straightened his shoulders and nodded emphatically. “Indeed, I will, Madame.”
While he’d turned away to summon a servant, Eleanor snatched up the bread and cheese and passed it to her men. “Hide this in your tunics,” she said. “I rather doubt that Maurice de Craon will prove to be a generous, open-handed host.”
The priest was soon back with a basin of water and a small jar of ointment. Nicholas was scandalized when Eleanor reached for the salve, and insisted that he could clean the wound by himself. Amused in spite of herself by his outraged sense of decorum, Eleanor turned the task over to Gerard. The priest’s unease was becoming more and more apparent, his gaze straying often to the stairwell.
“Madame…” Lowering his voice until it was barely audible, he said hurriedly, “I was praying in the chapel, must have dosed off, for I was awakened of a sudden by voices. It was Lord Maurice and Sir Herve. I suppose they’d sought out the chapel for privacy. They were arguing about you, my lady. The lord thought you ought to be treated as a rebel, but the provost insisted it was wiser to treat you as a highborn hostage. Lord Maurice said he’d been with the king at Rouen when he learned of your…your betrayal. His words, Madame, not mine! He said the king was grievously hurt by your actions, that he would want you punished, not coddled. Sir Herve said that they must not forget how unpredictable the king could be, as changeable as the winds. He advised Lord Maurice to tread carefully on such unsteady ground.”
His last words came in a rush, with another nervous look over his shoulder. “I do not know which of them will prevail, my lady. It will depend upon what they think the king wants done with you.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said softly. “That is the question, is it not?” One not even she could answer, as well as she knew her husband. Now that she was in his power, what would Harry do?
When Maurice de Craon led her toward the stairwell, Eleanor felt a surge of relief when they headed up, not down. So it was not to be the dungeon. For all her bravado, she did not want to be thrust into a damp, dark cell. When they reached the third floor, Maurice turned to the right, not the left, and a grim smile flickered across her lips. Maurice had deemed her unworthy of sleeping in the king’s bed; instead she was to be held in the smaller, more spartan guest chamber.
They’d been preceded by servants, who made haste to light an oil lamp and pulled back the bed hangings. Sir Herve soon followed, accompanied by another servant carrying Eleanor’s coffer. The sight of it was a welcome one, for she wanted her own clothes; she’d not liked the way the men in the hall had stared at her legs and ankles. But then Maurice made a snide comment about her male garb, saying that he’d had her coffer brought up so she could change straightaway out of her unseemly attire, and she immediately considered wearing her knight’s garments until they hung on her in rags.
“Does my appearance disturb you, my lord? Alas, I am desolated by your disapproval,” she said, so sardonically that his mouth tightened and she could see the muscles clench along his jawline.
Striding to the door, he paused, giving her a look of appraisal that was neither friendly nor flattering. “It is true you do not have to answer to me,” he said coldly. “But you are answerable to the lord king, your husband.” Not waiting for her response, he closed the door with a finality that was almost as disquieting as his words had been.
A silence settled over the room. The servants quickly and self-consciously finished their tasks and fled, leaving Eleanor alone with the provost. He seemed to be debating whether to speak or not, at last said, almost apologetically, “Lord Maurice is plainspoken, but if he lacks the polished manners of a courtier, he is a good man for all that, my lady. I hope you will not hold his rudeness against him.”
Eleanor was no longer so put off by his silken civility, not after exposure to the Angevin baron’s overt hostility. “As it happens,” she said, “I understand Maurice better than you think I do, Sir Herve. He recently wed Isabel of Meulan, and she is a first cousin of Robert Beaumont, the rebel Earl of Leicester.”
His engaging smile vanished. “You mean he feels the need to curry favor with the king now, to prove that his loyalty has not been infected by the Beaumont heresy? You are wrong, Madame. His outrage is bona fide and many share it.” He hesitated, as if to say more, instead bowed and made a discreet departure.
After a few moments, Eleanor inspected the room. It lacked the fireplace and private latrine of the king’s chamber, but as prisons go, it was not so bad. They’d not provided a brazier for heat, but winters in the Loire Valley were not severe and there seemed to be an adequate pile of blankets on the bed. She wandered aimlessly from the bed to the small shuttered window, back again, and then started when a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she said resolutely, determined to keep up a bold front, and a young man entered with a wooden tray. He set the tray upon the trestle table, sketched an awkward obeisance, and hastily backed toward the door. Once he was gone, Eleanor moved to the table, looking at her meal. The food was plain, nothing fancy, not the sort of dishes to grace the royal table, but it was plentiful. She’d not go hungry, and she did not know if that would be true for Nicholas and her knights. Although she’d not eaten for many hours, she could muster up no appetite. Picking up the wine cup, she took a tentative swallow, grimaced at the taste, and set it down.
She froze then, having caught the shuffle of footsteps in the stairwell, holding her breath as she waited for the door to open. It didn’t. The footsteps paused, and then she heard the click of a key being turned in the lock. It was not loud, but it seemed to echo in the silence until there was no other sound in her world but that metallic clink and the thudding of her heart. It was only then that the full reality of her plight hit home. Slumping down on the bed, she buried her face in her hands and gave way to despair.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
December 1173
Paris, France
When Hal’s lashes flickered, Marguerite leaned over and kissed his cheek, brushing his skin as lightly as a butterfly’s wings. Opening his eyes, he smiled drowsily. “Is it dawn yet?”
“The sun has been up for hours. You are such a sluggard,” she chided fondly, “still in bed at this time of day…for shame.”
“There are two of us in this bed,” he pointed out. “So you must be a sluggard, too.”
“I could not get up,” she insisted. “You were sleeping on my hair!”
Propping himself up on his elbow, Hal saw that her long, blond tresses had indeed been caught under his arm. “Well…I can think of several good reasons to remain abed despite the hour.” Sliding his hand up from her waist, he cupped her breast. “Here is one. Ah, and here is another…”
Marguerite sighed with pleasure, but two could play that game. “I do believe you’re right,” she purred, reaching out to stroke his thigh. “I think I’ve found another one.”
Hal’s eyes half closed. “By God, you have,” he said and rolled over on top of her just as a loud pounding began. Swearing, he called for his squire. “Thierry, tell whoever it is to go away, tell them I’m sleeping, tell them I’m dead…”
Marguerite began to giggle until he stopped her laughter with his mouth. They were too absorbed in each other to pay any heed to the sounds beyond their bed: footsteps, an opening door, a murmur of voices, and then a smothered protest, “My lord, you cannot come in-” But they were rudely brought back to reality when the bed hangings were suddenly jerked open.
Marguerite gave a squeak and dived under the covers. Hal sat up, his temper flaring at the sight of his least- loved brother. “Hellfire and damnation! Get out of here, Richard!”
“He’s taken her!”
Some of Hal’s annoyance ebbed in the face of Richard’s agitation. “Who? What are you talking about?”
“Our mother! She has fallen into his hands, is being held prisoner in one of his Angevin strongholds.”
Hal blinked, staring at his brother in disbelief. That could not be true. The Lord God would never let that happen. He was suddenly sorry he’d quaffed so much wine the night before, for his thinking was muddled. “That cannot be right. You must have heard a rumor, gossip-”
“Use your head, Hal. Why else would I be in your bedchamber at such an hour? For the pleasure of your company?”
Hal found himself at a loss for words, and Marguerite re-emerged from the blankets, pulling them modestly
