well known; he considered them a waste of time and a threat to public order.
Hal had been talking so long that his throat had gone dry and he paused to accept a fresh wine cup from Will Marshal. “The tourney was held on the level ground by the River Eure. Two of the French companies had already clashed and were fighting when we came upon the scene. We hit them with such force that they soon gave way and then fled the field. Our men chased after them, so eagerly that they left me behind! Only Will stayed by my side,” Hal said, with a fond glance toward the knight, who smiled and sought to appear modest and unassuming, with limited success; he was understandably proud of his prowess.
“Will and I followed after the others, riding downhill into Anet. The knights, both the hunted and the hunters, had already raced through the town, but the French lord, Simon de Neauphle, was still there, with three hundred foot soldiers he’d ordered to protect the lists. They saw us at the same time that we saw them, and Will, bless him, declared, ‘There is nothing for it but to charge them.’ And so we did.”
That provoked an admiring murmur from his audience. Hal grinned disarmingly. “I know, we were quite mad. But damned if they did not scatter like a flock of chickens! I was glad enough just to avoid capture, but Will saw his chance and snatched the bridle of Simon de Neauphle’s horse-his favorite method of capturing enemy knights.
“So we galloped through the town, towing Simon along behind us, for without his reins, he had no control of his mount. But then we happened to pass under a low-hanging gutter and Simon grabbed it, as neat a trick as I’ve ever seen. Poor Will never looked back, so he did not know he’d lost his prisoner, not until it was too late.”
“And of course you never thought to warn me,” Will complained mildly, and Hal grinned again.
“Hellfire, Will, I was laughing too much to talk, laughing so much I damned near fell off my own horse!” Throwing an arm around the knight’s shoulders, he acknowledged that “Will was a good sport about it, though, laughed as heartily as any of us afterward.”
Hal was about to launch into another tournament tale, but just then a servant entered with a platter of wafers, some filled with cheese, others with honey. Henry and Eleanor watched with amusement as Hal and Geoffrey and their friends pounced upon the platter and gobbled up the wafers like starving wolves. Rising, Eleanor crossed to her daughter-in-law and gave Marguerite a quick hug. The young woman smiled, but she seemed very fragile to Eleanor, as if she might be bruised by a breath, and Eleanor’s heart ached for her.
Across the solar, Maud and Rhiannon were talking quietly together, and when Eleanor’s eyes caught Maud’s, the countess sent her a silent message. Curious, she strolled over to see what Maud wanted.
“We need to talk to you,” Maud said, and steered Eleanor and Rhiannon toward a window-seat. “Rhiannon and Ranulf are fretful about their son. Morgan is old enough now for the next stage of his education, and Hal has kindly offered to take the lad into his household.”
Eleanor glanced from one woman to the other. “And…?”
Rhiannon looked so unhappy that Maud realized it was up to her. “Rhiannon is loath to speak frankly. Fortunately, I’ve never had that problem. The truth, Eleanor, is that Ranulf and Rhiannon are not sure that this is best for their son. Morgan is at an impressionable age and easily influenced, especially by someone as charming and beguiling as Hal. See for yourself,” she said, jerking her head toward Morgan.
Eleanor’s gaze came to rest upon Rhiannon’s son. He was a handsome youngster, with his father’s dark eyes and his mother’s thick chestnut hair, and he was listening to his cousin Hal as raptly as a young novice monk eager to pledge himself to the greater glory of God.
“I see,” Eleanor said. Her first reaction was displeasure, a mother’s indignation that Maud and Rhiannon should dare to disparage her son, to imply that Hal’s flaws were a cause for concern. But it soon passed. She owed Rhiannon a great deal, for the Welshwoman had given her support when she most needed it. She owed her an honest answer, and as much as it grieved her to admit it, she knew in her heart that her eldest son was not the best role model for a lad like Morgan. She loved Hal, but she was not blind to his faults. He was good-hearted, generous, engaging, and dashing. He was also irresponsible, impulsive, fickle, and malleable.
“It might not be for the best,” she said at last, “to place Morgan in Hal’s household. He is not likely to give Morgan the supervision a lad of his tender years needs. What a pity Richard is not here. He took Rico, Rainald’s natural son, as one of his squires last year, and I am sure he’d have been willing to take Morgan under his wing, too.”
No one spoke, for Rhiannon was dismayed that Eleanor had confirmed her misgivings; she’d hoped for reassurance. And Maud had the heretical thought that Morgan would be no better off with Richard than he would with Hal. No one would ever accuse Richard of being flighty or irresolute. But he was gaining a reputation for recklessness, for the sort of mad courage that other men found so irresistible and mothers of squires found so alarming. She was not about to say that to Eleanor, though, and so she said instead that her son Hugh would be happy to accept Morgan into his household, but she feared that the lad was so bedazzled by Hal that he’d see the Earl of Chester as a great letdown.
Eleanor considered the problem, and then smiled. “I have the solution. I’ll ask Geoffrey to accept Morgan as one of his squires. He takes part in enough tournaments to satisfy Morgan’s craving for excitement, and he’s proving himself to be a capable commander in his campaigns against the Breton rebels.”
Rhiannon was vastly relieved. “That would be so good of you, my lady! How can I ever thank you?”
“It is my pleasure,” Eleanor said, and indeed it was, for this was the first time in five years that she’d been able to do a favor for a friend, to dispense the patronage and largesse that was expected of those who wielded royal authority.
Rhiannon soon excused herself, and a few moments later, she had joined Ranulf and was murmuring in his ear. Eleanor smiled when Ranulf glanced in her direction. While Rhiannon and Maud had embraced her warmly during this Christmas Court, she’d gotten only cool civility from Ranulf and Roger. She knew Ranulf would feel honor-bound to thank her for placing his son in Geoffrey’s household, and she was looking forward to gaining the upper hand, however petty it might be. Maud had remained by her side, but now she gave an audible sigh, and Eleanor saw that her gaze had fastened upon her son Hugh, in animated discussion with Willem, who’d recently returned from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
“I’d better rein him in ere he gets sloppy drunk and makes a fool of himself,” Maud said grimly, and Eleanor realized that Hugh had been drinking a lot since his arrival at Winchester.
“Is he developing too much of a fondness for wine?” she asked quietly, and Maud shook her head.
“Only when he’s in the king’s presence. You’ve not noticed that he gets as nervous as a treed cat around Harry?”
As the countess went off to take charge of her wayward son, Eleanor felt an envious itch, wishing that she could be as pragmatic about motherhood as Maud. The other woman had long ago made a clear-eyed, unsentimental assessment of her eldest son, accepting his weaknesses but loving him wholeheartedly anyway. That was no easy feat, for affection and expectations invariably colored most parental appraisals of their offspring. Eleanor hoped she was able to see her sons as they truly were, but all she could be sure of was that she saw them more realistically than her husband did.
Some of her earlier high spirits had faded, and she suspected it was because she’d been forced to pass a judgment upon her eldest son, weighing Hal in the balance and finding him wanting. As her eyes lingered upon his golden head, she sought to assure herself that it was not too late for him. Jesu, he was not yet twenty-four. Surely he had time to sort himself out.
She was intending to speak to Geoffrey about his cousin Morgan when her eye was caught by a movement in one of the window-seats. With casual nonchalance, she began her approach, not wanting to scare her quarry off, and she slid into the window-seat beside her son before John could retreat.
“I have not seen much of you this week, John.” Thinking that was an understatement; her youngest had been as elusive as a ghost during the Christmas Court so far.
The boy sprang to his feet, reluctantly reclaiming his seat only when she gestured for him to sit. “Madame.”
Eleanor took this opportunity to study him. He was just a few days from his twelfth birthday, but looked younger, for he was undersized. Henry was of average height, although he’d always appeared larger due to his powerful build. Both Hal and Richard were taller than he, Geoffrey shorter. Unless he sprouted up like a weed in the next few years, she thought John would likely be closer to Geoffrey’s height than his other brothers. It was disconcerting to see her own eyes in that thin little face. This was a child of her womb, so why did he seem like such a stranger?
She decided not to waste time with superficial chatter, for such a chance might not come again. “It occurred
