duties, leaving Rosamund alone with Meliora. The older woman hovered nearby, not wanting to smother her with too much attention, too much solicitude. It was not easy, though, for she’d learned to love Rosamund as one of her own daughters.
“You will consult with the infirmarian this afternoon, dearest?”
“I will, Meliora,” Rosamund promised dutifully. She sat on the bed, watching as Meliora set about unpacking their coffers, still feeling as if she were sleepwalking. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes again as she thought of her last night with Henry. His pain was so much harder to bear than her own. Rising abruptly, she announced she was going for a walk, slipping out before Meliora could protest.
Prioress Edith had said dinner was served in the guest hall, and the position of the sun told her that noon was nigh. There were several widows living at the nunnery, and she could imagine they’d be avidly curious about the king’s concubine. She had no appetite, was never hungry these days, and she decided to forgo the meal, not yet ready to face an audience. Instead, she headed for the church.
Inside, all was serene, shadowed, and still. Nothing had changed; it was like going back in time. Moving into the nave, she approached the high altar. Kneeling, she began to pray for her royal lover, that he would not grieve for her too much. She’d expected to fall apart once she was alone, giving way then to the heartbreak she’d been stifling for his sake. But her tears soon dried, and as she prayed, she realized that some of her sorrow was easing. There was comfort in these familiar surroundings; there was comfort in the invocations of childhood. This was the first time in years that she’d been able to bare her soul to the Almighty without being in a state of sin. Her confessor had never been able to absolve her, for they both knew she’d continue sleeping with the king. Now she could repent without reservations. She could accept the penance laid upon her, could atone for her transgressions, and die in a state of grace. And kneeling there in the church of Godstow priory, she rediscovered what she’d long ago lost and thought forever denied her-the promise of inner peace.
A keen March wind was gusting and winter’s chill still lingered, even though Easter was less than a fortnight away. Eleanor did not mind the mercurial weather, though, so pleased was she to be riding in the open air under a sky the color of bluebells. Her mare seemed to have been infected with her high spirits and was fighting the bit, eager to run. Glancing over at Amaria, mounted on a more docile gelding, Eleanor was tempted to challenge her to race. Thinking of Sir Ralph’s panicked reaction should his royal prisoner suddenly gallop off into the distance, she laughed aloud.
Amaria smiled at the sound of that laughter. She did not know what awaited them. Sir Ralph had told them only that he’d received orders to move the queen from Sarum to Winchester. But it was enough for her that the queen was so happy on the journey, however it ended. Amaria was convinced that the queen found confinement so oppressive because she’d always enjoyed far more freedom than most women. She was a wild bird caught in a net, unlike her tamer sisters bred in captivity. At the very least, Winchester would offer novelty, a change from the predictable dreariness of days that were indistinguishable one from the other.
It was dusk before they saw the walls of Winchester in the distance. As they approached the Westgate, Amaria glanced toward the adjoining castle and cried out at the sight of the banner flapping in the March wind. “My lady, look! The king is here!”
Eleanor did not share Amaria’s surprise. She’d quickly concluded that this trek to Winchester was connected to her husband’s annulment plans. Why else would Sir Ralph have said she’d not be returning to Sarum? What was Harry up to now? Well, she’d soon see. She was not as nervous about this meeting as she’d been before their confrontation at Falaise, for she had more than two years of experience as his prisoner to draw upon now, knew where he’d set the boundaries for himself. She need not fear physical punishment or abuse, or even deprivation to any great extent. He might even free her for the sake of their children if he could find a way to clip her wings or blunt her talons. That was such a mixed metaphor that she could not help laughing again, but it was as apt as it was incongruous. If she saw herself as a caged dove, Harry saw her in far more predatory terms, as a bird of prey.
By the time they passed into the outer bailey of Winchester’s great castle, the sky was the shade of lavender. Dismounting first, Sir Ralph hastened over to assist Eleanor from her mare, and she hoped her next gaoler would be as conscientious. She’d learned that courtesy mattered the most to those with no right to demand it.
“Maman!” The cry rang out across the bailey, as clear as a harp chord. Eleanor spun around at the sound, just in time to catch her daughter to her in a close embrace. Joanna was hugging her so tightly that her mantle brooch was being pressed into her skin, but she did not care, any more than she’d cared about the driving rain when they’d been reunited at Barfleur. This reunion was different from the first one, though, for it was not being held under her husband’s glowering, baleful gaze. Henry was nowhere to be seen.
Eleanor noted with ironic amusement that she had not been put in the Queen’s Chamber, but she had no complaints about her lodgings. The room was freshly painted, hung with decorative wall hangings to shut out the cold, the floor covered with fragrant rushes, and the candles were made of costly beeswax, not the malodorous tallow. “Thank you, dearest,” she said warmly, for she was sure this was Joanna’s doing. “The chamber is a fine one.”
Joanna was sprawled on the bed, playing with her mother’s cat as it cautiously ventured from its travel basket. She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “Tell me what else you want, Maman, and I will persuade Papa to get it for you.”
“You sound very sure of yourself, Regina,” Eleanor teased, with a smile of her own, and Joanna’s throat constricted, for it had been a long time since she’d heard that affectionate pet name, bestowed upon her by her brothers when talk had first begun of marriage to the King of Sicily. She could no longer remember who had first used it, Hal or Richard, but it brought back memories of those days when her parents were not at war with each other and her family was still intact.
“Papa rarely says nay to me,” she admitted. “And he is being even more generous now, for the King of Sicily is sending envoys to the court this spring, and if all goes as planned, I could sail for Sicily ere the year is done.”
“So that is why I am at Winchester?”
Joanna nodded. “I told him that nothing mattered more to me than having you with me ere I wed. I explained,” she added with a grin, “that a girl needs her mother at such a time.”
She was a confident, clever child, but a child, nonetheless, only in her eleventh year, and soon to be a wife. Eleanor had accepted the practice, for it was all she knew. Confinement had caused her to question many of the tenets she’d once taken for granted, though, and regret caught at her heart now as she thought of sending Joanna off to an alien land, an unknown husband, a fate to be determined by factors beyond her parents’ control.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Joanna had lured the cat into her lap, pronouncing herself satisfied with the name Eleanor had chosen, Cleopatra, in recognition of the little creature’s haughty elegance and queenly will. “Did I tell you, Maman, that I got my first letter?” She sounded so proud, as if this were a milestone toward adulthood, and Eleanor felt another protective pang, wishing she could keep this fledgling in the nest for a little longer.
“It was from Tilda,” Joanna revealed, obviously flattered that her elder sister had thought she was old enough to receive her own correspondence. “She wrote to Papa, too. She had another baby, a second son, who has been named Lothair.” The sound of that odd German name sent her into a fit of giggles, but she soon grew serious again. “Tilda is distraught by what has happened to our family, Maman. She says she does not understand. I do not know what to tell her, for I do not understand, either.”
“Ah, child…” Eleanor sat beside her on the bed, put an arm around the girl’s shoulders. It occurred to her, then, that Joanna had yet to mention Hal, an odd omission unless he was no longer at his father’s court. “What of your brother? Will Hal be permitted to see me, too?”
“Hal is gone, Maman. He has been very restless of late and none too happy. He decided he wanted to go on pilgrimage to the shrine at Santiago de Compostela. Papa was loath to consent, did not seem to think that was a good idea at all. But Hal persisted; he can be very stubborn, you know. And at last Papa compromised, agreed to let him go to Normandy for a time. Hal and Marguerite left a few days ago for Porchester. Such a shame you missed him, for I know how dearly he’d have loved to see you.”
“Indeed, a shame,” Eleanor said, very dryly. If Joanna thought Hal’s absence was due to coincidence, well and good. She knew better.
