when Joanna and Marguerite were ushered into her chamber. Joanna brought wilted flowers from the castle gardens and Marguerite, with surprising practicality, had herb packets: agrimony for fever, pennyroyal for cramps, and chamomile for headaches. Adding shyly that chamomile was also said to be useful for melancholy. She had apologies to offer, too. Alys had wanted to come, she explained, but she had lost her nerve at the last moment.
“She said she did not know what to say to you. I told her that did not matter, but she still balked, saying she’d come next time.”
“You cannot blame the lass,” Eleanor said dryly. “Her lessons in manners never included one on captive queens.” Glancing over at Joanna, she said, “What of John? Did your father forbid him to come?”
Joanna looked uncomfortable. “No…Johnny would not come with us. He said Papa would not be happy with him if he visited you.”
Eleanor looked away, saying nothing. She had no qualms about her older sons, feeling that they’d been old enough to make up their own minds. Her conscience was not so clear when it came to her youngest two. She’d hoped that she’d be able to keep John and Joanna out of the fray, and it was only after her capture that she’d admitted what a frail reed that hope was. She was sorry that John had felt the need to choose between them, but it stung that he’d chosen his father, for Henry had spent even less time with the boy than she had.
Joanna picked up a wafer uneaten from Eleanor’s dinner, and when Eleanor nodded, she crammed half of it into her mouth. “I have a surprise for you, Maman,” she announced. “I am going to fetch it now, will be back soon.” And before Eleanor could object, she’d darted out the door.
Past experience had taught Eleanor that Joanna’s “surprises” ought to be approached with caution. But she welcomed this opportunity to speak alone with Marguerite. Neither of them felt comfortable speaking too candidly in front of Joanna, whose loyalties were already bruised and bleeding. As soon as the door closed, Eleanor leaned forward and touched her daughter-in-law’s hand in a gesture of encouragement. “How did you and Joanna win Harry over? I truly would not have expected him to let Joanna see me.”
“I could see that he was not happy about it,” Marguerite confided. “Once he decided he must return to England, he dared not leave any of us behind. I suppose he hoped that Joanna would not find out you were sailing with us, that she’d hear no one gossiping about your presence at Barfleur. Of course someone told her,” she said, sounding so slyly satisfied that Eleanor realized she’d been that “someone,” and she gave her daughter-in-law a look of startled approval; until now she’d seen only the sweet side of Marguerite’s nature, had not known the girl had spirit, too.
“Once she was alerted, she kept vigil for you,” Marguerite continued. “And when she looked up at her father with pleading eyes and quivering lips, he could not bring himself to deny him. But…but he agreed only for Joanna’s sake.”
“And not mine,” Eleanor said flatly, bitter that Henry could declare forfeit all her rights as a mother. “What of you, lass? Has Harry been kind to you?”
“Oh, yes,” Marguerite said without hesitation. “He was not long in Poitiers, though, as he sent us on to Rouen whilst he chased Richard out of Saintes. We did not see him again until he summoned us to Barfleur in such haste.”
“The threat to England must be dire if he thinks he needs to take command himself. I would love to know what happened to force his hand.”
“I think I do know,” Marguerite said surprisingly. “Hal and the Count of Flanders are at Gravelines, waiting for favorable weather so they can invade England.”
Eleanor felt a surge of excitement, for she had far more confidence in Philip of Flanders’s military skills than she did in Louis’s. If they could gain a decisive victory, her chances of being freed would improve dramatically. She well knew Louis and Philip would not bestir themselves much on her behalf, but Richard and Hal would never abandon her, and an English triumph would give them the leverage they needed. “There is a question I would ask you ere Joanna returns. Does Rosamund Clifford sail with us?”
Marguerite was flattered that her mother-in-law would speak to her like this, woman to woman. “No,” she said emphatically, “I think not. He has been very open about their liaison since last summer, so I do not think he’d have her hidden away here.” Shaking her head indignantly, she said, “I think it is shameful that men cannot be faithful to their wives. But if they must sin, they ought to have the decency to do it in secret.”
Eleanor was taken aback, for she’d not realized that Marguerite thought she’d rebelled because of Rosamund Clifford. She wondered suddenly if her sons were equally ill-informed. She felt confident that Richard knew better, for he understood her love for Aquitaine if anyone did. But what of Hal and Geoffrey? “Marguerite, why does Hal think I joined the rebellion?”
“He knows you did it for him, for his kingship. He has often said how lucky he is to have a mother who would sacrifice so much for his sake.” Marguerite did not doubt, though, that Eleanor’s jealousy of Henry’s leman had played a part, too, and she searched now for words of comfort, saying haltingly, “I’ve spoken to people who’ve seen the Clifford wench, and they say she is not even that pretty. For certes, not as beautiful as you, my lady mother.”
Eleanor was both touched and vexed by the girl’s attempt to offer balm to a grieving wife. She opened her mouth to assure Marguerite that it was only her pride that had been wounded, not her heart. But it was then that the door opened and Joanna rushed in again.
Her cheeks were bright with wind-whipped color, her mantle splattered with mud. She was clutching a woven basket to her chest, looking so pleased with herself that Eleanor suspected she’d been up to mischief of some sort. “I have a present for you, Maman,” she said, and carried the basket across the chamber to deposit it beside Eleanor on the bed. It was covered with a white cloth that looked like a napkin, and Eleanor reached out, expecting fruit or cheese. To her surprise, she found herself looking at a tiny kitten.
“One of the stable cats had a litter, but then she disappeared.” Joanna leaned over, tickling the kitten under its chin. “This is the only one who survived. I heard a groom saying he was going to drown her because she was too young to fend for herself and would likely starve. So I had a wonderful idea-to give you the kitten, Maman.”
Eleanor looked dubiously at the kitten, which fit easily into the palm of her hand. It was a pretty little creature, dove-grey with gold eyes, but she’d never had a cat as a pet before. “I do not know, Joanna,” she said. “I doubt your father will agree.”
Joanna smiled. “He will,” she predicted confidently. “You’ll see.”
Henry had just returned from a trip to the harbor, where he’d had another frustrating talk with the ship’s captain, who dolefully concluded that the weather was still too foul to risk sailing. Henry knew the man was right, but his nerves were shredding under the strain. Common sense told him that if he could not sail, neither could Hal or Philip. But he was heeding other voices than logic these days.
A fire had been lit in the hearth, for the relentless rain was making a mockery of the summer calendar. After he’d changed into a dry tunic and chausses, Henry tried to distract himself by playing a game of chess with Willem, but he soon abandoned the effort, unable to keep his thoughts away from the darker corners of his mind. Willem and Ranulf were watching him pace back and forth in sympathetic silence when one of his squires hastened over to answer a knock on the door. He at once opened it wide, for only two people had unrestricted access to the king at Barfleur: his son and daughter.
Joanna was clad in a silk dress that seemed inappropriate for everyday use, and her hair was neatly brushed for once, hanging down her back in two reddish-blond braids. She looked very appealing, but very solemn, and after greeting the men politely, she asked Henry if she could speak with him about a “serious matter.”
“Of course, lass,” he said, guiding her toward the settle. “What do you want to buy now? Did you find another carved horse or spinning top in the marketplace?”
“This is more important than playthings, Papa. Did you know that Maman does not have a lady to attend to her? At first I thought she’d been left behind at Falaise. But then I learned that she’d not had a handmaiden at all!”
Sounding shocked, Joanna looked earnestly into her father’s face. “We have to do something about this, Papa. Men do not understand how much a lady needs help with dressing. Long hair like Maman’s is not easy to brush or wash or braid. It is hard, too, to lace up a gown in the back. I was going to ask you if I could go to stay with Maman once we get to England so I could be of help.”
Henry stiffened, but Joanna did not seem to notice and continued on guilelessly. “But after I thought about it,
