had many of the attending barons and their ladies. John had been sent back to Fontevrault Abbey to resume his studies; his little bride-to-be would accompany Eleanor to Poitiers, there to be raised with Constance and Alys and Joanna. Only the Count of Toulouse still lingered, uncaring that none wanted him there, putting Eleanor in mind of a vulture hovering over carrion, awaiting his chance to swoop down to feed. She was sure he was up to no good, and she was glad she would soon be seeing the last of Limoges, glad she would be going home to Poitiers, favored of all her cities. Watching Henry as he moved around the chamber, she was jolted to realize that this might well have been the last time she’d share his bed.
“Where do you go from here, Harry?”
Before he could respond, the door swung open and Hal entered. “Why did you summon me so early, Maman?” he complained, yawning. “I’d hoped to remain abed for-” He stopped abruptly as Henry moved into his line of vision. His eyes cut from his father to his mother in the rumpled bed, and to Eleanor’s surprise, he flushed deeply. She was astonished; surely he could not be embarrassed by this proof that she’d spent the night with Harry? And then, as he gave her a look of silent reproach, she understood. To Hal, she’d been sleeping with the enemy.
“The summons was mine,” Henry said, regarding his son with a lack of emotion that Eleanor found troubling. “I am returning to Normandy this morn, and you are coming with me.”
Hal was still off balance, but he tried now to regain his footing by saying emphatically, “I think not.”
“You are not being given a choice.” Henry’s voice was toneless, and to Hal, his gaze was as piercing and predatory as those Iceland gyrfalcons he’d promised but would never deliver. Hal glanced back at Eleanor, seeking guidance. But this woman seemed like a stranger to him, clutching blankets to cover her nudity, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in wanton disarray, utterly unlike the coolly poised, elegant mother who was his lodestar and mentor. As their gazes crossed, she shook her head, almost imperceptibly, signaling that she did not know what his father intended.
“You need not look to your mother for assistance,” Henry said, still in that matter-of-fact manner that Hal found more disturbing than outright anger would have been. “It is only natural that a mother bird should protect her chicks, but when it is time for a fledgling to leave the nest, he is on his own.”
Hal was quick to seize his father’s metaphor and turn it back against him. “But that fledgling cannot learn to fly if his wings are clipped.”
“Clever lad,” Henry said softly, and it was not a compliment. “Lest you’ve forgotten, I warned you that you’d be on a short leash until you prove it is no longer needed. So for the foreseeable future, you’ll be closer than my own shadow. And since you’ve been keeping dubious company of late, I am dismissing those self-seekers and sycophants who are leading you astray, men such as Hasculf de St Hilaire, Adam d’Yquebeuf, and Juhel de Mayenne.”
Hal’s outraged gasp was audible to both his parents. “You cannot do that!”
“It is done,” Henry said tersely, and his son whirled to face his mother, an involuntary, stunned cry of “Maman!” escaping his lips.
Eleanor’s eyes locked with his, sending a message that was both reassurance and warning. “I understand your reluctance, Hal,” she said, “but you are not in a position to resist. You must do as your father commands.”
Normally a King’s leave-taking was a chaotic, noisy event, but those who’d gathered in the inner castle bailey to watch Henry’s departure were subdued and somber. Some of Hal’s knights lurked in the shadows, unwilling to call the king’s attention to themselves, but William Marshal strode out into the chilly March sunlight, a silent affirmation of loyalty to his unhappy young lord. Eleanor noted the gesture and approved. Marguerite and Hal were embracing; he brushed tears from her cheeks with his fingers before taking his stallion’s reins. His defiant gaze raked the bailey, finding sympathy from most of the onlookers, for this was Aquitaine; these were his mother’s vassals. Only the Count of Toulouse looked satisfied with his disgrace. As their eyes met, Hal leaned from the saddle and spat.
Seeing that they were about to depart, Eleanor moved forward, trailed by her uncle, constable, and Viscount Aimar. “My lord husband,” she said, “go with God,” and Henry acknowledged her farewell with a formal “Madame,” brushing his lips to her outstretched hand. Searching for his other sons, he found them standing on the steps of the great hall, and gave them a grave salute, then signaled his men to move out.
Hal had recovered his aplomb by now and he blew kisses to his wife, winked at his cousin Maud, and smiled at his mother before putting the spurs to his stallion. The last glance he cast over his shoulder, though, was a long, meaningful look aimed at William Marshal.
Marguerite had begun to sob in earnest, and Maud put a supportive arm around the girl’s shaking shoulders. But it was then that her eyes came to rest upon Henry’s queen. Eleanor was standing with her uncle Raoul and her son Richard, and as Maud looked at them, it seemed to her as if their faces were carved from stone. She instinctively made the sign of the cross to ward off a superstitious sense of foreboding, and then turned back to console Hal’s weeping young wife.
CHAPTER SIX
March 1173
Chinon Castle, Touraine
The day was overcast and, at first sight, Chinon Castle seemed under siege by encroaching clouds. Gazing up at its mist-shrouded towers, Henry felt a weary sense of relief. He was back in his own domains now, back in the land of his birth and, as always, returning to Chinon was a homecoming.
As they approached the village, people crowded into the streets to watch, although theirs was a meager royal procession, disappointing for those yearning for spectacle or pageantry: travel-begrimed household knights, three solemn earls, and two troubled kings who’d barely spoken a word since leaving Limoges. Reining in before the stone bridge that spanned the River Vienne, Henry glanced at his son’s averted face. Hal had withdrawn into a cocoon of sullen silence. When compelled to acknowledge Henry’s existence, he did so with exaggerated deference, addressing his father as “my liege” in a voice dripping with sarcasm. Henry’s half brother Hamelin had done his best to restore family harmony, but his lectures on filial duty had fallen on deaf ears and Hal was soon treating his uncle with the same mocking courtesy he offered his father.
Henry was fond of Hamelin, but he’d never valued his brother’s advice, and so it was no surprise when Hal did not, either. He had more respect for the Earl of Essex’s judgment, and as they crossed the bridge, he debated asking the other man to try his hand at peacemaking. Essex was a renowned knight and Hal might pay more heed to his counsel. As difficult as it was for Henry to ask for help, he was realizing that with Hal, he needed all the help he could get.
Once they’d ridden up the limestone cliff to the castle, Henry hastened to his bedchamber. He’d gotten wet while fording a stream earlier in the day and his chausses were clinging clammily to his skin. Stripping them off, he rubbed his legs briskly with a towel while Fulke, one of his squires, rooted around in a coffer for dry clothing. His other squire, Warin, was supervising servants as they lugged a second bed up the stairs, for Henry trusted his son so little now that he insisted they sleep in the same chamber, thus guaranteeing that their nights would be as disquieting as their days.
An older man had just entered, bearing Henry’s favorite falcon on his outstretched arm, and Henry smiled, his mood momentarily lightening. “See that a chicken is fresh-killed for her meal,” he instructed the falconer, making up his mind to fly her on the morrow. The season was ending, but he’d still have a few more afternoons to rejoice in the pure joy of the open air, the boundless sky, and poetry on the wing. He was tempted to ask Hal to join him, but that was a fool’s fantasy. It would take more than a shared love of hawking to bridge the chasm yawning between them.
He was pulling on a dry tunic when the Earl of Essex sought entry. Henry waved him in without ceremony, for Essex was more than a loyal vassal. Eleanor had once compared Henry to a well-defended castle, claiming that he let some people into his outer bailey, very few into the inner bailey, and none at all into the keep. For whatever reason, he remembered that now, and acknowledged that Essex had earned access to the inner bailey. Somehow managing to circumvent those barriers set up after Thomas Becket’s betrayal, Essex had become a friend.
