Salisbury moved over to stand beside his friend, wondering if the Church was to get two new martyrs. Hal knew the sentiment in the hall was with him, and that realization was both encouraging and daunting. “I say he is to be judged here and now and by me, the liege lord he wronged! Go home, my lord bishop. You are not needed here.”
John looked around the hall, his gaze so piercing that not all of the men could meet his eyes. “Have you forgotten that bloodstained floor at Canterbury Cathedral?” he demanded. “St Thomas died for the very principle that you would violate. His quarrel with the king began because he would not agree to let clerics be judged in royal courts. Do you truly think that I could stand aside whilst you defy the Church and defame the blessed martyr’s holy memory? I tell you that you shall not harm this man,” he said, thrusting his arm toward Adam in a gesture reminiscent of an Old Testament prophet. “If it is God’s Will that I die in his defense, so be it.”
The image he’d called up of the archbishop’s mangled and bleeding body had a sobering effect upon the men. Even those most eager to see Adam suffer for his sins were starting to have second thoughts. Salisbury took heart from the sudden silence and decided it was time for the voice of reason to balance his friend’s splendid defiance. Approaching the dais, he addressed Hal with all the polite persuasion at his command. “My liege, I remember you well from your time in Archbishop Thomas’s household. You are a good son of the Church, would not want to bring upon yourself the shame and infamy that engulfed your lord father after the archbishop’s murder.”
One of the de Lusignans saw that Hal’s resolve was weakening, and shoved his way toward the young king. “Do not heed them, sire. Your House has a proud tradition of holding your ground against the Church’s encroachments. Remember what befell an arrogant Bishop of Seez who dared to defy your grandfather, Count Geoffrey of blessed memory. The count’s men deprived him of what no priest needs-his manhood.”
But he’d gone too far. Hal did not want to be associated with so brutal a deed. “My grandfather denied that they were acting upon his orders,” he said, turning some of his frustration and thwarted fury upon the de Lusignan agitator. “Will Marshal always warned me that you de Lusignans were an untrustworthy lot. I ought to have paid more heed to him.”
The de Lusignans were as known for their fiery tempers as for their sharp double-dealing, and the man gave Hal a look now that was murderous. But Marshal had shouldered his way over to Hal’s side, and he did not want to be challenged to a duel by combat, for Will’s lethal skills and enduring grudge against the de Lusignan clan would make him a very deadly foe, indeed.
Hal glanced at Will, appreciating his silent support and remembering that Will had argued against this from the beginning. Wishing he’d listened, he came down the steps of the dais, putting a swagger in his step as he halted before the Bishop of Poitiers. “I like it not,” he said coolly, “but I will spare that wretch out of the respect I have for you, my lord bishop.”
Adam’s gasp was almost a sob. He sank to his knees like a man whose body no longer had the strength to support him, his breath wheezing like a broken bellows. Salisbury reached over and put a hand on that heaving shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. But the Bishop of Poitiers had yet to take his eyes from Hal.
“Do I have your word upon that, my lord king?”
There were more resentful mutterings at that. Hal’s brows drew together, his mouth tightening. But the bishop continued to look at him expectantly, challengingly, and at last he gave a grudging promise that he would not seek to execute Adam for his treachery. Glaring at the quaking figure of his vice-chancellor, he warned, “I will not forget, though. Nor will I forgive.”
It was one of those rare, perfect summer days, splashed with golden sun, cooled by errant breezes, the sky the brilliant shade of blue more often seen in September than mid-August. The gardens at Winchester were in full bloom, and Eleanor and Amaria were enjoying the fragrant scents, the flight of gossamer-winged butterflies, and the antics of the spaniel that was Henry’s recent gift to Joanna.
“Melusine!” Amaria called, seeking to stop the puppy from digging in a raised flower bed of scarlet peonies. When the little dog ignored her warning, she bent down and scooped it up into her arms, where it began to chew contentedly upon the lacings of her gown. “What an odd name for a dog. What made your daughter choose it, Madame?”
“Melusine was the name of the Demon Countess of Anjou,” Eleanor said, smiling. “Her husband was very happy with her, but he became suspicious when she rarely attended Mass and always left before the consecration of the Host. So one day he ordered four of his knights to step upon her mantle and hold her there. Whereupon she gave a fearful scream, revealed herself to be the Devil’s daughter, and flew out a window, never to be seen again. Harry has such interesting ancestors.”
“Speaking of the Devil,” Amaria said with a grin. “Is that not your lord husband amongst those riders who’ve just passed through the gatehouse?”
Eleanor was not surprised by Henry’s arrival, for Joanna had told her that he’d arranged to hold a church council at Winchester in order to spend time with her before she departed for Sicily. Eleanor was surprised, though, by what Henry did once he’d dismounted. After glancing across the bailey toward the gardens, he handed his reins to a groom and walked in her direction.
As he entered the garden gate, Amaria took Melusine and discreetly withdrew out of earshot. Eleanor seated herself on a turf bench and watched him approach. Coming to a halt a few feet away, he gestured toward Amaria and the puppy. “Is that the dog I sent Joanna?”
Eleanor nodded. “It was love at first sight. Guess what she named it? Melusine.”
Henry’s mouth curved at the corners. “I knew it was a mistake to tell her that story. Where is she? Inside at her lessons?”
“No, she went into the city. It seems that one of the nuns of St Mary’s speaks Tuscan, and has agreed to teach her a few phrases. I explained that each region of Italy has its own dialect and what they speak in Tuscany might not be understood in Sicily, but you know Joanna once she gets an idea into her head.”
“You did remind her that William is of Norman descent and his first language is French?”
“I did. But she has her mind set upon being able to ‘speak to my people,’ as she puts it.”
Henry’s smile was touched with sadness. “I hope the Sicilians appreciate how lucky they are.” He hesitated and then sat beside her on the bench. “Is she nervous about the marriage?”
“Of course she is, even though she’d never admit it. She did confess to some unease, though, when the Bishops of Troye and Capua arrived at Winchester to make sure she was pretty enough to satisfy their king.”
Henry felt a flicker of resentment even now. “I never heard of such a thing,” he said indignantly. “Royal marriages are matters of statecraft, a means of forging alliances. Yet William would have his men inspect Joanna as if she were a prize filly! He is fortunate I did not end the negotiations then and there.”
“I assured Joanna she had no cause for concern, and indeed, they were bedazzled by her. In truth, though, I can understand William’s concern. He may be allying with England, but he’ll be living with a flesh-and-blood woman. Is it so surprising that he’d prefer a pleasing bedmate? He is said to be quite handsome himself, so he and Joanna ought to have beautiful children.”
Henry could think of few subjects less appealing than envisioning his ten-year-old daughter as a man’s bedmate, and he was irked with Eleanor for discussing it so nonchalantly. “Joanna is a child herself,” he said sharply. “I just pray to God that her husband remembers that.”
Eleanor understood then. This was the father here in the garden with her, not the king. “Harry…Joanna will become his wife, but not his bedmate, not yet. You know that the Church frowns upon consummation of the marriage until the girl reaches a more suitable age, at the very least until she has her flux.”
“That sounds well and good-in theory. But how can we be sure that it prevails in practice?”
“We cannot,” she said, with unsettling candor. “But from what we know of William, he does not sound like a man who’d enjoy deflowering a little girl. We have to remember that we judged him to be a worthy husband for Joanna. We should remember, too, that self-interest encourages men to follow the Church’s teachings in this matter. A very young wife is more likely to die in childbirth, and the babe, too. Princes and kings know that, and do not want to put their heirs or their alliances at needless risk.”
“I know, I know,” he said impatiently, before admitting, “The husbands of our older girls seem to have taken their ages into account.”
For a moment, they thought of their absent daughters. Tilda had been wed at age eleven to the Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, a man more than twenty-seven years her senior, a man older than her own father. She’d become a mother three times already, but she’d not had her first child until she was sixteen. Her sister, named
