Meliora could not hide her astonishment, for it was well known that he’d often sailed in seas rough enough to make the Devil himself greensick. Henry had the grace to look somewhat sheepish as he realized how lame his excuse sounded. This time his shrug was more pronounced. “I can spare a few more days,” he said, as close as he could come to admitting his reluctance to leave his young mistress. “How does she, Meliora?”
By now he’d steered her across the bailey and into the square tower. “You’d best see for yourself, my lord. You needn’t wait on me, though. I’d as soon stay here till I catch my breath.”
The smoking rushlight above their heads caught the gleam of his smile, the damp gold of his hair as his hood fell back. Meliora sat down on the stairs, listening to the jangle of his spurs as they struck sparks against the grooved stone steps. He was taking them two at a time, and within moments, she heard the door open, heard Rosamund cry out in wonderment: “Harry!” Meliora settled herself more comfortably against the stairwell and took a deep swallow from the flagon, unconcerned with the lack of a cup. The wine was a heavy, sweet malmsey from Crete, far superior in quality to the sour white wines of southern England that Meliora’s late husband could afford. She savored the taste and smiled then in the dark, for it now seemed as if she’d have more opportunities to drink the king’s fine wines than she’d first envisioned.
Henry returned with Rosamund to Woodstock, where they passed another week together. It was not until March 16 that he rode back to Southampton and sailed for Normandy. Reunited with his queen, they held their Easter court at Angers. Henry then set about punishing those lords who’d defied Eleanor’s orders during his absence in England. Marching into Maine, he dealt first with the rebellious Count of Seez, William Talevas, and in a lightning-fast campaign, he forced Talevas to yield his strongholds of Alencon and La Roche Mabille. He also found time to confer with the King of France, to pressure the monks of Pontigny to expel Thomas Becket from their abbey, to summon his lords to Chinon for a council on the turmoil in Brittany, and to plan another meeting with Louis. But as spring’s warmth yielded to the scorching heat of a dry, searing summer, word spilled over the castle walls of Chinon, shocking even Henry’s multitude of mortal enemies. The English king was gravely ill, it was said, so ill that it was feared for his life.
The day was hot, the sky a brittle, cloudless blue, and the soaring, white walls of Chinon had come into view, high on a spur overlooking the River Vienne. The Countess of Vermandois recognized it with a mingled sense of relief and dread, thankful to end her dusty, uncomfortable journey but uneasy about what she would find. Sending her men to seek refreshments in the great hall, she insisted upon being taken at once to see her sister, the queen. If death had come to Chinon, better that she know it straightaway.
She was escorted across a dry, barren bailey, the earth cracked and sere. The air was cooler inside the great round keep, the Tour de Moulin, but not by much. Following a servant into the shadowed stairwell, Petronilla blinked as she emerged into the light of the solar, where windows were unshuttered, open to the sun. As she sat on a cushioned settle, she could feel perspiration trickling into the lacings of her bodice; it was so tightly fitting that it seemed molded to her skin, and she wondered why fashion must be so damnably uncomfortable. Hoping for an errant breeze, she moved to a window, but the smell from the river was too pungent and she soon retreated.
When Eleanor entered, she gave her sister a distracted embrace, then sent a servant for wine. “I never thought I’d say this, but today I almost miss those wretched, wet English fogs.”
“How does Harry fare?”
“Better. His fever broke three days ago.” Sitting down heavily upon the settle, Eleanor groped for a pillow to put behind her back. “It was good of you to come, Petra.”
“Of course I came. Your letter made it sound as if you might be a widow at any moment!”
“If I’d listened to those fool doctors, I’d have been picking out my mourning garb.” Eleanor shook her head impatiently. “I told them that unless Harry could rule in absentia, he’d never agree to die.”
“You say his fever has broken?”
“Yes, on Friday, and he’s begun complaining about the food and the doctors and the heat, a sure sign that he is on the mend. Although he did give us a scare yesterday. A courier arrived with word of Becket’s latest outrage whilst I was lying down, and those dolts let the man in to see Harry. He started shouting like a madman, insisted upon getting out of bed, and collapsed in the floor rushes like a sack of flour since he is still as weak as a newborn.”
“What has Becket done now?”
Eleanor grimaced. “On Whitsunday, he celebrated Mass at Vezelay and pronounced sentences of anathema and excommunication upon seven of Harry’s lords, including his justiciar, Richard de Lucy. He also condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon and freed the English bishops from their oaths to obey them. And he even threatened to excommunicate Harry himself and lay all England under interdict.”
Petronilla sighed; she was thoroughly bored by this endless squabbling between Becket and her brother-in- law. “What happens now?”
“Harry means to order the English bishops to appeal to the Pope against these censures.”
A wisp of hair had escaped Eleanor’s wimple and was tickling her cheek; she tucked it away and leaned back against the settle, closing her eyes. Petronilla was not surprised that she looked fatigued; she’d wager every soul in Chinon was careworn from catering to Harry’s sickbed whims. “You ought to be flushed in this heat, not as white as chalk,” she said critically, reaching over to feel Eleanor’s forehead as the door opened and a servant entered with a flagon of wine, two cups, and a plateful of fresh-baked wafers. “Set it by me,” Petronilla directed and filled the cups. The wine was a strong red Gascon and she savored every swallow. “You’d not believe the swill I was served on the road. Here, Eleanor, have one of the cheese wafers.”
Eleanor shook her head, recoiling when Petronilla tried to pass her a wafer. “Just the smell of it is enough to make my gorge rise.”
“Are you ailing?” Petronilla gave her sister a speculative look. “You’ve never been one for queasiness, except… Good Lord, Eleanor, has Harry gotten you with child again?”
“Well, I surely hope it is Harry’s,” Eleanor said tartly. She was obviously irked by her sister’s disapproving tone, but Petronilla doubted that she’d welcomed this pregnancy with heartfelt joy. What woman of forty and four years would?
“I know you’ve enjoyed confounding those who claimed you’d ever be a barren queen, but even so… What are you and Harry doing, going for a baker’s dozen? When is this one due?”
“In January. It happened whilst we were at Angers for Eastertide.” Petronilla scowled, thinking it a pity that Harry had not stayed longer in England. No wonder Eleanor looked so wan. If the fates had been less kind, she’d have found herself a pregnant widow, bequeathed each and every one of Harry’s enemies, struggling to hold together a far-flung empire for a son who was all of eleven years. She held her tongue for once, though, and glancing at her sister’s taut profile, she could only hope that this eighth pregnancy would be an easy one and, God Willing, the last.
No sooner had Henry risen from his sickbed than he was in the saddle. Conan, Duke of Upper Brittany, was viewed by the Bretons as an Angevin puppet, and a rebellion had recently flared up, ignited by a disaffected baron, Ralph de Fougeres. By June 28, Henry’s army was at Fougeres. It was said to be impervious to assault, but it fell to Henry on July 14. He then pushed on into Brittany, where he deposed the inept Conan, betrothed his young son Geoffrey to Conan’s daughter and heiress, Constance, and took possession of the duchy in his son’s name.
Autumn that year painted the countryside in vivid shades of scarlet, saffron, and russet, and the days were clear and crisp under harvest skies. But Henry had little time to enjoy the splendors of the season. Even his passion for the hunt went unsatisfied as he passed the days in a whirlwind of councils with allies and enemies alike-the Count of Flanders; Theobald, Count of Blois; the perpetually discontented Poitevin lords; the new King of Scotland; a papal envoy; and Matthew of Boulogne, scandalously wed to King Stephen’s daughter Mary, former abbess of Romsey Abbey.
By November 20, he was back at Chinon Castle, and it was here that he received his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and his uncle Rainald, Earl of Cornwall, bearing news of yet another Welsh setback. Owain Gwynedd had taken advantage of Henry’s absence from England to capture and destroy Basingwerk Castle. Under the command of the Earls of Leicester and Essex, men were dispatched to rebuild it, but they’d been forced to retreat back across the border in disarray.
