Swallowing was suddenly painful. She felt as if her throat was being squeezed in a strangler’s hold, as if a heavy millstone was pressing onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. But she shed no tears; her eyes, narrowed on Henry’s sleeping form, were dry and burning. She could still give him an ultimatum, tell him on the morrow that Rosamund Clifford must go. But what if she made such a demand and he refused? She’d not humble her pride like that, would never risk such a humiliation, not in this life or the next. Nor would she forgive.
Henry awoke to a distinct chill, soon discovered that the fire had gone out during the night. A weight lay across his feet. Blinking, he saw that his wife’s greyhound had sneaked up onto the bed while they slept. Eleanor was still sleeping, her head cradled in the crook of her arm, a sweep of long hair trailing over the edge of the bed. He tried to think of a reason to get up, couldn’t come up with one, and burrowed back into the warm cocoon of their covers, feeling more content than he had in months.
When he stirred again, the hearth had been tended, the dog evicted, and Eleanor’s attendants were moving quietly about the chamber. Her side of the bed was empty, the bed curtains partially drawn. As he sat up, a hand slid through the opening, holding a silver cup.
“Here,” his wife said, “this will fortify you to face the rest of the day.” Reaching for the cup, he took a tentative sip; it was one of her Gascony wines, well watered down as he preferred. “I always fare better whenever you’re around to see to the household,” he said, observing her appreciatively over the rim of the cup. She was already dressed in a gown of soft wool the color of sapphire, but she’d not yet put on her wimple and veil, and her hair was still visible, plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck. There was an agreeable intimacy about the sight, for only a husband or lover ever saw a woman with her hair unbound or uncovered. “You look very pleasing to the eye this morn,” he said. “A pity, though, that you were in such a hurry to dress. We could have stayed abed a while longer…” He let his words trail off suggestively, and she smiled.
“Too late,” she said briskly. “I’ve already sent for your squires.” Her timing was perfect, for at that very moment, a knock sounded at the door. Renee, still looking subdued, admitted a servant bearing a tray. Eleanor took it and carried it back to Henry. “I ordered some roasted chestnuts so you could break the night’s fast,” she said, making herself comfortable at the end of the bed, putting the tray between them.
Henry took another swallow of wine, helped himself to some of the chestnuts. Eleanor took one, shelled it deftly, and nibbled on the nut. “I was sorry to hear about the fall of that Welsh castle,” she said, and they were soon deep in a discussion of the incessant turmoil in the more troublesome regions of their domains. Her ladies continued with their tasks and when Henry’s squires arrived, they knew better than to interrupt until their lord was ready to dress.
Henry had finished lambasting the Bretons and moved on to the Poitevins. Eleanor listened intently, making an occasional incisive comment about her faithless barons. They both agreed that the de Lusignans must be dealt with-and sooner rather than later.
“I think, Harry, that it is time I returned to Aquitaine,” Eleanor said pensively. “My presence there might help to calm some of the unrest. Not with lawless hellspawn like the de Lusignans, of course. The Virgin Mary herself could be their liege lady and they’d still be conniving and pillaging. But there are others with wavering loyalties who could benefit from a reminder that they’d pledged their faith and their honor to me, Duke William’s daughter.”
Henry had been thinking along the same lines in recent months. But he’d not been able to seek her cooperation against her Poitevin rebels until they’d made their peace over his indiscretion with Rosamund Clifford. “I agree, “ he said. “It has been too long since you paid a visit to Poitou. But we’d have to take measures for your safety first. Once I am sure that you’d not be at risk, we can lay our plans accordingly.”
He finished the last of the chestnuts, glancing over to see if this met with her approval. It did; she was smiling.
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.”
