“I did not see John. Ralf de Glanville-the one who captured the Scots king, remember-has taken charge of his education. Richard is off spilling blood somewhere in Poitou, and Hal is chasing after glory on the tournament circuit. In fact, I will be joining him upon my return to Normandy, for why should he have all the fun? Brittany is reasonably quiet at the moment, so I might as well enjoy the peace whilst it lasts.”
Eleanor knew, of course, about Hal’s abiding passion for tourneys. “I thought that he had not been very successful?”
“At first, he was not. But Will Marshal noticed a ruse that the Count of Flanders was employing at tournaments. He would hold back from the first assault, wait until the other participants were milling about in small groups, wearied, battered, and bruised. Then he and his men would rush in and take advantage of the confusion, sweeping all before them. Marshal confided this to Hal, who adopted the same tactics, and since then, he has been winning more often than not.”
“Then why was Harry grumbling so about the expenses of Hal’s tourneys? If he is winning, Hal must be reaping a goodly profit from the ransoms and captured horses.”
Geoffrey laughed. “True enough, but Hal’s spending could put a drunken sailor to shame. He outfits his knights in the very best armor and weapons, using his largesse to lure skilled fighters into his service, and he buys the finest horses, of course, and he loves to lavish gifts upon Marguerite, and he never refuses a friend, and his alms-giving is open-handed, and-”
Eleanor held up her hand, laughing, too. “Enough! Do you have any other family news for me?”
“Indeed, I do. Tilda had another son last year. They named the poor lad Otto, but that is not as bad as the name they burdened his brother with-Lothair!”
Eleanor felt a pang, remembering how Joanna had laughed, too, at Lothair’s name; the last she’d heard, Joanna was faring well in her new land and her new life, but Sicily seemed so far away.
Geoffrey was regarding her with an enigmatic expression. “I am not sure if I ought to tell you this, Maman. Papa has sired another bastard. Ida de Tosny, the Lord of Conches’s daughter, gave birth to a son last year.”
Eleanor’s shrug of unconcern was not feigned. “I am pleased to hear that he has acknowledged the child as his. Not all men do, sad to say. What name did Harry bestow on the baby?” But when he told her it was William, her indifference ebbed away, replaced by a prickle of resentful anger. Why must Harry choose the name of her dead son? Their Will had been cheated of so much-a long and healthy life, a king’s crown, love and lust and sons of his own. He ought not to have to share his name with one of Harry’s by-blows.
Geoffrey got to his feet and stretched. “I am loath to go, Maman, but I hope to reach Southampton by dark. I’ve been told the winds are favorable, and I want to take advantage of them ere they shift. There is something else, though, that you need to know. It concerns your vassal, the Count of La Marche.”
Eleanor already knew what he was about to tell her, for Maud had shared the story of the count’s scandal. Not wanting to deprive Geoffrey of the pleasure of relating such lurid gossip, she smiled innocently. “What has Audebert done now?”
“He thought he had reason to suspect his wife of infidelity. With his usual rashness, he acted upon the suspicion without waiting for proof. The wife was cast off, and the unfortunate lover was put to death. But then his son and heir died of a sudden, and the count began to fear the Almighty was punishing him for slaying an innocent man. He plunged into a deep melancholy, vowing to do all he could to make amends and regain God’s Grace.”
“Somehow I doubt that involved taking back his wronged wife,” Eleanor said tartly. “Has he taken to sackcloth and ashes, forsaken the world for the serenity of the cloister?”
She was being sarcastic, but to her surprise, Geoffrey nodded. “Close, Maman, close. He decided to take the cross, to expiate his sins by a hallowed death in the Holy Land. But ere he departed on his pilgrimage of atonement, he sold the county of La Marche to Papa for fifteen thousand Angevin livres.”
“He did what?”
Eleanor had not raised her voice, but there was something in her tone that attracted the attention of Amaria, who’d retreated across the chamber to give them the semblance of privacy. One glance at the queen’s glittering green eyes, burning all the more brightly against the sudden pallor of her face, and Amaria jumped to her feet in alarm. “Madame, are you ill? What is wrong?”
Eleanor did not appear to hear her. “Count Audebert,” Geoffrey said, “is the vassal of the Duchess of Aquitaine, liegeman of my lady mother and my brother Richard. At least he was until my father snatched La Marche from under their noses.”
Eleanor was on her feet now, too, stalking to the window and back before whirling to face Geoffrey again in a flurry of silken skirts. “Does Richard know this?”
“He knows. Papa struck this deal last December, boasted of it to Richard, Hal, and me when we gathered for his Christmas Court at Angers. He was right pleased with the bargain he’d made, and well he should be, for La Marche must be worth three times what he paid for it.”
“His pleasure be damned! What did he say to Richard about his piracy?”
“Oh, he explained it as too good a deal to pass up, and assured Richard that there was no need for concern, that he could still consider La Marche as part and parcel of Aquitaine.” Geoffrey had been fighting back a smile, but at that it broke free. “Richard found that very reassuring.”
Eleanor said something under her breath, but Amaria did not catch it, for she did not speak the lengua romana of the queen’s homeland. She needed no translation, though, not after looking at the other woman’s face. “Might not the king have spoken the truth?” she ventured cautiously, wanting to offer comfort but well aware of the shakiness of her footing. “Mayhap he truly does mean to pass it on to Richard?”
Again, it was left to Geoffrey to respond. “Mayhap he does, Dame Amaria. But just like my marriage to the Lady Constance, La Marche’s fate depends now upon my lord father’s whim, upon his mood at any given moment, and as we well know, his moods can shift faster than those Channel winds I need to catch.”
Moving to his mother’s side, he kissed Eleanor in farewell. “I must be off, Maman. Have you any words of advice for me? Any suggestions how to stay in Papa’s good graces and mayhap even pry my bride from his talons?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, “as it happens, I do, Geoffrey. You need never doubt that your father loves you and your brothers. But never make the mistake of believing you can trust him.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he said and, smiling, made his departure.
To Eleanor’s joyful amazement, Henry chose to hold his Christmas Court that year at Winchester. Richard had remained in Poitou, where he was planning an unusual winter campaign, but Hal, Marguerite, Geoffrey, and John were there, as were Roger and Maud. Even Ranulf and Rhiannon had made the long trip from Wales in order to visit with Morgan. What followed was Eleanor’s best Christmas since Chinon six years ago.
Henry shook his head when he was offered more wine and then glanced inquiringly at his wife. “Madame?”
“No, my lord, I have had enough,” she said blandly. They were sharing dishes as was customary, and Henry was conscientious about making sure that Eleanor received the best portions, for men were expected to look after their female dinner-mates. Good manners demanded as much, and Henry had taken care to treat Eleanor with impeccable courtesy at the Christmas Court. She in turn had been no less polite, showing deference and decorum whenever they met in public. There had been no private encounters, and she was content that there were not, for what would it serve to raise the issue of La Marche with him? If he’d not heeded her when their passion had burned at white-heat, he was not going to listen now that their marriage lay in smoldering ruins.
Eleanor had been bothered by a headache all afternoon, but she was determined not to miss any of the festivities. She’d taken an herbal remedy and was now returning to the solar, where an informal gathering was in progress; unlike the feasts held in the great hall, this one was confined to family and friends.
When she re-entered the solar, she was not surprised to find that Hal was still the center of attention. Slipping into her chair next to Henry, she discovered that Hal was no longer passing on gossip from the French court, but was entertaining with some of his experiences on the tournament field.
“The tourney was held this past spring along the Norman border between the towns of Anet and Sorel. Knights had come from all over, from Flanders and Brittany and Anjou and Poitou and Champagne. Even from England,” Hal added, with a mischievous look in his father’s direction, for Henry’s disapproval of tournaments was
