up to her chin even as she put her arm around his shoulders. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. But you must not despair. My father will move heaven and earth to rescue her.”
Richard rolled his eyes, thinking that they were a well matched pair, both as simpleminded as sheep. Hal knew that Marguerite was only trying to comfort him. He did not have as much faith in her father, though, as he’d had before Verneuil. He was still confused, for he’d been torn from his wife’s arms into a waking nightmare without any warning. It was not fair. Men should have time to come to terms with such calamitous happenings.
His brother was waiting impatiently, and he threw the covers back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. But then he paused. “Richard…what can we do?”
It was a moment of odd role reversal, as if he were the younger brother, not the elder. Richard usually had answers for everything. But not this time. He hesitated, and Hal felt a chill, realizing that Richard did not know what to do any more than he did.
They’d gathered in the French king’s palace, were awaiting him in a private chamber overlooking the River Seine. Raoul de Faye had wandered restlessly to a window, and when he opened the shutters, he looked out upon a scene as bleak and cheerless as his mood. The city seemed painted in shades of grey, with looming storm clouds, a sky darkening with an early dusk, the river a dull, leaden color, its choppy surface pelted with icy rain drops. He’d let a blast of cold air into the room, and when the others began to complain, he closed the shutters and returned to his seat.
He was familiar with every man in the chamber, for they were all pillars of the French king’s court. Seated closest to the hearth was the elderly Maurice de Sully, Bishop of Paris. Beside him sat Louis’s younger brother, the Archbishop of Rheims, while the youngest of the brothers, the perpetually discontented Robert, Count of Dreux, was sprawled on a bench by himself. The king’s two sons-in-law, Henri, Count of Champagne, and Thibault, Count of Blois, were whispering together across the table, while their younger sibling, Etienne, Count of Sancerre, was slouched low in his seat, looking bored. Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux, was amusing himself by flipping a coin in the air and trying to coax Raoul’s brother Hugh into wagering upon the outcome. Since de Montfort was known for his sharp dealings, Hugh was prudently refusing his blandishments. And sitting on a cushioned settle were Raoul’s three great-nephews, the ones most affected by the momentous news out of Poitou.
Raoul’s gaze focused thoughtfully upon them. Geoffrey’s face was unrevealing; he was strangely guarded for one so young, and Raoul realized that he never knew what Geoffrey was thinking. That was certainly not true with Hal, whose face served as a mirror to his soul. His dismay was evident to anyone with eyes to see. And Richard was smoldering, a fire that had burned down but not out. He kept casting aggrieved glances toward the door, as if willing Louis to make his appearance.
Louis finally swept into the room, flanked by his clerk and chaplain. Waving the others back to their seats as they rose, he stopped by Eleanor’s sons and squeezed Hal’s shoulder in an affectionate gesture of support. Taking a chair at the head of the table, he sighed audibly, like a man with too many burdens to bear, and then looked toward Raoul.
“This is indeed sorrowful tidings. What do we know for certes and what is just conjecture?”
“The queen’s constable sent a courier to me late last night. On the Friday before Advent, she left Poitiers, heading for Chartres and then Paris. She was waylaid near Loches and taken into custody by the king’s men. She was being escorted by one of her Poitevin barons, Porteclie de Mauze, and what we know comes from him. He told Saldebreuil that they were ambushed in the forest, that they were taken by surprise and so greatly outnumbered that they could not resist. So he says.” Raoul’s mouth twitched in a mirthless smile that conveyed without words both his own skepticism and Saldebreuil’s.
Richard was more forthright. “I think his story stinks like three-day-old mackerel. He told Saldebreuil that my mother must have been betrayed and even suggested a few likely suspects. But in any hunt for the Judas, we’d do well to start with him. He lets his liege lady be taken without lifting a finger to stop it, and then he and all his men are set free to continue on their way? Does he take us for utter fools?”
“A great pity,” Louis said somberly. “May the Almighty keep her safe in her time of travail.”
“I am sure the Almighty will look after her, my lord king.” Raoul leaned forward, his eyes locking upon the French king’s face. “But prayers will not set her free. We need to make plans, to decide how best to accomplish that.”
Louis glanced around at his nobles, as if seeking a consensus. Finding what he sought on their faces, he looked at Raoul and slowly, sadly, shook his head. “Alas,” he said, “there is nothing we can do.”
Raoul felt no real surprise, just a surge of outrage. Richard and Hal shared it. The former sprang to his feet as the latter cried out incredulously, “What are you saying, that we leave her to rot in one of his dungeons?”
“I very much doubt that she is in a dungeon, lad. Your father is not a brute, is not likely to maltreat the mother of his children.”
Raoul was not impressed by Louis’s reassurances, saw that neither were his young kinsmen. But none of Eleanor’s allies were going to rescue her. Most men, even those who’d been bedazzled by her beauty, did not approve of her. He’d long known that to be true. He suspected that Eleanor knew it, too. She’d never cared, though, what others thought. She’d never had to…until now.
“I know this is not what you want to hear,” the Count of Champagne said quietly, and with enough sincere sympathy in his voice to still their protests. “I was sorely distressed to hear of her capture, for I know how it will grieve my wife. It is true she has not seen the queen since childhood, but she would never want to see her mother in such dire straits. Yet there truly is nothing we can do. We do not even know where she is being held. She could be at Loches, or have been moved to Chinon by now. She could even be on her way to England.”
Louis did not appreciate the reminder that his daughter Marie was also Eleanor’s flesh and blood, or the suggestion that she might feel some emotional attachment to her mother, for he’d done his best to obliterate Eleanor’s memories from Marie and Alix’s lives. He’d been willing to marry Marguerite to Eleanor’s son if that would make her Queen of England one day, but that was statecraft. This was personal, and it hurt to learn that Marie was still under Eleanor’s infernal spell. He welcomed Count Henri’s support, though, and he said quickly: “The count speaks true. I would like nothing more than to ride to your mother’s rescue, would that it were possible. It is not.”
Hal looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. “I cannot accept that,” he cried, “I cannot!” And then he turned, as they all did, to stare at his brother, for Richard was stalking toward the door.
He jerked it open, and then swung around when Louis called out his name sharply, demanding to know what he meant to do. “I mean,” he said, “to return to Poitiers and take command of the rebellion. There may be nothing you can do, my lord king,” and in his mouth, that respectful term of address sounded like the foulest of insults. “But I am going to win this war and free my mother.” And without waiting for the king’s response, much less his permission, he slammed out of the chamber.
Hal had started to rise, then slumped back on the settle. Geoffrey kept silent, watching them all with alert blue-grey eyes that gave away nothing. Color was staining Louis’s cheeks, but he made an effort to conceal his anger. “Lord save us from the foolishness of the very young,” he said, with what he hoped was a wry, indulgent smile, and the other men began to murmur their agreement. All but Raoul, who decided it was time to burn his bridges.
Getting to his feet without haste, he looked directly at the man once wed to his niece. “Manhood is not measured in years, my liege. Some reach it at an early age, whilst others…others never reach it at all.” And he turned then on his heel, followed after Richard without looking back.
Eleanor had passed only two days at Loches before being taken to Chinon. There she was lodged in an upper chamber of the Tour du Moulin instead of the royal apartments along the south wall. Her gaolers had apparently decided that she was to be denied luxuries but not comfort until they heard otherwise from the king. Soon after her arrival at Chinon, Maurice de Craon had ridden away, presumably to consult with Henry about her fate. She half expected her husband to return with the Angevin baron, and was relieved when he did not. But she was soon on the move again, riding northwest under heavy guard. She refused to ask Maurice any questions, just as she refused to complain about the rapid pace and long hours in the saddle. From Chinon to Angers, the next day on to Laval, then north to the great fortress of Domfront where she’d given birth to her daughter and namesake, Leonora, twelve years earlier.
They were covering more than forty miles a day, which was a considerable distance for winter travel, and she
