he were more forthcoming, at least with me.”
After a moment, though, he shook his head, and began to question Willem about his mission to the Flemish court. Willem had just begun his report when there was a sudden stir in the hall. Curious, he paused, and was taken aback to see the queen coming through the open doorway.
Henry caught his questioning look and shrugged. “Richard wanted her here,” he said simply, and Willem thought it was encouraging that the king was learning to pick his battles with his sons. But then Henry said, “Actually, what he’d asked for was her freedom, and there is no way I could have granted that wish. So it would have been churlish to deny him her presence at revelries in his honor. I’ve tried to be a good sport about it, Willem, even bought her a gilded scarlet saddle and new robes for the occasion. I cannot say, though, that I am pleased to have her here.”
Willem understood why. The change in Richard’s demeanor was startling. Where before he’d been detached, even aloof, he was now displaying considerable animation as he conversed and laughed with his mother. Henry made no comment, but he kept his eyes upon them even as Willem completed his account of his meeting with Count Philip. By then Richard had noticed Willem’s presence and was heading in their direction, his mother pacing serenely beside him, her hand resting lightly but possessively upon his arm.
Once greetings had been exchanged, Willem made ready to hear Richard’s firsthand account of Taillebourg’s fall. Richard had other matters upon his mind, though. “I’ve not had a chance to talk with you since your return from the Holy Land, and I am eager to hear all about your experiences there. You were one of the victors at Ramlah, no? Is it true that your siege of Harenc was interrupted by the arrival of Saladin himself? What do you think of his military prowess? Did you get to Jerusalem-”
Willem flung up his hand in mock surrender, and let Richard lead him away to continue his interrogation. Henry and Eleanor found themselves alone for the first time since her arrival at Woodstock. After an awkward moment, Henry took refuge in courtesy and escorted her toward their chairs upon the dais. Richard and Willem had moved to a window-seat to continue their discussion of Holy Land warfare, and they were soon surrounded by a large throng, for Richard was exercising the sort of magnetic appeal that had previously been Hal’s alone. Henry watched his son for a few moments more, wishing that Richard could be like that with him-enthused and unguarded. Glancing toward his wife, he said, “What were you saying that Richard found so amusing?”
His brusque tone made it sound more like an accusation than an inquiry. Eleanor ignored the undercurrents and said composedly, “Ah, that. I told Richard that I was particularly gratified to see Taillebourg Castle reduced to rubble, for Louis and I spent the first night of our marriage there.”
Henry gave her a sharp look, but decided he did not want to talk of wedding nights with Eleanor; that was too intimate for his liking. It vexed him that she insisted upon displaying a wife’s familiarity instead of a rebel’s contrition. “You like to accuse me of never learning from my mistakes,” he said. “But Louis does not even learn from other men’s mistakes. Did you hear that he is planning to have Philippe crowned in August on Ascension Day?”
“No, I had not heard that,” Eleanor said. “I cannot say it surprises me, though. Louis always had a talent for taking a bad situation and making it worse.”
“To be fair, he did have some misgivings about the idea after observing how well it worked with Hal. But he has decided to go ahead with it, mayhap because he has been ailing this past year. It will be interesting to see how it goes,” Henry commented, in a masterly understatement.
Eleanor regarded him pensively. “I saw Hal out in the bailey,” she said. “He looked out of sorts and, sad to say, was making no attempt to hide his discontent. I fear that he is not handling Richard’s newfound fame very well.”
“No, he is not,” Henry said, and sighed. “Hal and Richard show all the good will of Cain and Abel. And for that matter, Richard and Geoffrey are not much better.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed; was he saying the dissention between their sons was Richard’s fault? But as he continued, she saw that was not what he was implying. “I confess to being baffled by their constant squabbling and strife, Eleanor. It is true I never got along with my brother Geoff, but that was mainly his doing. Will and I were always very close.”
“I know,” she said, remembering how grief-stricken he’d been by Will’s sudden death at twenty-seven. “I was only six when my brother died, so I do not have many memories of him. I probably considered him a pest, as big sisters are wont to do. But Petronilla and I were confidantes and allies-even partners in crime-as far back as I can remember. Somehow, though, our sons have managed to reach manhood without any true sense of brotherly affection or loyalty, and I do not know what to do about it.”
“Neither do I,” Henry admitted, frowning as he saw the corners of her mouth curving upward. “What possible amusement can you find in this?”
“Not amusement exactly. It just occurred to me that we have finally found some common ground to agree upon, Harry, and what is it? Our failings as parents!”
Henry shared her sense of the ridiculous and when their eyes met, they were soon both laughing, laughter that stopped abruptly when they realized that this was the first time they’d laughed together in more than seven years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
August 1179
Woods near Compiegne, France
At first Philippe was angry — with his horse for bolting and with his companions for taking so long to find him. He’d been calling out until his voice was hoarse, but the only sounds he heard were the normal noises of the forest. He was getting hungry and tired and, as the afternoon wore on, increasingly uneasy. The prospect of being lost in the woods at night was a daunting one. This was the first time in Philippe’s fourteen years that he’d ever been utterly alone, and he liked it not at all.
He was scratched from brambles and overhanging branches, bothered by swarms of gnats and other insects, as miserable as he’d ever been in his entire life. When his mount suddenly shied and he banged his elbow painfully against a gnarled oak, he lost his temper altogether. He did not enjoy riding, had always viewed horses with dislike and distrust, and this particular horse was to blame for all of his troubles today. Giving in to his rage, he jabbed it in the sides with his spurs at the same time that he brought his whip down upon its withers. The gelding snorted and reared up suddenly. Philippe dropped his spear and clung to the mane as he tried to maintain his seat. But the horse began to buck, and the boy lost his grip and his stirrups, went sailing over its head into a wild blackberry bush.
Like his father, Philippe rarely cursed; the strongest oath he normally used was “By the Lance of St James!” But as he sought to extricate himself, he was muttering an obscenity, one that could have come from the mouth of the English king or any of his sons. When he finally fought free of the thorns and briars and saw that the wretched horse was nowhere in sight, he had to bite his lip to keep further profanities from spewing out into the humid August air. As bad as being lost was, being lost and on foot was far worse.
Philippe rooted around in the undergrowth until he’d recovered his spear. They’d been hunting boar and had not seen one all day. But now it seemed to him that boars lurked in every thicket, behind every felled tree, and he gripped the weapon so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He shouted again, listened in vain for a response and then, hunching his shoulders, began to trudge along the path.
The tree branches intertwined, forming an opaque, green canopy over his head, and he went for long stretches without seeing the sky. He was slow to realize, therefore, that the light was ebbing. With the awareness that the sun would soon be setting, he suffered his first surge of fear. His second came when he tripped over an exposed root and nearly landed on a snake, and his next when he heard an owl’s prey in its death throes, unseen in the twilight dusk. But it was the distant howl of a wolf that sent him into panicked flight. He ran until he stumbled and fell flat, hitting the ground with enough force to bruise his ribs and drive all the breath from his lungs. The shock of it enabled him to regain control of himself. Realizing it was madness to keep racing around in the darkness, he crawled over to the closest tree, curled up next to its trunk, and prepared to endure an interminable night.
He was sure he’d never be able to sleep, but he finally dozed, and jerked upright just before sunrise. During the night, fog had drifted in and the trees were wreathed in patches of pale vapor, blotting out the sun. Shivering in the damp dawn air, he struggled to his feet, every muscle in his body cramping in protest, took a deep breath, and
