condescension or Harry Fitz Empress’s wrath.”
Eleanor did not reply. He had his answer, though, in the slumping of her shoulders, in her silence. “I will make the necessary arrangements for your departure,” he said, and if she could not bring herself to acquiesce, neither could she gainsay him. She did not move, listening to the familiar sound of his footsteps as he limped toward the door. Only after he’d gone did she sit down wearily upon the closest coffer.
“Damn you, Harry,” she whispered, “and damn you, Louis. Damn you both to Hell Everlasting.”
Constance had begun to drum her fingers on the table, but it did nothing to stir Alys into action. She continued to stare down at the chessboard, her brow furrowing. When she finally reached out, Constance gave an exasperated sigh. “You cannot do that, Alys. A queen can only move diagonally.”
Alys was unfazed by her error. “Sorry,” she said, pulling her queen back. “I forgot. I’d rather play queek or tables, anyway. Chess is boring.”
“Chess makes you think.” Since Constance believed that Alys thought as little as possible, she was not surprised that the other girl should find the game so unappealing. She kept the sarcasm to herself, though. She was only twelve, but she’d learned at an early age that candor was an indulgence she could ill afford.
Alys resumed her interminable study of the chessboard, and Constance sighed again. But the wait proved worth it, as Alys’s eventual move placed her queen in peril. Constance hid a smile, was making ready to pounce when the door opened and the flesh-and-blood queen entered.
Alys jumped up and ran to greet Eleanor. Fawning over her, Constance thought tartly, as she rose and dropped a perfunctory curtsy. Eleanor came forward into the chamber, her gaze sweeping past the girls to search the shadows. “I was hoping that Joanna would be here,” she said, sounding disappointed. “No one has been able to find her all afternoon. Do either of you know where she might have gone?”
Constance shook her head, but Alys was more helpful. “Try the gardens.”
“The gardens have already been searched.”
Alys smiled. “Did they search the yew tree? Joanna likes to climb into it and hide from the world.”
Eleanor smiled, too, for she’d climbed her share of trees in her own childhood. Constance watched in disapproval as she thanked Alys and departed. Alys reclaimed her seat at the chessboard, then glanced up and saw the other girl’s face. “What? Why are you glaring at me like that?”
“Why did you give away Joanna’s secret hideaway?”
Alys looked at the other girl in surprise. “Since when are you such friends with Joanna? You always say she is a pest, too young to bother with.”
Constance shrugged. Adults were the enemy, and children had so little power that their secrets were to be safeguarded at all costs. But she did not expect Alys to understand that. “It is my move,” she said, and captured Alys’s queen.
Alys did not seem to notice. She was regarding Constance with curiosity. “You do not like the queen, do you?” she said unexpectedly. “Why not? She’s always been kind to you.”
Constance’s temper flared and she had to bite her lip to keep the angry words from escaping. Kind? Only a fool like Alys would think she should be grateful to the people who’d stolen her birthright. Eleanor’s whoreson husband had made a puppet of her father, Duke Conan, then forced Conan to abdicate in her favor so she could be betrothed to his son Geoffrey. They meant to make Brittany an Angevin fief, staking their claims in her marriage bed. There was nothing she could do about it, but by the Rood, she did not have to like it.
Alys was still staring at her. “You do not like any of them, do you?” When Constance did not reply, she smiled. “Such a pity then, that you must marry Geoffrey, is it not?”
Constance stared back, for there was unmistakable malice in the other girl’s sugared sympathy, and she suddenly realized that Alys did not like her any more than she liked Alys.
A November garden was often a bleak place, but the Poitevin winter had been mild so far and there were still splashes of color, flowers still blooming in defiance of the season. Eleanor moved quietly along the pathway, one of her greyhounds trailing at her heels. The yew tree had been young when her grandfather had ruled in Poitou, and reached proudly toward the heavens; she had to tilt her head to see its top branches. Feeling a twinge of pride that her daughter dared to scale such heights, she gazed up into the cloud of evergreen and said, “Joanna? It is your mother. Climb down so we may talk.”
There was a moment of silence, and she began to doubt Alys’s information. But then Joanna’s head poked out, framed by lush greenery. She was twenty feet off the ground. She showed no unease, though, and nimbly scrambled down to lower branches, landing on her feet like a cat. Her coppery curls were dusted with needles and there was a dirt smear across her nose, another on her chin. Her eyes looked very green in the fading light as they searched her mother’s face. “Am I in trouble, Maman?”
Eleanor supposed she should be disciplined for risking broken bones and ripping her skirt, but she hadn’t the heart to scold the girl. Why should she be punished for having a boy’s spirit and daring? “No, lass. You do remember, though, that yew tree seeds are poisonous?”
“I know that,” Joanna said, and Eleanor stifled a smile, for that confident young voice could have been hers, forty years ago. Leading the child toward a nearby bench, she hesitated, for she’d been loath to have this conversation, had been putting it off as long as possible.
“I wanted to tell you, Joanna, that I will be going away for a while.”
“Where?”
“Paris.” Adding casually, “I want to see your brothers,” as if this would be a pleasure trip.
Joanna was not deceived, though. Keeping those green eyes on her mother’s face, she said, “You are running away from Papa.”
Eleanor was momentarily at a loss. She’d tried to shield Joanna from her involvement in the plot against Henry, warning servants and attendants and even Constance and Alys to guard their conversation in the child’s hearing. She’d known it was unrealistic to expect her daughter to remain in ignorance, but she’d been stung by Maud’s accusations that she’d turned their sons against Henry, and was determined that no such accusation could be made about Joanna. But even before she saw the reproach in Joanna’s eyes, she knew she’d made the wrong decision.
“I am sorry, Joanna, for trying to keep the truth from you. I ought to have been candid with you from the first, but you are so young-”
“I am eight now, Maman!”
“Yes, you are. But I know you love your father, and I did not want you to feel that you had to choose between us. You are very dear to us both, and nothing will change that.”
“I know Hal and Richard have been unhappy with Papa for a long time. Richard says he never listens, that he is as stubborn as a balky mule.” Joanna ducked her head, staring down at her lap, and Eleanor resisted the impulse to brush the yew needles from her hair. “So you…you took their side, Maman?”
“Yes, Joanna, I did. But your father has led an army into Poitou, and my council has advised me to leave Poitiers for now.”
The girl looked up, then. “Would Papa hurt you?” She met Eleanor’s eyes steadily, but there was a quaver in her voice, and Eleanor reached out, covered her daughter’s hand with her own.
“No, he would not,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But he is very angry with me because I supported our sons in their quarrel, and I prefer not to have a confrontation just yet. We think it is for the best that I join your brothers in Paris. But I do not expect to be gone for long. I will be back here ere you know it, lass.”
Joanna had a disconcertingly direct gaze. “What will happen after that?”
“I expect that the French king and your brothers will prevail and your father will come to terms with them.” Eleanor studied Joanna closely, unable to tell if she believed it. But, then, Eleanor was not sure if she believed it herself.
“ Well?” Eleanor asked. “What do you think?” She turned in a circle and Saldebreuil smiled at her transformation. She was dressed as a knight, complete with sword and scabbard, her hair pinned up under a cowled hood.
“I’d not have recognized you,” he assured her, thinking that she still had very shapely legs, revealed now in close-fitting bright blue hose.
