Amaria sighed with relief. “I am so glad to hear that,” she admitted, and then spun around with a gasp as the door banged open. She backed away hastily as Henry stormed into the chamber. He was in such an obvious rage that her first instinct was to flee, but she was reluctant to leave Eleanor alone with him for that very reason, and so she stealthily retreated into the shadows, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
She need not have bothered; Henry never even noticed her, so focused was he upon the object of his anger- his infuriating, conniving wife. Setting down the mirror, she regarded him with provocative calm, saying, “Do come in, my lord husband,” as if he were the one in the wrong.
“I thought you’d like to know that your latest scheme was highly successful. Your sons gallantly rode to your rescue tonight, proclaiming themselves your champions. It is a wonder you did not give them tokens of your favor to flaunt, so that all would know they were your knights.”
“However little you like it, Harry, they are my sons. Is it truly so surprising that they are protective of me?”
“What did you tell them precisely? That I was going to load you down with chains and haul you off to a nunnery in the dead of night?”
“As a matter of fact, I did not mention your threat.”
“You expect me to believe that? As if you’d pass up any chance to portray me as the knave and you as the innocent, sacrificial lamb, the damsel in distress!”
“I did not tell them because I did not take your threat seriously. I know how you rave and rant when you lose your temper. I also know that once you cool down, you rarely if ever carry these threats out, so I saw no reason to share them with our sons, not unless you forced me to it. More strife is the last thing our family needs.”
“St Eleanor of Aquitaine,” he mocked, “so wise and forbearing. It is rather difficult, though, to reconcile that angelic image with the woman who urged my sons to rebel against me!”
“That was a mistake.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “A mistake? You destroyed our family and you call it a ‘mistake’?”
“Yes, damn you, a mistake! Are you going to tell me that you’ve never made a mistake, Harry?”
“No,” he growled, “I made a great one on May 18 in God’s Year 1152.” And with that, he turned and stalked out, slamming the door resoundingly behind him.
Amaria leaned weakly against the wall for a moment. To her surprise, the queen did not seem as distraught as she ought to have been after such a blazing row. Deciding, though, that they both needed wine, she went over without being asked and poured two cups.
Bringing one back to Eleanor, she made an attempt to sound blase as she said, “May I ask what happened on May 18 in 1152, my lady?”
“Harry and I were wed in Poitiers.” Eleanor took a swallow of the wine before saying, “Usually he could never remember our anniversary.”
Amaria did not know what to say, so she busied herself hunting in the floor rushes for the brush, which she’d dropped when Henry barged into the chamber. Eleanor drank in silence, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. When their eyes met, though, she smiled, a smile that somehow managed to be wry and rueful and bleak, all at the same time.
“Harry and I have more in common than quick tempers,” she said. “We rarely make mistakes, but when we do, they tend to be spectacular.”
Amaria could not argue with that, not when she considered the consequences of those mistakes. The queen’s rebellion had cost her dearly, might mean imprisonment for the rest of her days. The king’s rash, angry words had resulted in a martyr’s death upon the floor of Canterbury cathedral. She could only hope that the king’s decision to crown his son would not prove to be a mistake of the same magnitude, for all their sakes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
July 1176
Poitiers, Poitou
The Bishop’s clerks smiled at the sight of the two men walking in the gardens, for they were a study in contrasts. John aux Bellesmains,
Bishop of Poitiers, was a tall, willowy, and elegant figure, towering over the diminutive John of Salisbury. Their history went back more than twenty years, begun in those distant days when they and Thomas Becket had been clerks together in the household of Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury. John aux Bellesmains had been elevated to his bishopric at the same time as Thomas, and now John of Salisbury would have his own See, too, having been elected by the chapter of Chartres on July 22. He was on his way to Sens for consecration, but he’d detoured to Poitiers to see his old friend, and on this muggy afternoon in late July, they were making up for lost time, sharing confidences both personal and political as the sun rose higher in the sky and the city sweltered under the summer heat.
Once they’d seated themselves in the shade and accepted wine and fruit from the bishop’s attentive servants, John of Salisbury raised his cup in a mock salute. “To your military exploits, my lord bishop. You are a man of many talents, for certes. You did remember to use a mace, though, and not a sword?”
Salisbury was indulging in some canonical humor, for warlike bishops had been known to carry a mace into battle as a means of avoiding the stricture against priests shedding blood, on the dubious grounds that Scriptures said nothing against battering an enemy’s brains into mush. His companion smiled, somewhat sheepishly, for he’d never expected to garner military acclaim. “Actually,” he said, “all I did was raise the local levy, providing the men for the defense of Poitou when the rebels sought to take advantage of Count Richard’s absence in England. I did not take the field against them, so credit for the victory at Barbezieux must go to Richard’s second-in-command, Theobald Chabot.”
“I know,” Salisbury admitted with a grin. “I could not resist teasing you, old friend. How goes the rebellion? I’d heard that the king sent Richard and his brother Hal back to Poitou with enough gold to hire half the routiers in Hell.”
“Richard has been very successful since his return; he’s clearly inherited his father’s flair for command. After winning a battle near Bouteville, he took the Viscount of Limoges’s castle at Aixe, then the city of Limoges itself. He is currently laying siege to Angouleme, where the Counts of Angouleme and the Viscounts of Ventador, Limoges, and Chabenais have taken shelter. When the castle falls, he’ll have captured all of the main rebels in one fell swoop. Not bad for a lad not yet nineteen.”
Salisbury was not acquainted with Richard. He did know Hal, though, from his days in Becket’s household, and asked now, “And Hal? Surely he deserves some of the praise, too.”
Bishop John smiled thinly. “I’d not suggest that in Richard’s hearing. Hal went off to Paris to visit his father- in-law, did not even make an appearance in Poitou until midsummer. He finally joined Richard in besieging the castle at Chateauneuf-sur-Charente, but once the castle was taken, he lost interest. He’s been holding court here in Poitiers for the past fortnight.”
Salisbury knew his friend well enough to catch the unspoken echoes of disapprobation. Since the bishop would hardly fault Hal for not displaying enough warlike fervor or bloodlust, he assumed there was more involved than Hal’s lack of enthusiasm for siege warfare. “I’ve not seen Hal since last year, when he and the king made a pilgrimage to Canterbury. Thomas was always fond of the lad. It hurt him when Hal refused to see him in those last weeks of his life. What has he been doing in Poitiers to incur your disapproval?”
“What he does best,” Bishop John said dryly, “which is charming every man, woman, and child who happen to cross his path. The Poitevin barons not in actual rebellion have been drawn to Poitiers like dogs to vomit. They have been fawning over Hal as if he were the blessed Archangel Michael, telling him how much they wish he were their liege lord rather than Richard.”
Salisbury’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying Hal is seeking to subvert his brother’s vassals?”
“He’d insist he has no such intention, but he does nothing to discourage such seditious talk. I cannot tell if he truly wants to undermine Richard’s authority in Poitou, or if he merely enjoys hearing his brother belittled. Either way, it does not bode well for the future.”
“No, it does not,” Salisbury agreed, and then sought to lighten the conversation by sharing the latest gossip
