Eleanor was looking admiringly at her soft leather ankle boots. “We had trouble finding a man’s boots small enough to fit my feet until I tried on an old pair of Geoffrey’s.” She liked the freedom of her new clothes. It was much easier to move unhampered by long skirts. She would have to get used to the unaccustomed heft of the sword at her hip, but she would be spared the weight of chain mail since most knights did not wear their hauberks while on the road.
Saldebreuil’s smile had faded and his dark eyes were somber. Trying to reassure him, she evoked a smile of her own, saying playfully, “I think I make a rather handsome man, do I not? And this ought to be a foolproof way to sneak out of the city undetected by Harry’s spies. They’ll never expect me to don male disguise, after all.”
“Indeed not,” he affirmed, striving to sound hearty and confident. He did think her ruse would enable her to escape her husband’s agents. He wished she would have more men with her, though. They’d decided that it would be better to travel with a small escort in order to pass as ordinary travelers, and he agreed that made sense. But he would not be going with her, as his joint evil had flared up again, making riding painful, and he knew he would worry and fret until he received word of her safe arrival in Paris.
Eleanor picked up a mirror to check her camouflage one last time. Satisfied, she turned back to him with a smile, and he said softly, “Go with God, Madame.”
They looked at each other and then Eleanor said, “Propriety be damned” and gave him a quick hug before heading for the door. Saldebreuil went to the window, thrusting open the shutters. The dawn sky was the shade of soft pearl, a few night stars still glimmering to the west. The air was chill but dry; it would be a good day for travel. Eleanor’s escort was below in the bailey, waiting for her. She soon emerged, pausing to give her palfrey an affectionate pat on the nose before using a horse block to swing into the saddle. Glancing up toward the window, she gave Saldebreuil a jaunty wave. He waved back, but with a sense of foreboding, and he remained at his post long after she’d ridden out. His vigil had begun.
Eleanor was accompanied by Nicholas de Chauvigny and two of her household knights. The rest of her bodyguards were Porteclie de Mauze’s men, as he had claimed the honor of escorting her to Paris. Their pace was too swift for conversation, but Eleanor could see that they were nervous, casting frequent glances over their shoulders, measuring the progress of the sun on its westward arc, swiveling their heads at every rustling in the underbrush. She did not share their unease, confident that the greatest danger was already past. Once they’d evaded her husband’s spies and slipped out of Poitiers, the odds were very much in her favor that she’d reach safety in French territory.
It was not the journey that troubled her; it was the destination. She loathed the very thought of being indebted to Louis, and she knew all too well how it would gratify him to give her refuge at his court. For she had no illusions about their dubious partnership. Hers were allies of expediency, and as eager as they’d been to join forces with the Duchess of Aquitaine, they were likely now to see her as a frightened woman fleeing her husband’s just rage.
By late afternoon, they were deep in Touraine. Eleanor’s men were showing signs of increasing strain, for this was a land congested with castles, most of them under Henry’s control, and these fortresses must be given a wide berth. Going downstream to avoid Bridore Castle, they forded the River Indre in late afternoon, and were soon swallowed up by the vast forest of Loches.
They were not far now from their destination, planning to pass the night at Sainte-Trinite de Grandmont Villiers, a small priory hidden away in the midst of Loches Forest. They’d chosen it for its isolation, but Eleanor derived a secret satisfaction from that choice, for the priory had been founded by Henry. He’d always favored the austere Order of Grandmont, a partiality Eleanor did not share. The Grandmontines scorned females as sinful daughters of Eve, reluctant even to allow them to enter their churches, and Eleanor took malicious amusement in the knowledge that she would be sheltering at this male sanctuary, outwitting both her husband and his women- hating monks.
As soon as they entered the woods, they lost the light. Although many trees had been stripped bare, a heavy growth of evergreens, brush, and entwined branches formed a canopy that the wan November sun could not penetrate, and they rode into an early dusk. The path was narrow and their horses’ hooves crunched upon a carpeting of brittle, brown leaves. Squirrels darted along overhanging boughs, and once they startled a fox as they rounded a bend in the road; they caught just a blur of red fur as it faded back into the shadows. Men were usually skittish about such dark forest trails, for many believed that demons, ghosts, and revenants lurked in the gloom, and all knew that outlaws did. But Eleanor’s knights welcomed the camouflage, feeling more vulnerable out on the king’s roads, knowing that Henry’s army was on the prowl. They were less enthusiastic about their stay at the Grandmontine priory, for the order was renowned for its asceticism and self-denial, even forbidding the possession of livestock, and the men knew that meant a meager meal awaited them.
Listening to their glum speculation about that paltry supper, Eleanor had to smile. She did not begrudge them their grumbling; both men had-like Nicholas-been in her service for years and had volunteered for this high-risk mission. The monks’ hospitality would likely be an even greater privation for her, accustomed as she was to the best their world had to offer, but she did not care if they were fed bread and water, wanting only to stretch out on a bed in the guest hall and ease her aching muscles. She’d ridden astride occasionally in the past, but never for such a lengthy journey, and although she would never have admitted it to Nicholas or Porteclie, she was very tired.
“God’s Legs!” Riding at Eleanor’s side, Porteclie de Mauze swore suddenly and then signaled for a halt. “My horse has gone lame,” he exclaimed. “What wretched luck, with us so close to the priory.” Swinging from the saddle, he began to examine his stallion’s right foreleg as the other men drew rein, milling about on the pathway until he told them to dismount. Suppressing a sigh, Eleanor slid from the saddle, too, not waiting for Nicholas’s assistance.
They’d stopped at a crossroads, another winding trail snaking off to their left. In a nearby copse of trees was a small thatched hut. Pointing it out to Eleanor, Nicholas said that a celebrated recluse dwelled there, an ancient known as Bernard the Hermit. He’d once earned his keep by guiding travelers through the forest, although he was now too old to venture far from his hut. But he was admired for his piety and godly way of life, and local people saw to it that he didn’t starve.
Eleanor glanced over at that shabby little hut, unable to comprehend why anyone of sound mind would deliberately choose to live like that, alone and impoverished. But when Nicholas started toward the cottage, she followed, welcoming a chance to walk off her stiffness. The door was ajar and after calling out politely, Nicholas pushed it open. He came back out almost at once. “There is no one inside,” he reported, sounding disappointed. “I hope he has not died.”
Porteclie was still examining his horse’s hoof, and Eleanor moved in his direction, with Nicholas trailing behind. It was then that her palfrey lifted his head, ears pricking, and snorted. Gerard, the elder of Eleanor’s knights, was listening, too, quickly giving the alert. “Riders are coming,” he warned, gesturing toward the second road that angled off toward the west.
They had not encountered many travelers on the road today; prudent people tried to keep to their own hearths during times of war. Eleanor tensed instinctively before common sense reasserted itself. Annoyed that she should be susceptible to such phantom fears, she nonetheless shifted so that she was half-hidden by her horse, for she knew that her disguise would not bear close inspection. Nicholas had tensed, too, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. As the riders approached, he glanced toward Porteclie, waiting for the older man to take charge. When Porteclie neither moved nor spoke, Nicholas shot him an aggrieved, reproachful look, and then stepped forward to greet them.
“Good morrow.” His stomach muscles tightened as he saw how badly outnumbered they were by these new arrivals, but he forced a cheerful smile, saying as blandly as he could, “A fine day for travel, no? Have you come far?”
“No, not far…from Loches.” The speaker was a dark-haired man in his early thirties, clad in a good wool mantle, with a quick smile and a relaxed manner. He looked eminently respectable and quite reassuring, but Nicholas’s queasy stomach lurched again, for Loches was one of Henry’s most formidable strongholds.
“I am Sir Yves des Roches.” Plucking the names out of the air, Nicholas half-turned so that he could glare at Porteclie, who should have been their spokesman. “This is my lord, Porteclie de Mauze. We’re on our way to the abbey at Cormery.”
The stranger’s eyes flicked toward Porteclie, but without interest. His gaze moving from face to face, he did
