden thought surging to the surface: that Harry might like it if she gave him an excuse to pack her off to a nunnery in disgrace, for then he could bring his concubine to court, flaunt her for all the world to see.

“Madame…” Will had ventured closer, not sure whether he should intrude upon thoughts that did not seem very pleasant. She glanced up, blinking in the mellow sunlight as she banished her ghosts and her grievances, and then smiled.

“May I fetch you something else to drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the cup which had tilted and was spilling onto the ground at her feet.

“No, I am not thirsty. I thank you for the offer, though.” Will was one of the few men in their party who was wearing his hauberk; Salisbury and most of the others had shed their chain-mail as the sun rose higher in the sky, loading them onto one of the packhorses. Studying Will now, Eleanor asked, “Are you not hot in that armor? I never did understand how men could abide hauberks in the heat of the Holy Land.”

“They wore tabards over their hauberks to shield them from the worst of the sun.” No sooner had Will spoken than he cursed himself for a clumsy fool. Here he was, instructing the queen about crusading warfare when she’d been there to see it for herself, which was more than he could say. He would have loved to discuss her experiences with her, to hear her firsthand account of the disastrous Second Crusade, but a queen could not be prompted or, worse, interrogated. “These are not the most comfortable garments,” he admitted. “But I’ve gotten used to the weight by now and-”

He cut himself off so abruptly and oddly that Eleanor frowned. “Will? Is something amiss?”

“No… probably not.” He was still staring intently toward the horizon even as he gave her a sheepish smile. “It was just that I thought I saw something in that grove of trees up ahead, like the flash of sunlight hitting a hauberk or sword…” He shifted to get another look, and then drew an audible breath.

“Uncle!” Whirling, he shouted to Salisbury, “Men-at-arms in those woods!”

Salisbury trusted Will’s judgment enough to take the warning as gospel. Scrambling to his feet, he headed for the packhorse holding their armor. Eleanor had responded just as swiftly, and she had reason now to be thankful for Will Marshal’s coolness under fire. She was reaching for her mare’s reins when he shook his head.

“No, take my horse. You can ride faster astride.”

She at once saw the sense in that, for sidesaddles were not meant for flight. Within seconds, he’d assisted her up onto his stallion and was running toward Renee. Jordan had kept his head, too, and was already swinging up into the saddle. All around them, men were racing to reclaim their chain-mail or to mount their startled horses, cursing as the animals shied away. But by then their foes had realized their ambush had been discovered and they were spurring their stallions out onto the road.

“Madame, go! We’ll hold them here!” Salisbury paused only long enough to make sure Eleanor was heeding him before swinging back toward the plunging packhorse. Appalled that he’d let himself be taken unaware like this, as if he were a raw stripling, he was relieved to see the queen send her horse across the field at a dead run, with Jordan and Renee following behind. His nephew had caught the closest horse and leaped into the saddle, sword in hand. Their assailants were splitting into two bands, one group of horsemen peeling off in pursuit of Eleanor, the other intent upon eliminating her defenders as quickly as possible.

“After them, Will!” Salisbury roared a command that was not needed, for Will was already racing to intercept the queen’s pursuers. Christ, there were so many of them! Salisbury fumbled hastily for his hauberk, but even as he struggled to pull it over his head, he ran out of time. He was bitterly aware of how badly he’d failed his queen, but he never saw the weapon that claimed his life, a hunting spear flung with deadly accuracy, burying itself in the small of his back.

Will had sent his stallion crashing into the closest of the queen’s pursuers. As the man’s horse foundered, Will drove his sword into that unprotected area under the armpit, then pulled the blade free in a spray of crimson. To his left, he saw a familiar figure, one of his uncle’s knights, closing fast on a man astride a screaming bay stallion. Sir Roger swung a spiked mace in a lethal arc, smashing into bone and ripping away flesh. Will spurred his stallion after a knight wearing a kettle-shaped helmet without a nasal guard. Drawing alongside, he parried the other’s thrust, then used his shield to club the man from the saddle; there was no time for finesse, for any of the skillful swordplay he’d learned as a squire to the Chamberlain of Normandy. He glanced over his shoulder, could not find Sir Roger in the melee. That distracted moment was to cost him dearly, giving one of his foes the chance to kill his horse.

As the stallion stumbled, Will kicked his spurs free of the stirrups before it went down, and hit the ground rolling. Regaining his feet, he was almost trampled by a man on a lathered bay. He was hopelessly outnumbered by now, stranded in the midst of his enemies. Retreating toward a thorny hedgerow that would offer some protection to his back, he blinked sweat from his eyes, tasting his own blood on his tongue. Swords drawn, they feinted and dodged, cursing him freely. But they kept out of range of Will’s gory sword. By the time he realized what they were up to, it was too late. There was movement in the hedgerow behind him, a blade slashing through the branches. Pain seared up Will’s thigh. His strength draining away in a gush of blood, he wobbled and then sank to his knees, still clutching his sword even as they closed in.

Her escort’s heroic efforts had given Eleanor the time she needed to reach the woods. She checked the stallion just long enough for Jordan and Renee to catch up to her. If they were found, it would mean Jordan’s death, for she knew he’d never stand by helplessly and let her be taken, not even if she ordered him to yield. Renee would likely be ransomed-eventually-but she was far too pretty to be unmolested. As for her own fate, she knew how great a prize she’d be. The fools thought Harry would pawn Heaven and earth to secure her release. She preferred not to put his devotion to the test. Moreover, she could not be sure that she’d be luckier than Renee. Men desperate enough to capture a queen might well be careless of the conventions of warfare, the dictates of honor. And if her suspicions were right about the identity of her assailants, they could have taught the Devil himself about sin.

There was no time to explain herself. Jordan and Renee would have to take her on trust. As Will’s stallion had outdistanced his pursuers, her brain had been racing, too, weighing her options. Even if they could elude these men, they were too far from Poitiers, would never make it back. Thank the Blessed Lady Mary that these were her lands! She’d grown up here, hunted as a girl in these woods, knew the roads and rivers and trails as well as any poacher. Their only possible refuge was the castle at Lusignan. But a return to the Poitiers Road would be madness, would result in their capture straightaway.

Jordan’s face was flushed with exertion; he was no longer in the prime of youth. Renee was perching precariously on her sidesaddle and Eleanor spared a moment to damn the fools who’d decreed that women should not ride astride. Renee’s veil and wimple were gone, ripped off by an overhanging branch, and there was a smear of blood on her cheek. Eleanor knew, though, that the girl had courage. She’d need it; they all would. She gestured silently to her left and turned her stallion in that direction. Jordan and Renee exchanged baffled looks, but they followed after her without hesitation.

It was slow going. Like threading a needle, Eleanor thought, and she’d never been one for ladylike pastimes. A laugh welled up in the back of her throat and she quickly suppressed it, recognizing the symptoms, for this was not the first time she’d faced physical danger. Fear could breed an odd sort of excitement, an emotional rush that had something of the giddiness and caprice usually bottled in wine casks. She ducked under a jutting tree limb, but not in time; it snagged her veil. They were leaving a trail a blind man could follow, but that was the least of her worries at the moment. If her memories were false, they’d be ridden down soon enough, anyway. She resolutely refused to dwell upon that possibility, and soon thereafter her faith was rewarded by the glimpse of a familiar oak tree, splintered and seared by lightning, towering above the spring greenery like a pale, timbered tomb. This time Eleanor did not stifle her laugh. Beckoning to Jordan and Renee, she forged ahead and within moments had emerged onto a woodland path, narrow and winding, but to Eleanor as welcome a sight as the widest of the king’s highways.

The wind carried to them the distant sounds of male voices, hunters tracking their quarry with too much confidence for stealth. She could understand their cockiness, their certainty that she’d soon be so mired down in the heavy brush that she’d be easily overtaken. They would stumble onto the path, too, but she knew she was less than a mile now from safety. The odds were even, and she’d never asked for more than that.

The ground was too irregular to let their horses run full out. They urged the animals forward as fast as they dared, and suddenly the woodland canopy blocking the sun was gone and they were emerging into a blaze of light. The Vonne’s placid surface gleamed like a polished looking glass, and shimmering ahead in the heat was the hilltop town of Lusignan. It lay in a horseshoe curve of the river, and Eleanor felt a grudging admiration for her husband’s military skills; the castle looked well nigh invincible and yet Harry had taken it in less than a week.

“Listen to me,” she told her companions. “I suspect there are men in hiding, watching for our approach. I’d wager my chances of salvation that the de Lusignans are the ones on our trail. If I’m right, they’ll have remembered that this forest track cuts through the woods to the castle. By now they’ll have sent scouts to wait for us. They’ll be out of sight, not wanting to alert the garrison. But as soon as they see us, they’ll have nothing left to lose.”

Jordan’s beard and hair were incongruously seeded with flecks of torn foliage, but his smile never faltered. “So it’s a race, is it?” he said, and Eleanor nodded. Renee was ashen. She offered a smile, too, though, or at least a game imitation of one, and Eleanor gave her an encouraging look, then assured them there was a shallow ford just ahead.

Leaving the cover of the woods, they had gone only a short distance before horsemen came bursting out of hiding, closer than Eleanor had expected. Giving Will’s stallion his head, she raced for the river. He slackened speed only slightly as he splashed down the bank, and she blessed the young knight’s foresight; her own mare was skittish around water. She heard a choked scream from Renee, but the girl was on her own now; they all were.

Risking a glance over her shoulder, she was sorry she had, for their pursuers were only a few yards behind. A spear struck the water to her right. If that was an attempt to intimidate her into giving up, it was a waste of good weaponry. As her stallion scrambled to shore, a flock of arrows flew over her head, but these shafts had been launched from the walls of the castle. She could see faces peering over the battlements and she opened her mouth to demand entry, but there was no need. A postern gate was opening. She asked her stallion for one final burst of speed and he surged forward, galloping through the gate into the bailey.

Reining him in, she turned in the saddle, just in time to see the gate slamming shut behind Jordan and Renee. Men were crowding around her, shouting questions, asking if she’d been attacked by bandits, if there were others in danger, any deaths. Eleanor waited until she got her breath back, and by then, someone recognized her. An incredulous cry went up: “The queen!”

Hands reached up to her and she slid from the saddle. The faces surrounding her were so alarmed, so solicitous that she thought she must look like the Wrath of God. Jordan shoved his way toward her, a supportive arm around a stumbling Renee. If she was as disheveled and wet and dirtied as they were, no wonder these men were staring at her as if doubting their own senses. “Where is your castellan?” She was still somewhat breathless but pleased by the level tones of her voice.

“Madame!” A path was clearing for him. He was one of her husband’s handpicked constables. She could only hope that he was as capable as Harry thought him to be, for there was no time to lose. Stilling his questions with an upraised hand, she told him, as concisely and quickly as possible, what had happened and her belief that the de Lusignans were the ones behind the ambush. He at once put the castle on a war watch in the unlikely event that the de Lusignans should launch an attack upon Lusignan itself. He then led the rescue mission himself and that, too, won him favor with Eleanor. Only then did she let them escort her into the hall.

Renee gratefully accepted the assistance of the castellan’s wife, but Eleanor declined. She had her share of vanity, as most beautiful women do, but washing her face or tending to scratches and bruises seemed of small matter, as long as the fate of her men remained unknown. It was only when she noticed that her skirt was ripped from waist to hem that she agreed to change into clothes provided by the Lady Emma. As soon as possible, she returned to the great hall, where she interrogated the garrison until she found a man who seemed reliable and dispatched him to Poitiers with a terse letter in her own hand. After that, there was nothing she could do but wait.

The two hours they were gone seemed interminable to Eleanor. Jordan and a still visibly shaken Renee had joined her vigil by now. Unfortunately, so had the Lady Emma, and in no time at all, she was rubbing Eleanor’s nerves raw with her well-meaning, smothering attentions.

Eleanor understood her agitation, even her compulsive need to play the lady of the manor, offering every hospitality to England’s queen, Aquitaine’s duchess. But the last thing she wanted was to commiserate with Emma about “the outrage,” as the castellan’s wife kept calling it. Jordan finally took Emma aside and, as politely as possible, explained that the queen had faced down bandits before. She had been in a caravan attacked by the Saracens; she had thwarted several attempts at abduction by would-be suitors; her ship had even been captured by the fleet of the Emperor of Byzantium, rescued in the nick of time by the King of Sicily’s galleys. Emma listened, openmouthed, to this recital. Agreeing meekly that the queen’s earlier experiences were indeed more harrowing than this encounter with the de Lusignans, she promised to say no more of the unfortunate events of the day, at least not in the queen’s hearing. Jordan sighed with relief, grateful that he’d averted bloodshed at least once today.

The castellan and his men returned at dusk, bearing a body wrapped in a blanket and grim word for Eleanor. They’d arrived too late to be of help, had found only the corpses of the dead and a few men too badly wounded to be worth carrying off. He was bringing the injured back by horse litter, but he held little hope for their recovery. They’d need an ox-cart to retrieve the other bodies, but out of respect, he’d brought back the remains of my lord Salisbury.

Eleanor watched bleakly as the body was carried into the castle chapel. When the priest gently pulled away the blanket, she gazed down for some moments into the earl’s face, and then made the sign of the cross.

“My lord Raymond?”

The castellan turned at once. “Madame?”

“The earl had a nephew with him, a young knight named William Marshal. Was he amongst the wounded?”

“No, Madame,” he said quietly. “But it may be that he was amongst those taken prisoner. God grant it so.”

Eleanor nodded somberly and they walked in silence from the chapel. Outside, the sky had begun to darken. This accursed Wednesday in Easter Week was at last coming to an end. But she did not yet know how many men had bought her freedom with their blood.

Henry had never been so exhausted in all his life. Upon getting word of the attack upon Eleanor, he had immediately broken off talks with the French king and raced south. By skimping on sleep and changing horses frequently, he and his men had reached Poitiers a full day before anyone expected him. But almost from the moment of his arrival, nothing had gone right.

With an effort, he fought back a yawn. His head was throbbing, his eyes red-rimmed from the dust of the road, and he doubted that there was a single muscle in his entire body that was not aching. He wanted nothing so much as a few uninterrupted hours of sleep now that he knew Eleanor was indeed unharmed, but instead he found himself presiding over the high table in the palace’s great hall, having had time only for a brief, unsatisfactory reunion with Eleanor and a quick wash-up. Even Henry’s careless disregard for protocol would not permit him to miss this solemn meal of mourners. Just two hours before his arrival, Patrick d’Evereaux, Earl of Salisbury, had been laid to rest in Poitiers’s church of St Hilary, far from the mausoleum in Wiltshire where his kindred were buried.

The Countess of Salisbury had been given a seat of honor on Eleanor’s left. She looked wan and weary, but she’d always struck Henry as a very competent, no-nonsense kind of woman, and he expected her to cope with her husband’s death as capably as she had life’s other crises. For a moment, his gaze rested upon his own wife, regal in black. Wearing dark colors for mourning was essentially a Spanish custom, but once word spread that Eleanor had worn black for the Earl of Salisbury, Henry felt certain that it would become the fashion at funerals throughout Aquitaine, Normandy, and France.

Eleanor looked tired, too; the powder she’d applied with a skillful hand could not quite camouflage the shadows hovering under her eyes. But with him, she’d been infuriatingly offhand, almost dismissive of her ordeal, brushing aside his concern for her emotional well-being, acting as if her physical safety was all that mattered. He knew better than most that the mind could be wounded by violence as easily as the body; he’d seen hardened soldiers haunted by battlefield memories, and he assumed that women would be far more susceptible than men to dark thoughts and dreads. Eleanor would have none of it, though, refusing to admit her fears even to him. He’d been irritated by her bravado, reminding her that it was well and good to assume an air of public sangfroid but hardly necessary in the privacy of their bedchamber. But he’d gotten only an unfathomable look from the depths of those greenish hazel eyes, a shrug, and a murmured, “I do not know what you want me to say, Harry… truly.”

Nor had his edgy, irascible mood been improved any by the presence of Eleanor’s uncle, Raoul de Faye. The younger brother of Eleanor’s late mother, Raoul was about ten years older than Eleanor, with a handsome head of silver hair, snapping dark eyes, and a cultivated air of jaded world liness that Henry had encountered all too often in Aquitaine. There was an obvious fondness between uncle and niece, and Eleanor seemed to respect his political judgment. Henry thought that was unfortunate, for he most definitely did not. Raoul was no admirer of his, either, and the tension between the two men sputtered and flared even on so somber an occasion as this. Eleanor’s constable, Saldebreuil de Sanzay, was seated at the high table, too, as well as a number of other familiar faces, all vassals of Eleanor’s, including a few whose loyalties he considered suspect. Eleanor appeared to be doing exactly what he’d asked of her-mending fences with the volatile Poitevin barons, soothing ruffled feathers, healing bruised pride as only a woman could. So why was he not better pleased with her efforts?

Henry was so caught up in these brooding thoughts that he did not hear the Bishop of Poitiers’s query and had to ask the cleric to repeat the question, one which only reminded him of the many reasons he had to be wroth with the meddling King of France. For all that people talked of Louis’s piety as if he were almost saintly, Henry did not consider shiftiness to be a virtue.

“Yes, my lord bishop, you heard right,” he said tersely. “The Count of Angouleme has sought refuge in Paris. The French king is getting into the habit of making rebels and malcontents welcome at his court.” And although he was speaking ostensibly of the fugitive count, he was actually thinking of Thomas Becket, Canterbury’s exiled archbishop.

The rest of the meal passed without incident, aside from an embarrassing mishap by Henry and Eleanor’s son Geoffrey, who tripped and lurched into one of the trestle tables, overturning wine cups into laps and splattering gravy over the fine clothes of several unhappy guests. Geoffrey flushed to his hairline with humiliation, and Henry felt pity stir, remembering a similar accident from his own boyhood, this one involving a dropped soup tureen. Even the offspring of the highborn were taught by doing, and boys were expected to wait upon tables in the great hall as part of their lessons in courtesy and etiquette. Geoffrey had learned little this day but mortification, though, and as Henry’s eyes met Eleanor’s, they shared a brief moment of parental solicitude.

Leaning closer so her voice would carry to Henry’s ear alone, she murmured, “I know what Scriptures say about pride going before a fall, but must it be out in the full glare of public scrutiny? At least Richard sought to cheer him up; you did notice that? Too much of the time they are squabbling like bad-tempered badgers. It is heartening to see that they can close ranks when need be.”

Henry wasn’t as sure of what he’d seen as Eleanor. There had been a brief exchange of words between the boys, as she said, and he supposed Richard could have been offering sympathy. But if so, Geoffrey was an utter ingrate, for he’d responded with a look of loathing. He kept his suspicions to himself, for he had nothing to go on except sour memories of his rivalry with his own brother. Remembering, too, his father’s feuding with his uncle Helie, he said softly, “The House of Anjou could give Cain and Abel lessons in brotherly strife. Let’s hope our lads take after your side of the family.”

Reaching across the tablecloth, he clasped her hand in his. “Are you truly sure you are all right, Eleanor? This I can promise you, that Guy and Geoffrey de Lusignan will come to look upon death as their deliverance.”

What was most chilling about his statement was that it was said so matter-of-factly. Eleanor did not doubt that he meant to wreak a terrible vengeance upon the de Lusignans, and the thought of their suffering did ease some of her rage and grief over the deaths of her men. She merely nodded, though, for her throat was suddenly too tight for speech. It hurt more than she could endure, this sudden glimpse of what had once been hers and was forever lost. Discussing their children and their mutual mortal enemies, she could not help remembering a time when they’d been in perfect harmony, allies as well as consorts, hungering after empires and dynasties and each other, their aspirations and ambitions as entwined as oak and ivy, impossible to separate one from the other without destroying both.

William Marshal’s sleep was shallow and fretful, the grim realities of his captivity clawing insistently at his dreams, seeking admittance to his last refuge. When he turned over, pain lanced through his leg, jarring him to full wakefulness. He lay very still, willing the throbbing to stop. The air was musty, and with each breath, he inhaled the familiar, foul odors of straw and sweat and urine and manure. He remembered where he was now, chained in another stable in an unknown castle, with his only certainty that the morrow would bring fresh indignities, more miseries.

So far he hadn’t been ill treated; the de Lusignans wanted him alive in hopes of making a profit. They were desperate for money, reduced to banditry by their failed rebellion, and had carried off all of the captured knights, save those near death. Guy and Geoffrey de Lusignan had been almost as enraged by the Earl of Salisbury’s death as they were by the queen’s escape. Will was a knight, too, and therefore he might be worth ransoming. Will had done his best to foster that belief, stressing his kinship to Earl Patrick at every opportunity. He did not expect his uncle’s widow to barter for his freedom, though. Why should she deplete her dower on his behalf? She barely knew him. The bulk of Salisbury’s estates would pass with his title to his eldest son and he was even less likely to ransom a needy young cousin. And unlike the other men seized, Will could never have afforded to ransom himself.

But there was no other way for Will to buy time. The de Lusignans had split up their men and prisoners into small groups and Will’s captors could not read or write. Nor could he, and it had taken them a few days to find someone they trusted enough to write to Countess Ela. By Will’s reckoning, it would take several weeks to get the countess’s refusal or counteroffer. At that point, he planned to assure them that his eldest brother would pay the ransom.

Lucky for him that his father was two years dead, for Will could not see him parting with so much as an English farthing to rescue an expendable younger son. He’d made that abundantly clear at the siege of Newbury. His brother John would at least make a token offer; their mother would see to that. But John was always short of money and could not be expected to sell family lands for his sake. The game must still be played out, though, for the alternative was an unmarked woodland grave with none to mourn or pray for the salvation of his soul.

Will was by nature an optimist, and at first he’d held fast to hope. All he had to do was avoid antagonizing his guards needlessly and wait for his injury to heal. Once he was strong enough, surely he could find an opportunity to escape. But after a week in captivity, he was no longer so confident. While he’d not been abused, neither had his wound been tended. He had done the best he could, fashioning a bandage by ripping off the legs of his braies and using the cord to fasten it. He’d even been able to find a flicker of humor in his predicament, for his cordless, torn braies kept sliding down to his hips every time he stood up.

The humor had soon faded, though. His captors were understandably fearful of the English king’s wrath and dared not spend more than one night under the same roof lest their presence be betrayed to Henry’s spies. They put Will in mind of mice trying to avoid a stalking cat, scurrying from one burrow to another. Sometimes it was a castle of a de Lusignan ally or vassal; twice they’d had to sleep in the woods and once even in the nave of a small church.

Not surprisingly, Will’s leg was not healing as it ought and with each passing day, the risk of infection grew greater. Will would far rather have died on the battlefield as his uncle had done than to die slowly and painfully from a festering wound. He had never been one to borrow trouble, feeling sure that life would invariably dole out his allotted portion. Nor had he ever been fanciful or readily spooked. But lying awake in the stable blackness, he found it alarmingly easy to imagine that Death was lurking in those gloomy shadows, no longer willing to wait.

If only they would remain here for a day or two. Every hour that he spent in the saddle lessened his chances of recovery. That night, they’d dragged him into the great hall to show the castellan their prize, giving him a sudden sense of pity for the bears chained and set upon by dogs for the amusement of spectators. As he listened to their boasting, he could feel a slow anger stirring, embers from a fire not fully banked. They had ambushed a highborn and defenseless woman, their own liege lady, had slain men not wearing armor. His uncle had been struck down from behind. Where was the honor in that?

He’d managed to contain his rage, to appear oblivious to the jeering and insults of those in the hall. He was never to know the castellan’s name, but the face he would not soon forget-florid and rotund, fringed with greying hair that reminded him of a monk’s tonsure, and eyebrows so thick the castellan seemed to be peering out at the world through a hedge. Will had good reason to resent the man, for he’d been the one to write the ransom letter to Countess Ela. He’d been sorry to see that the castellan had a young, comely wife, thinking that she deserved far better than she’d gotten. She was the only one in the hall who’d regarded him with a hint of sympathy, had even sent a servant over to offer him hippocras when the others were served. The wine had flowed like nectar down Will’s parched, scratchy throat, but then he’d had an unsettling thought: was this to be the last wine he ever tasted?

The castellan had accorded his guests center stage long enough to let them brag of their exploits. Only then did he ruin their triumph by giving them his news. While the January rising against Henry Fitz Empress had been instigated by the de Lusignan brothers, they’d been joined by the Counts of Angouleme and La Marche, and Robert and Hugh de Silly. But Robert had ended up in one of Henry’s dungeons on a diet of bread and water and, according to the castellan, he’d soon died of it. Will was surprised by Robert’s rapid decline and death, for men could survive a long time on even such meager rations. He felt not a shred of pity for the dead rebel, though, and for the rest of his unpleasant evening in the hall, he consoled himself by imagining the de Lusignans in a sunless cell, sharing Robert de Silly’s unhappy fate.

But if the castellan’s revelation had given Will some grim comfort, it had sent his captors into a panic. Will had watched them conferring amongst themselves, failing utterly to disguise their distress, and grieved that his uncle could not have been slain fighting more worthy foes than the de Lusignans and their dregs.

A horse nickered softly nearby, as if acknowledging Will’s presence in the stable. Stretching out as much as his shackles would permit, he sought to ease his aching leg in vain; no position lessened the pain. He supposed their decision on the morrow would depend upon the state of their stomachs and heads. Panic-stricken they undoubtedly were, but they were also likely to be suffering acutely from swilling down enough wine to fill the castle moat. Asking the Almighty to inflict the torments of the damned upon them all come morning, he then said a brief prayer for his dead uncle, his ill-used queen, and the other men who’d died on the Poitiers Road. After gently reminding his Savior that his own plight was in need of redressing, he finally fell into an uneasy doze.

One of his guards stumbled into the stable the next morning, wincing with each step, and Will decided his chances of spending another night here had dramatically improved. He was given water and sullenly assured that someone would remember to feed him, sooner or later. After that, he was left alone. He napped intermittently as the morning wore on and he was famished by the time another hungover captor brought him a bowl of stew and a loaf of stale bread. Not having a spoon, he ate with his fingers, concluding that it was better he not know the identity of the mystery meat coated in grease. He was using a chunk of the bread to sop up the gravy, trying not to think upon the tasty meals he’d enjoyed in Poitiers, when he heard soft footsteps in the straw outside the stall.

The girl was young, with knowing dark eyes and a tempting swing to her hips. It took Will just a moment to place her in his memory; she served the castellan’s wife. She was accompanied by the same guard who’d fetched his food. The man still looked greensick, but seemed a little happier about this new duty.

“My lady said even a poor wretch of a prisoner deserves God’s pity,” she announced in a disapproving voice that contrasted with the flirtatious look she gave Will through sweeping lashes. “This is for you.” Putting a large round loaf of bread down beside him, she sashayed out, batting those lashes at Will’s captor and drawing him after her with such ease that she looked back at Will and winked.

Will sniffed the bread and sighed happily, for it was freshly baked, still warm, marked with Christ’s Cross. But as he started to tear off a piece, his fingers found an oddity. Squinting in the dim light, he discovered that a section of the loaf had been removed and then replaced, like a plug corking a bottle. Extracting it, he found that the center had been hollowed out to conceal strips of flaxen cloth and a rag saturated with an unguent of some kind. The smell was faintly familiar and he thought he caught the whiff of yarrow or perhaps St John’s wort. He leaned back against the wall, staring down at the bandages and ointment in his lap, and for the first time since his troubles began, his eyes misted with tears.

Never had Will known a spring to pass so slowly. April seemed endless, days merging one into the other until he no longer had a clear memory of any of them. At night he was so exhausted he slept like the dead and in the morning, he’d be hustled onto a horse again, once more on the run. But the wound in his thigh no longer leaked pus or threatened to poison his body with noxious humors, and by May, he could put weight on the leg without pain.

In May, too, their hectic, panicked pace eased up, for his captors learned that Eudo de Porhoet had rebelled again in Brittany and Henry had gone west to deal with this faithless vassal once and for all. No longer fearing the dragon’s breath on the backs of their necks, the men finally felt secure enough to slow their flight, and that also assisted Will’s recovery. Unfortunately, they had yet to drop their guard with him; he was always bound hand and foot on horseback, chained up at night. He was content to wait, though, for a mistake to be made. What else could he do?

In mid-May, they lingered for an entire week at a castle held by a distant de Lusignan cousin. Will occupied himself by watching for their vigilance to slacken, by imagining the vengeance he wanted to wreak upon every mother’s son of them, and by giving fervent thanks to the Almighty and a Poitevin lord’s kindhearted wife for mercies he probably didn’t deserve.

He was napping in a shaft of afternoon sun that had slanted into the stables when he was jostled by a prodding foot. Opening his eyes, he saw his captors grinning down at him and he was instantly awake, edgy and alert. There was a new face among them, vaguely familiar.. one of Guy de Lusignan’s knights, a swaggering, scarred man named Talvas who’d been in the thick of the fighting on the Poitiers Road. Will hadn’t seen him since early April and he felt an instinctive prickle of unease, for he’d gotten the impression that Talvas was only too willing to dirty his hands on his lord’s behalf.

Talvas was grinning, which unnerved Will even more. “I know how much you’re going to miss us all, lad, but we’ve come to a parting of the ways.”

Will got slowly to his feet. “Are you going to let me go, then?” he asked with heavy sarcasm. To his astonishment, Talvas nodded.

“Yes… as soon as the hostages can be exchanged.”

“What hostages?” Will demanded, no longer trying to hide his perplexity.

“Since trust is in such scant supply these days, making payment of your ransom was only slightly less complicated than laying plans for a new crusade. Each side had to agree to offer hostages, who are to be released concurrently as soon as you are freed and the money paid over.”

Will stared at him, incredulous, still too wary for joy. “How much was I worth?”

Talvas made a hand gesture that was, oddly, both playful and obscene. “Thirty pounds.”

Will was dumbfounded. “Are you telling me that Countess Ela paid thirty pounds for my release?”

Talvas gave him a quizzical look. “You have been kept in the dark, haven’t you, lad? The Countess of Salisbury was not the one to ransom you. It was the English queen.”

The Great Hall at Poitiers was packed with people, so eager to see that they were treading upon one another’s shoes and trailing hems, elbows digging into ribs, necks craning to watch Sir William Marshal welcomed by the queen. Eleanor smiled as he knelt before her on the dais, then beckoned him to rise and come forward.

Will had practiced his speech dozens of times on the ride to Poitiers. Now every polished phrase flew right out of his head and he could only stammer like a green lad, thanking the queen in a rush of incoherent, intense gratitude.

Eleanor mercifully put an end to his babblings and then subjected him to a scrutiny that missed neither the gaunt hollows under his cheekbones nor the stiffness in his step. “I would have you see my physician straightaway,” she decreed, in tones that would brook no refusal for she well knew how loath most men were to consult leeches. “Once he assures me that you are indeed on the mend, you may take some time to visit your family in England if you so wish. I shall expect you back by summer’s end, where a position will be waiting for you in my household.”

If Will had been sputtering before, he was now stricken dumb. Eleanor leaned forward in her seat, saying quietly, “Did you truly think I would forget how you offered up your life for mine? I forget neither friends nor foes, Will, and I always pay my debts.”

“Madame… you… you owe me nothing! It was my honor and my duty to be of service to you,” Will insisted, regaining some of his poise.

She would have to provide him with another destrier and armor. Eleanor decided to put that task in Jordan’s capable hands. Will’s eyes were shining suspiciously, rapt upon her face. She’d been right in her assessment of him. Royal favor was the chosen coin of their realm and this young knight was shrewd enough to appreciate his great good fortune, upright enough not to hold it too cheaply. Courage, loyalty, good sense, and a wicked way with a sword-attributes worth far more than thirty pounds.

“If you want to repay me, Will,” she said, “I ask only that you be as true to my sons as you’ve been to me.”