Taking the cup he was offering, she gave him a radiant smile. “What will you do with the Earl of Leicester? He is a wicked, loathsome man, Harry, ought to be punished severely for his treachery.”
Henry was amused and touched that the soft-hearted Rosamund was so fierce when it came to the rebel earl; she’d been utterly unforgiving from the moment she’d learned of his behavior at Gisors. “Richard de Lucy dispatched Leicester and his quarrelsome countess to Southampton, and from there they’ll be sent to keep Hugh of Chester company at Falaise.”
“When we return to England, it would be a godly act to make a pilgrimage to St Edmundsbury,” she murmured, for she’d just remembered that the Suffolk saint was known to show favor to barren wives.
“If you like,” he said absently, joining her on the bed where he set about unfastening her long blond braids. Rosamund leaned back against him with a contented sigh, thinking that this would be their first Christmas together. She’d always passed them alone, watching from afar as he celebrated his Christmas Court with his queen.
“Harry…St Edmundsbury is not the only pilgrimage we can make,” she ventured, and he paused in the act of running his fingers through her hair to say dryly that he hoped she was not going to suggest Canterbury. “I was thinking of Mont St Michel.” She looked at him hopefully, for she’d long yearned to visit the celebrated island abbey. “Now would be the perfect time for such a pilgrimage, beloved. The Breton rebels have been subdued and there’ll be no fighting elsewhere until the spring…”
She stopped in mid-sentence, feeling the sudden tension in the arm encircling her waist. When he sat up, she searched his face intently, worrying that she’d somehow offended. “Of course by next spring, I am sure peace will be restored and your sons will have come to their senses,” she said hastily. “I did not mean to imply that this wretched war will drag on into the new year.”
Henry did not seem to be listening, and when he rose and began to move restlessly around the chamber, she watched him in growing dismay. She’d always found his sudden mood swings to be disconcerting, and never more so than now, for his elation over Leicester’s defeat seemed to be vanishing before her very eyes.
“Harry…have I said something wrong?” she asked timidly. “If I did, it was not meant…”
He’d begun to stir the hearth logs with an iron poker. Straightening up, he was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. “Ah, no, love, you did nothing wrong. But I cannot take you to Mont St Michel now. My war is not yet done for the year.”
She was reassured by his use of an endearment, proof that he was not angry with her as she’d feared. She was baffled, though, by what he’d just said. She knew little of military matters, but even she knew that fighting ordinarily ended with the first frost, not to be resumed until the return of mild weather. “You mean to continue your campaign?”
“I was waiting till I got word from England, but I am free now to move south into Anjou. The Count of Vendome has been overthrown by his own son, who then threw in his lot with Hal and the French king, doubtless hoping that they’d help him hold on to his ill-gotten gains. I mean to reinstate the count and bring his ungrateful whelp to heel.”
Rosamund could understand why he’d feel so strongly about putting down a son’s outlaw rebellion; that was so obvious that it needed no discussion. She could understand, too, his determination to restore order in Anjou, for insurrection in the land of his birth had to be particularly galling. The tone of his voice, though, alerted her that there was more at stake than the Count of Vendome’s plight, and when he glanced in her direction, she was disquieted by the expression upon his face. His eyes were the color of smoke and yet cold enough to send a chill up her spine, reminding her that ice could burn.
“And then?” She whispered, shaken, even though she knew that this smoldering, implacable anger was not meant for her.
“And then,” Henry said grimly, “I think it is time I paid a visit to my loving wife.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
November 1173
Poitiers, Poitou
Madame, you are in grave peril. The English king’s army is poised like a dagger at the heart of Poitou. By week’s end, he could be at the very gates of the city and we will not be able to hold out against him.”
William de Maingot was Lord of Sugeres, brother by marriage of the powerful Geoffrey de Rancon, and one of Eleanor’s most trusted vassals. At the moment, though, she was hard pressed to be civil to the man. She expected such dramatic posturing from traveling players, not from one of her counselors. Nor was she impressed by his overwrought, portentous warning. Did he truly think she was unaware of her danger?
They’d all had their say by now-William de Maingot, Porteclie de Mauze, Guillaume de Parthenay, her steward, Herve le Panetier, and Sir Nicholas de Chauvigny, the head of her household knights. Only Saldebrueil had held his peace, knowing that she would never be bullied into making a decision. They were a pitifully small group, but this war of attrition had scattered her lords to the four winds. Her uncles were in Paris with her sons. Geoffrey de Rancon and the Count of Angouleme were making ready to defend their own lands from her husband’s routiers, as were the wily de Lusignan clan. Others, like the Viscount of Limoges, had deliberately stayed out of the fray, doubtless watching to see who’d prevail before committing themselves. Her inner circle was shrinking, as was her margin of safety.
“Madame, he is right,” Porteclie de Mauze exclaimed as soon as William de Maingot had stopped speaking. “Your husband has taken the castles of La Haye, Preuilly, and Champigny-”
“And your uncle’s castle at Faye Le Vineuse!” De Maingot made such a sweeping, theatrical gesture that he almost overturned his wine cup in Nicholas de Chauvigny’s lap; fortunately the knight had good reflexes and caught the cup just in time. Oblivious, de Maingot slammed his fist down upon the table. “He razed it to the ground, my lady, left nothing but smoldering ruins. We must be thankful that Raoul is in Paris. I would to God that you were, too, Madame! But it is not too late. There is still time to find safety at the French court.”
Eleanor said nothing. Nicholas de Chauvigny glanced in her direction, then scowled at de Maingot and Porteclie de Mauze. “I fear it is too late,” he said. “Better our lady should seek shelter with Geoffrey de Rancon at Taillebourg. It will not fall to the English king; there is no more formidable stronghold in all of Poitou.”
Both men began to argue with him, insisting Eleanor’s only chance lay in flight. She appeared to be listening, but it was a pose; her thoughts had begun to wander, for she knew how meaningless their argument was. Nicholas was right; she had waited too long. But she did not think Taillebourg was the sanctuary that Nicholas did. Yes, it was said to be impregnable, but she’d lost track of the impregnable castles taken by her husband over the years. Once he learned where she was-and he would, for she did not doubt his agents had her under surveillance-he would descend upon Taillebourg like the Wrath of God Almighty. Her chances were better on the back roads of Poitou. If she could slip undetected from Poitiers, she ought to be able to reach safety in French territory. It would be a stroke of incredibly bad luck to run into Harry’s men, and luck had always been on her side. But she did not want to flee. Not to the French court, never there.
“I will give you my decision on the morrow,” she said, pleasing no one, indifferent to their disapproval. They withdrew with obvious reluctance; only Saldebreuil de Sanzay dared to remain-as she’d known he would.
“I understand why you are loath to leave. Poitiers is your capital city, the very heartbeat of your realm. Yours has been a life in exile, my lady. Now that you’ve finally come home, it is only to be expected that you do not want to turn your back upon it.”
Eleanor turned, regarding him with the shadow of a smile. “You know me, Saldebreuil, mayhap too well. Scriptures say that the heart of kings should be unsearchable.”
“I know, too, Madame, that more than love of your homeland holds you here. Pride binds you as tightly as any chains could.”
Her eyes narrowed, taking on a warning glint of green. “Choose your words with care, my old friend. Even you can misspeak.”
“By speaking the truth?” he asked gently, and she was the first to look away, unable to deny the abiding affection in that quiet query. “I understand why you do not want to seek refuge at the French king’s court. Louis will make you welcome, and his smile will be so smug that you might well choke on it. It will be no easy thing to ask for his protection; I know that. But you must ask yourself what you have greater cause to fear: Louis Capet’s
