brother-in-law. Hal’s loss was a great blow to Philippe, for he’d predicated his plans upon having an amiable, pleasure-loving prince on the English throne. Instead, he’d have to deal with Richard, who was as unlike Hal as any two men could be. How could he be so unlucky?
Well, one step at a time. The immediate concern was recovering Marguerite’s marriage portion from the English king. Sure that Henry would sooner cut off his arm than return the Vexin, Philippe frowned thoughtfully. If Henry held on to the Vexin, that would make Philippe the laughingstock of Christendom, the boy-king who was no match for the wily veteran on the English throne. An idea was glimmering in the back of his brain and he waited for it to come into focus. What if he could make it worth Richard’s while to marry Alys? Suppose he offered the Vexin as Alys’s dowry? That would save face, and would also give him leverage, for he could make the agreement contingent upon the marriage. And who knows, it might even stir up discord between Henry and Richard.
The wind had picked up and thunder echoed in the distance. Philippe considered it prudent to seek shelter, and he signaled to his waiting bodyguards. He must give this idea more thought, but it seemed promising. And as he exited the garden, he smiled, thinking that if he could marry Alys off to Richard, he could then concentrate upon finding a new husband for Marguerite. She was still of child-bearing age, with a pretty face and a docile nature, a queen with the blood of French kings in her veins. There’d be no shortage of princes interested in such a bargain bride.
The English Queen was back at Sarum, and Amaria was pleased by the move, welcoming any change in the predictable ebb and flow of daily life. On this sun-splashed June afternoon, she was enjoying the hustle and bustle of market day, held on the open ground below the castle’s East Gate. Accompanied by a servant to tote her purchases, she’d spent several pleasant hours browsing among the booths, buying needles and thread, a vial of rosewater, scarlet ribbons, almond oil, the hazelnuts that her queen liked, and several jars of honey. It was wonderful to have enough money for impulse and luxury buys; Amaria was very appreciative of the queen’s rise in status. In good spirits, she bought candied quince from a vendor and included the delighted young servant in her generosity.
Some of her cheer began to dissipate as they headed back toward the castle, for the queen’s chamber was no happy place these days. Eleanor had lost so much weight that her face looked drawn and pinched, and Amaria had to urge her to eat. Her days were long and her nights were worse. Amaria ached, too, feeling her pain and fear, and sympathizing with her rage. Had she been free, she’d have sailed for her homeland weeks ago, recklessly plunging into the very midst of war as she sought to end this fratricidal strife between her sons. Because she remained tethered to her husband’s will, she unleashed much of her frustration and fury upon his absent head, speaking of him with more bitterness than Amaria had heard from her in years. Amaria did what she could, provided an audience for her rants and prayed earnestly that the king would soon restore peace to his domains and his family. Other than that, they could only wait for word from the Limousin.
She paused to exchange greetings with some of the townsmen streaming back into the castle; she’d discovered, to her amusement, that she was a source of considerable interest to the inhabitants of Sarum-the person closest to that legendary being, Eleanor of Aquitaine. They soon parted ways, the villagers heading off toward the homes nestled under the castle walls and Amaria and her young helper continuing in the direction of the keep and royal palace.
As soon as they passed through the gatehouse into the inner bailey, Amaria sensed that something was wrong. The courtyard was usually like a hive for humans, with servants and soldiers and visitors milling about in raucous confusion, dogs getting underfoot and chickens squawking and horses eager to reach the stables and their waiting feed. Now, though, an eerie silence greeted Amaria. A few people were out and about, but they were also acting oddly, clustered together in small knots and conversing in the hushed tones usually heard only in church.
The boy felt it, too, glancing around uneasily as if he expected to find the castle under attack at any moment. Just then one of the maidservants spotted them. “Dame Amaria, we’ve been looking all over for you! It is just terrible…The queen’s son is dead! He was stricken-”
But Amaria was no longer listening. Lifting up her skirts, she began to run.
S HE ARRIVED, panting and flushed, in the queen’s chamber only to find it empty. For a moment, she stood, irresolute, and then realized that Eleanor might be in the chapel of St Nicholas. It was accessible from the royal apartments, but she paused for a moment before she entered, trying to collect her thoughts. She was not truly surprised, for she’d long feared that this would happen. Men might laud Duke Richard for his utter fearlessness, but not the women who loved him.
As she’d expected, she found Eleanor in the chapel, standing by one of the windows. Her face was partly in shadow, one cheek dappled with the deep rose hues of the panes above her head for the sun was setting the stained glass afire. She turned at the sound of footsteps upon the tiles, and Amaria bit back a cry, for the queen could have been a stranger. She seemed to have aged years in just a few hours, and Amaria had never seen her look as she did now-vulnerable, frail, and defeated.
“My lady, I am so sorry!” Amaria’s words ended in a stifled sob as she came to a halt, stretching out her hand in a tentative gesture of comfort that fell short, her fingers just brushing the sleeve of Eleanor’s gown.
“I wanted to pray for his salvation,” Eleanor said dully, “but I do not think the Almighty is listening to me, not anymore…”
Amaria was momentarily mute, for she’d never known such despair herself; even when she’d lost her own babies, she’d not lost her belief in God’s Mercy. She looked at the queen, her eyes blurring with tears. But she had to ask, had to know the worst if she had any hope of consoling this stricken woman. “Madame…was he shriven?” And when Eleanor nodded, she leaned against the wall, weak with relief. “God be praised! Surely that…that must be of some comfort, my lady. So often men die in battle without confessing their sins beforehand, and Duke Richard was…” She stopped then, for Eleanor was looking at her blankly.
Eleanor felt as if her brain was no longer working as it ought, and it took a moment or so until she understood the meaning of Amaria’s words. “It is not Richard. It is Hal.”
Amaria was astounded. Richard’s death would have made more sense, for he gambled with his own mortality on a daily basis. But Hal? He’d seemed to be one of Heaven’s favorites, blessed and beloved, not a man whose life would be cut short with such fearful finality. “H-how?”
Eleanor shook her head, not yet able to talk about it, just as she was not ready to think about the political consequences, what Hal’s death would mean to Richard. For now she was a mother whose child had been cruelly taken from her and nothing else mattered. Her shoulders slumping, she leaned her forehead against the sun- burnished stained glass, closing her eyes against the glare.
“My poor Hal,” she whispered. “He so wanted to be a king and he was never more than a pawn…”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
July 1183
Sarum, England
The Queen’s nights had been so troubled that Amaria had gone to see the village apothecary, and after consulting him, purportedly for her own sleeplessness, she purchased a sleeping draught of henbane and black poppy. She returned to the castle with a lighter step, for it helped immeasurably to know the Countess of Chester was there. Maud was familiar with the blighted, desolate landscape of grief. She, too, had suffered the loss of a son. And she could be candid with the queen in a way that Amaria could not. Amaria thought she could already see an improvement in Eleanor’s spirits and she blessed the countess for being such a loyal friend.
As she entered the queen’s chamber, she found Eleanor seated by the open window, reading a letter, and Maud playing with the cat. Maud smiled at Amaria, beckoned her over, and related that the queen had just gotten a letter from the Duchess of Saxony. “It is bound to comfort her,” she said softly, “hearing from her daughter.” Amaria was not so sure; what if Tilda had more bad news to disclose? Cleo was curled up contentedly in Maud’s lap and, lulled by her benign demeanor, Amaria ventured to pet her, only to have the feline flatten her ears and spit. Maud told her not to take it personally, explaining that cats were given to whims and unpredictable behavior, but to Amaria, she sounded faintly smug, the way people who never got seasick commiserated with those who did.
