Alys did not show much interest in John’s prospects, and Maud wondered if she even knew that Henry and Philippe had agreed after Hal’s death that she should be wed to “whichever of the king’s sons that he shall choose.” Most likely not. Why should they bother to inform her that she might become John’s bride rather than Richard’s? Maud had always prided herself upon her pragmatic streak, knowing that if she’d been more sentimental, more of a starry-eyed romantic, she might have been unable to endure marriage to the Earl of Chester, a man surely burning in Hell Everlasting these thirty years past. She reminded herself now that Alys was none of her concern, but it was no longer that easy, for her sense of justice was offended by the young Frenchwoman’s plight.
Alys was glancing around nervously, worried that they could be interrupted at any moment, robbing her of her one chance to learn the truth. Worried, too, that her resolve might weaken, she leaned closer to Maud and blurted out in one great gasp, “Lady Maud, is it true that Richard is to wed the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor?”
Maud had somehow known it would get to this. “Where did you hear that?” she temporized, wondering how to make such a bitter brew taste tolerable, and then she thought, No, by God. The girl deserves the truth if nothing else.
“One of my ladies overheard people gossiping about it and she came to me straightaway, of course. Is it true?”
“I am sorry you had to learn of it that way; you ought to have been told. A plight-troth was agreed upon, but the marriage will not take place. As much as it pleased the king and the emperor, it did not please God. The girl sickened soon after, and died ere the year was out.”
Alys closed her eyes, her lips moving. It was the faintest of whispers, meant for no ears but those of the Almighty. Maud caught it, though, “Deo gratias,” most likely the only Latin Alys knew, and she felt a sharp pang of pity, but no surprise. Richard was a hero out of a minstrel’s tale, highborn and handsome and courageous and dashing, a king in the making. Of course Alys wanted to marry him. What girl would not?
Alys soon excused herself, looking as if she’d been given a great gift. Maud knew better. Marriage was never easy, but she suspected that marriage to Richard would be more difficult than most. Men like Richard did not make good husbands; a wife would never be more than incidental, relegated to the outer edges of a life given over to war, duty, honor, and the pursuit of power. Sitting back in the window-seat, Maud considered approaching Henry on Alys’s behalf. There was no deliberate cruelty in his nature; surely he could be made to see how unfairly he was treating Alys. But she was deluding herself and she knew it. There was a time when she could have taken her royal cousin to task for his transgressions and he would have heard her out, mayhap even heeded her. But that time had passed. She gazed around the hall, her eyes coming to rest upon the still elegant figure of her friend, the English queen. They’d all lost so much, Harry most of all.
Eleanor should have been better pleased by Henry’s summons, instructing her, Tilda, Heinrich, and their children to take ship at Southampton and join him in Normandy as soon as possible; she’d like nothing better than to turn her back on England, the land she usually referred to as “that wet, wretched, and godforsaken isle.” But instincts honed both by years of marriage and captivity alerted her to danger of some sort.
Nor was she reassured by the welcome they received upon their arrival at Bayeux. Henry had been as angry as she’d ever seen him when he’d learned of Richard’s raiding into Brittany. But if he was still wroth, he no longer showed it, seemed to be in good spirits, teasing his granddaughter about needing to learn to speak Gaelic, shrugging off Tilda and Heinrich’s effusive expressions of gratitude for ending their exile, even joking about the stern lecture he’d gotten from Patriarch Heraclius. His apparent equanimity merely served as further fuel for Eleanor’s suspicions.
Unable to endure the suspense any longer, she cornered him in the great hall after a lavish meal in honor of the new archbishop of Rouen; Henry had not been won over by the campaigning of Rotrou’s ambitious nephew and saw to it that his own choice was elected to the prestigious post, Walter de Coutances. When Henry amiably allowed her to steer him toward the relative privacy of a window-seat, Eleanor was utterly sure that he was up to something.
“You are looking much too smug for my peace of mind,” she said bluntly. “If you were a cat, there’d be cream dripping from your whiskers. What are you plotting now, Harry? Why am I here?”
“Would you believe me if I said for the pleasure of your company?” he asked, fighting back a smile when she scowled. “Why are you here? A fair question. Your presence is required for upcoming events. As you never tire of reminding me, you are the Duchess of Aquitaine, after all.”
Despite the warm spring night, Eleanor felt a sudden chill. “What are you going to do?”
He leaned back in the window-seat, regarding her with a smile that never reached his eyes. “I am going to answer all your prayers, love. I am going to restore your inheritance to you.”
Rico Fitz Rainald did not realize how much he’d had to drink until it was too late. Upon learning that Richard had no need of them that evening, he and Andre de Chauvigny had ventured into one of the more disreputable quarters of Poitiers in search of wine and whores. They found the first at several shabby taverns outside the old Roman walls and the second at a bawdy-house popular with the duke’s soldiers. Their thirst slaked and their lust sated, they headed back toward the palace after curfew had rung, relying upon their prestige as the duke’s knights should they have the bad luck to run into the Watch. Jesting and bantering and singing a ribald ditty about a lustful monk, they saved time by cutting through the ruins of the ancient Roman amphitheater, eerily bathed in May moonlight. Andre had drunk enough wine to become fanciful, and he launched into a disjointed tribute to all the men who’d died in this unholy arena, drawing heavily upon what Richard had told him of Roman blood-sports.
“A pity we do not have any more wine,” he declared, “for we could drink to the memories of those brave men who fought and died on this very ground!”
“They were pagans, you fool!” Rico hooted, reaching out to steady Andre as he clambered onto a broken pillar.
“Brave men, nonetheless,” Andre insisted hazily, “at least the gladiators were. Richard says they executed common criminals in the arena, too-” He stopped so abruptly that Rico took a quick step forward, thinking he’d lost his balance again. But he was staring over Rico’s shoulder into the shadows behind them. “We have company,” he said in a low voice that sounded as if he were beginning to sober up fast.
Rico spun around to see the men converging on them. They moved without haste, fanning out to cover any escape routes. “ Cagar, ” Rico muttered, for Richard had recently begun to teach him to swear in the lengua romana of his duchy.
“Whatever you just said, I echo it,” Andre said grimly, jumping from the pillar to the ground and unsheathing his sword. Rico’s weapon had already cleared its leather scabbard. He did not like the odds, four against two, nor did he like the looks of these intruders, for they moved without haste, theirs a cockiness that bespoke an easy familiarity with violence and sudden death. Two of them had swords drawn; the other two wielding clubs studded with iron. They were close enough now for Rico to recognize one of them, a strapping, broad-chested brute with a close-cropped head. Rico had seen the man at two of the riverside taverns, and he cursed himself now for having drunk so much, for walking into this trap like a lamb to the slaughter. It never occurred to either knight to yield, though, for there would be great shame in letting themselves be robbed by these lowborn knaves.
“Give us your money and your rings and fine leather boots and we may spare your lives, young lordlings!”
“Come and get them,” Andre challenged, as he and Rico braced themselves for the onslaught.
It didn’t happen. The men were turning, looking off to the right. Risking a quick glance in case this was a trick, Rico saw what had attracted their attention-a glowing light that was moving steadily toward them. Holding a lantern aloft, a man was approaching, as casually as if encountering outlaws in a deserted, dark locale was a commonplace occurrence. “Is this a private game?” he asked. “Or can anyone play?”
The bandits regarded him with a mixture of surprise and scorn. “Oh, you can play, friend.” The man who was apparently their leader took a menacing step in the newcomer’s direction. “You can start by tossing your money pouch on the ground and then kneeling. If you beg for your life sweetly enough, we might spare it…or not. You’ll have to wait and see.”
His companions laughed, but the stranger continued to advance. He’d made no move to unsheathe his sword, though, and the bandit swaggered toward him, his naked blade leveled at the man’s chest. “That is far enough, fool, unless you’re truly eager to die.”
Rico and Andre exchanged glances, agreeing that this might be as good a chance as they’d get. Before they
