her heir, to Richard. Even after he’d permitted her to return to Poitiers, he continued to control her financial and military resources, keeping the real power in his own hands.
No, Rosamund Clifford was only one of Eleanor’s grudges. The girl may have ignited the fire, but the fuel was already stacked up, awaiting such a spark. The saddest aspect of it all to Maud was that she was sure her cousin was utterly unaware of the depths of his wife’s resentment. She thought that he was undoubtedly the most brilliant man she’d ever known, with one great failing. He seemed unable to view their world from any perspective but his own. Just as he’d been oblivious to Eleanor’s discontent, he could not comprehend why his eldest son was so unhappy to be a king in name only. Maud had seen the damage his blindness had done to his marriage. She could only hope that it would not prove as harmful with his sons.
Another quarrel had broken out in the gardens below them, this one between Richard and Geoffrey. Richard had demanded a turn in their game of quoits, Geoffrey had refused, and now they were debating the issue in loud, belligerent voices. Glancing at Eleanor, Maud said diplomatically, “I imagine the lads are too near in years to get along with each other. I’d wager they both are closer to Hal.”
“Not really,” Eleanor admitted. “Hal and Geoffrey have their differences, though they usually patch them up. But Richard and Hal are like chalk and cheese, squabbling over the most minor matters. I keep hoping they’ll outgrow it,” she added, not very convincingly.
Maud was surprised, for Hal was very easygoing, with a flair for friendship. “It is only natural,” she ventured, “that Richard would be jealous of Hal. It must be difficult for a youngster to understand why his older brother inherits the crown and the-” She got no further, for Eleanor had begun to laugh.
“Jealous? Richard? Good Lord, no! Richard cares not a fig for England.” Gazing down at her second son, she said, with absolute certainty and great satisfaction, “Richard does not begrudge Hal his crown or kingdom, not as long as he gets Aquitaine.”
On the following day, the Sunday after Pentecost, as church bells pealed and the citizens thronged to watch, Richard was escorted through the city streets to the abbey of St Hilaire. There Archbishop Bertram of Bordeaux and Bishop John of Poitiers offered him the lance and banner that were the insignia of the duchy, and he was officially recognized as Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine.
Maud had attended many opulent feasts in her life: Christmas fetes, weddings, a coronation. She soon decided that Eleanor’s revelries in her son’s honor would rank among the most memorable. The great hall was shimmering in light, sun streaming from the open windows, and ablaze with color, the walls decorated with embroidered hangings in rich shades of gold and crimson. New rushes had been strewn about, fragrant with lavender, sweet woodruff, and balm. Because the hearth had not been lit, the guests were spared the aggravation of smoke spiraling up toward the rafters, and the air was sweet to breathe, perfumed with honeysuckle and violet, their seductive scents luring in from the gardens butterflies as blue as the summer sky.
The tables were as splendid as their surroundings, draped in snowy white linen cloths, set with silver wine cups and salt nefs and delicate finger bowls. Maud, her son Hugh, and daughter-in-law Bertrada were among the honored guests seated at the high table, giving her an ideal vantage point to observe her fellow diners and the happenings in the hall. Clearly Eleanor had spared no expense to make Richard’s day as perfect as possible. A small fountain bubbled with wine, candelabras flared with candles of wax, not tallow, and Maud was impressed to see that every guest had been provided with a knife, for it was normally expected that people would bring their own utensils.
The food and drink were equally praiseworthy. Eleanor had ordered rich red wines from Cahors and Gascony, costly sweet wine from Cyprus, and for the fortunate guests at the high table, the celebrated Saint Pourcain from her Auvergne, a wine so outrageously expensive that even Maud had rarely tasted it.
A trumpet fanfare announced the arrival of each course, followed by ewers bearing lavers of warm, perfumed water so guests could wash their hands. The dishes were carried in on large platters and then ladled onto smaller plates called tailloirs at each table so that the diners could help themselves. It was common practice for three people to share a tailloir, but here, too, Eleanor had been lavish and each dish was meant for two guests, with those at the high table accorded an unheard-of honor, individual dishes for each one. Maud could not recall such a luxury at her cousin’s coronation, not even at the famously extravagant fetes hosted by Thomas Becket in his days as Henry’s chancellor.
She was so delighted by the quality of the food that she contemplated, half-seriously, bribing Eleanor’s cooks to join her household. The guests were offered goose stuffed with herbs, garlic, grapes, and sage. There were grilled oysters and a lamprey torte with walnuts, mint, cloves, and saffron. A delicate soup of almond milk and onions, with sops of bread. Pike in a white wine galentyne sauce. A blancmange of venison meat, blanched almonds, rice, and sugar. The cooks had done themselves proud with the lighter dishes, too, providing an almond tart doucette and another of cream custard, and the sweet wafers known as angel’s bread. Eleanor had even imported oranges from Spain so that her cooks could prepare a comfit with the candied rind, honey, and ginger.
When the meal was finally done, Eleanor’s almoner collected the trenchers-stale bread used as plates-to be distributed to the poor, and the trestle tables were dismantled so there would be room for entertainment. Harpists and flutists had played while the guests were eating, but now livelier diversion was provided: tumblers and daredevils juggling torches and swords. Maud had been invited to join Eleanor and Richard upon the dais, so she had one of the best seats in the hall, but she found her fellow guests more interesting than the performers.
Virtually all of the highborn of Aquitaine and the lands farther south were present. Eleanor’s own family was there, of course, to share Richard’s triumph. Raoul de Faye, her maternal uncle and seneschal. Her other uncle, Hugh, Viscount of Chatellerault, his new wife, Ella, and his son, William. Her two nieces, Petronilla’s daughters, Isabelle and Alienor. Her sister by marriage, the Lady Emma of Laval, Henry’s half sister, recently widowed, but so beautiful that it was unlikely she’d remain unmarried for long. If anyone but Maud thought it odd that Henry was absent, that opinion was not voiced. According to Eleanor, Henry had gone into Brittany to deal with yet another rebellion, but it was obvious to Maud that he was not missed.
The lords of Poitou were well represented. Saldebreuil de Sanzay, constable of Poitou. The Count of La Marche. Count William of Angouleme and his son, Vulgrin. Geoffrey de Rancon, Lord of Taillebourg. Porteclie de Mauze, a distant cousin of Eleanor’s, and Sir Herve le Panetier, her steward. Aimar, Viscount of Limoges, and his wife, Sarah, a daughter of Maud’s uncle Rainald. Maud was particularly interested in the presence of the Counts of La Marche and Angouleme and the Viscount of Limoges, for they’d been the ringleaders in a rebellion against Henry just four years ago. She wondered if they were signaling by their attendance that they were hostile to Henry, not Eleanor and Richard. Or had they simply not wanted to miss such a celebrated fete? The Archbishop of Bordeaux and Bishop of Poitiers were present, as was the abbot of Tournay. And there was a large contingent from the lands to the south of Aquitaine.
Just as Henry cast a long shadow, so, too, did the other conspicuous absentee: Raimon St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, the most powerful lord of the south and the most hated. Like his father before him, Raimon was ambitious, ruthless, and always dangerous. Count Raimon had long been a sworn enemy of the Dukes of Aquitaine, for Eleanor’s father had a claim to Toulouse. Maud thought the claim to be rather tenuous, arising out of a disputed inheritance involving Eleanor’s grandmother. Eleanor took it very seriously, though, enough to have convinced both of her husbands to assert her claim by force. Neither Louis nor Henry had succeeded in prying Toulouse from Count Raimon’s grip, but their failures had not discouraged Eleanor and she continued to consider Toulouse as rightfully part of her domains, part of Richard’s inheritance.
The jugglers had completed their performance, and a troubadour had taken center stage. The audience quieted, and he began to sing a lover’s plaint, imploring his lady that she could make of him a begger or richer than any king, so great was her power over him.
Maud joined the other guests in applauding enthusiastically. “That was wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Who is he?”
“That is Levet, Raimbaut d’Aurenga’s joglar.” Seeing Maud’s blank look, Eleanor leaned over to explain further. “A joglar is similar to a jongleur, a court performer. Most troubadours do not sing their own compositions, not those of high birth like Raimbaut or Countess Biatriz.”
Maud had glanced curiously toward Raimbaut d’Aurenga, regretting that she was no longer young, for this southern lord was as handsome as he was talented. But her head swiveled back toward Eleanor at the mention of
