forgiveness?”
She exhaled a soft breath. “Ah, Harry, we are getting into deep waters here.”
“An honest answer. Your rules, remember.”
“Very well. I did not want your forgiveness, not then.”
“And now?”
“Yes, I would ask your forgiveness now. But only if you asked mine in return.”
“Are we back to Rosamund again?” he said wearily. “So if I said I was sorry for taking her to my bed, that would have satisfied you? That would have been enough?”
“Indeed not! If you truly think I would rebel because you had a sugar-sop on the side, you do not know me at all and you never have.”
He frowned, but kept to the rules of the game, saying honestly, “Then I do not understand. But whatever answer you offer for your betrayal, it can neither explain nor justify your treachery. You were my wife. You owed loyalty to me above all others.”
“Obviously I did not see it like that,” she said coolly. “And if you’d wanted a meek little dormouse for a wife, you ought to have married your Rosamund. You cannot have it both ways, Harry. You wanted Aquitaine, enough to overlook that I was nine years older than you and had not given Louis a son and had a reputation that was frayed around the edges. You used my lands as a stepping-stone to the English throne. It seems hypocritical to bemoan the fact that I was not and would never be a docile, gentle creature without an independent thought in her head. You knew what you were getting with me. I was never one for sailing under false colors.”
“Yes, I wanted Aquitaine. But I also wanted you, and you know it. Do not make our marriage sound like such a one-sided bargain. You got what you wanted, too, Madame. I gave you a crown, and a better life than ever you’d had with Louis Capet. And you repaid me with the worst sort of betrayal. My sons would never have rebelled against me if not for you!”
“And you wonder why I did not seek your forgiveness? Because you blamed me for all and yourself for nothing! The mistakes were always mine, never yours. And nothing has changed, has it? You still see yourself as the innocent one, the victim. Well, I have just one last question for you, my lord husband. Come December, it will begin my fifth year as your prisoner. When you are forced to face the fact that our sons are still chafing under your stranglehold, what then? Who will you blame when they rebel again, Harry? And they will, for you seem utterly unable to learn from your mistakes!”
Henry started to swing off the bed, grimaced in pain, and fell back against the pillows. “I want you gone from this chamber, would to God I could have you gone from my life!”
Infuriated at being dismissed as if she were a servant, Eleanor got to her feet without haste, defiantly taking her time. “I never thought I’d be saying this, but you are a fool, Harry Fitz Empress, as much of a fool as Louis. You are the one who is alienating our sons, not me. I said you could not learn from your mistakes. Worse than that, you cannot even acknowledge them!”
“I’ll acknowledge one mistake right now. I ought to have pressured the Pope to annul our marriage, ought to have insisted that I would no longer tolerate you as my wife or queen. Had I done that, you’d be cloistered in some remote Irish nunnery today and I’d be rid of you for good!”
Eleanor strode to the door, then turned back to face him. “You are not only blind to the truth about our sons. You are equally blind to the truth about us. We’ve been wed for twenty-five years, have shared a bed for more than twenty of those years. I bore you eight children and we buried one together. We’ve schemed and fought and loved until we are so entangled in hearts and minds that there is no way to set us free. God help us both, Harry, for we will never be rid of each other. Not even death will do that.” And confident that she’d had the final word for once, she walked out and closed the door quietly behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
August 1178
Winchester, England
Eleanor was playing the harp and Amaria working on her embroidery when Turold sought admittance to their chamber. Surprised by his appearance, for it was not mealtime, Eleanor gave him an encouraging smile. Although the youth had been at the castle only a fortnight, she felt confident that she could mold him into another Perrin, for he was cheerful, innocently cheeky, and always eager to please.
Turold was panting; he’d taken the stairs three at a time. “Madame,” he gasped, “men just rode into the bailey, and a groom said one of them is your son!”
Eleanor came hastily to her feet. “Which one?”
Turold flushed. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “I wanted to tell you straight away…”
He looked so crestfallen that Eleanor hid a smile. “It does not matter, Turold. I’ll know soon enough.”
Reassured, Turold promised to find out more, and bolted from the chamber. Amaria lay down her sewing and moved to Eleanor’s side. “Who do you think it might be, my lady?”
“I am not sure, Amaria. As far as I know, John is the only one presently in England, and we can safely say it will not be him.”
They did not have long to wait. Soon there were footsteps, followed by a perfunctory knock, and then Eleanor’s third son entered. “Geoffrey!” Eleanor came quickly toward him, the warmth of her greeting fueled by a twinge of guilt; her initial reaction had been a muted sense of disappointment that it was not Richard.
“Sorry,” Geoffrey murmured, “it is only me,” and she gave him a startled look of appraisal; did he have second sight?
“You are more than enough,” she insisted and embraced him affectionately. “This is a delightful surprise. I had no idea that you were back in England.”
Geoffrey kissed her on the cheek and then sauntered over to kiss Amaria’s hand with a gallant flourish that would have done Hal credit. “Papa and I crossed from Normandy last month,” he explained as he moved to the table and poured wine for them. “He knighted me on Sunday at Woodstock.”
Accepting a cup, Eleanor studied him carefully. “You do not seem all that pleased about it.”
“A man hungering for meat is not likely to be satisfied with bread.” Geoffrey sprawled in the window-seat with the boneless abandon of youth. “I asked him again to let me wed Constance. Instead, he gave me a knighthood.”
She was clearly being invited to join in his criticism, but she resisted the temptation; it would serve none of their interests to prolong their family’s strife. “Well…I grant you that a knighthood is not worth a duchy. But you’ve the right to half the revenues of Brittany, no?”
“No, not the ‘right,’” Geoffrey corrected her quickly, “the privilege. And privileges, as we know, Maman, can be revoked at any time.” He paused expectantly, and when his mother did not comment, he heaved a theatrical sigh. “Hal and I have a wager going; how many more years can he postpone the wedding? I just hope that when he finally relents, I am not too old to totter to the altar.”
Eleanor decided it would be best to change the subject, for she truly did not want to worsen Henry’s estrangement from his sons. Winchester’s castellan had kept her informed about much of the political happenings in Henry’s domains, for he’d assumed that her greater visibility meant she was no longer in such deep disgrace. She knew, therefore, that Henry and Louis had forged another tentative truce when they’d met with the papal legate; both kings had pledged to take the cross, and Henry had grudgingly agreed that Richard and Alys would eventually be wed, although he’d refused to commit himself to a specific date. But she’d not seen Henry for almost a year, and she took the opportunity now to interrogate Geoffrey about family matters.
“How is your father faring these days? Does his bad leg continue to pain him?”
“He said nothing about it and is no longer limping, so I’d say he’s well enough. His temper is as quick to kindle as it ever was, though, and he is starting to go grey. I think he is beginning to feel his years, for he’s been fretting that his hair is thinning and he’s taken to cutting it even shorter than usual.”
Geoffrey grinned at that, for he was still a month from his twentieth birthday and had a handsome head of luxuriant brownish-blond hair. Eleanor was not as amused, for she, too, was feeling her years. “And what of your brothers?”
