said, producing an object swathed in silk. Marguerite unwrapped it to reveal an ivory box and, inside, a delicate opal ring set in gold filigree. Sliding it onto her finger, Hal kissed her again. “Opals are said to be lucky.”
She smiled, praying that he was right, for their son needed all the luck he could get. “How is he this morn?”
“Fine. All agree he is a handsome little lad, bearing a strong resemblance to his father. Except that he is as bald as an egg, of course!”
“Go and fetch him for me, Agace,” Marguerite said, and the older woman was happy to obey. She did not have far to go, for Marguerite had insisted that the baby’s cradle be placed in the antechamber; she would have had it beside her bed if Hal and Agace had not objected, fearing that a newborn’s wailing would rob her of the sleep she so desperately needed. She had reluctantly acquiesced, but now she said resolutely, “I am going to keep him with me tonight. I feel much stronger, Hal, and it will ease my mind to have him close at hand.”
Through the open doorway, they heard Agace’s voice and the answering murmur of the wet-nurse. “If you insist,” Hal agreed, pretending to admire her new ring so he could press a kiss into the palm of her hand. “He does not cry much, is a very good baby so far, no trouble at all…once again taking after his sire.”
The scream was like the slash of a sword, splintering their last moment of peace into an infinity of pain. It was followed at once by another choked cry and then, weeping. Hal swung toward the sound, his expression one of denial and disbelief. But Marguerite knew better, and she began to sob.
Eleanor and Amaria were playing a desultory game of chess, for it was too hot to concentrate. They’d opened the windows of their bedchamber in hopes of attracting an evening breeze, but the air still simmered with the day’s heat, offering no relief. Muted sounds came drifting in, the arrival of late riders, a barking dog, the tolling of distant church bells. Eleanor glanced again at the chessboard and then sat back with a sigh. “Let’s keep this till the morrow, Amaria.”
Smothering a yawn, Amaria rose and stretched. “Shall I pour you some wine, Madame?” Eleanor nodded and then they both turned, hearing the sounds of footsteps in the stairwell. There was a soft knock and the door swung open, almost simultaneously.
“Harry?” Eleanor stared at her husband in surprise. “What are you doing back in Winchester?”
As Henry stepped forward into the circle of light cast by the candles, Eleanor frowned, thinking he looked exhausted, shadows lurking like bruises under his eyes, his mouth so tautly drawn that she could not imagine those lips ever curving in a smile. “Dame Amaria,” he said politely, “I need to speak with my wife in private.” And Eleanor was suddenly frightened.
Once Amaria had departed, Henry moved toward Eleanor and seated himself across the table from her. He seemed to be favoring his left leg, and she said, “You’ve hurt yourself.”
“It’s nothing, an old injury that has flared up again.” He did not speak for several moments, but she did not urge him, sure that she did not want to hear whatever he’d come to tell her. “There is no easy way to say this,” he said at last. “On June 19 in Paris, Marguerite gave birth to a son. The baby came before his time, was too frail. He only lived for three days.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Harry…those poor children. A wound like that will never heal…”
“I know.”
She dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I will want to write to them.”
He nodded, and for a time there was only silence. When he got to his feet, he moved as slowly as an old man, and she realized that his pain was physical, too; his limp was much more pronounced now. “Thank you for telling me,” she said, and he nodded again.
He hobbled to the door, and then paused, searching for words of comfort even though he knew there were none. “He was baptized ere he died. At least there is that. They’ll know his innocent soul has gone straight to God’s embrace.”
“What was he named?”
He seemed reluctant to answer, and when he finally murmured, “William,” she understood why. That had been the name of their firstborn, the son who’d died two months before his third birthday. Their eyes met and held, and for an anguished moment, they were grieving-not for the grandson they’d never seen-but for the son whose death had left such a ragged, gaping hole in their lives, the son whose death seemed even more tragic as the years went by and Hal’s follies mounted. What if their Will had lived, if he and not Hal had been the heir? That was not a question either of them had ever asked aloud, but it was one that occurred to them both on those nights when sleep wouldn’t come and they lay awake in the dark, trying to understand how things had gone so terribly wrong for their family.
After leaving Winchester, Henry passed a week at Stanstede in Sussex, waiting for a favorable wind to cross to Normandy. During this time, he gave the church at Wicumbe to the Godstow nunnery in Rosamund’s memory, and he learned that the French king had gotten a papal legate to threaten an Interdict against his domains unless he stopped delaying the marriage of his son Richard to Louis’s daughter Alys. But his leg injury was not healing as he’d hoped, and he returned to Winchester until his health improved.
The summer heat wave continued; August was even hotter than July. Eleanor and Amaria had taken a wooden embroidery frame out into a secluded corner of the gardens, and they were frowning over their handiwork. “Let me show you again how to make a couched stitch, Madame,” Amaria said, hiding her surprise that the queen handled a needle so clumsily; she had assumed that everything came easily to Eleanor.
“Let me try.” Eleanor knotted a length of silk thread, did her best to imitate Amaria, and stabbed her thumb with the needle. “Damnation!”
Neither one had heard the soft footsteps and they were startled now by laughter. Amaria turned to find they were being watched by a slender woman about Eleanor’s age, fashionably dressed in a sapphire-colored bliaut, girdled at the hip with a jeweled belt. Her dark eyes agleam with amusement, she sauntered forward, saying, “I never thought I’d see Eleanor of Aquitaine with a needle in her hand.”
Amaria was startled by the familiarity, but when she glanced at Eleanor, she saw that while the queen was surprised by this stranger’s appearance, she was also pleased. “Shall I fetch a thimble, my lady?” she said, assuming that if Eleanor did not want time alone with the other woman, she’d say so. When she didn’t, Amaria made a tactful withdrawal.
“Do sit down,” Eleanor said, gesturing toward the other end of the bench. “What are you doing here, Maud?”
Maud sat. “I was disquieted to hear that Harry had delayed his return to Normandy. I’d never known him even to acknowledge a physical infirmity, much less change his plans because of one, and I feared that he must be at death’s door.”
“No, but he has been in enough pain to make him loath to ride a horse, much less make a Channel crossing.”
“What ails him?”
“He did not tell you?”
“You know how difficult it is to pry an answer out of Harry. He muttered some foolishness about taking one misstep too many. Did he have an accident and if so, why did I not hear about it?”
“Because,” Eleanor said, “it happened three years ago, when he was kicked in the thigh by an unruly horse.”
“Ah, yes, I remember that.” Maud was not surprised that Henry should be troubled by an old wound, for that often happened in their world. Poor Harry, she thought. It must be an infection of the bone. “I am so sorry about Hal’s baby, Eleanor.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor said simply, acknowledging Maud’s sympathy at the same time that she indicated the hurt was still too fresh to probe. “Does Harry know you are here with me?” she asked, with just the hint of a challenge.
Maud took it up without hesitation. “Yes, he does. I got his permission ere I sought you out.” Answering the question that Eleanor had not asked, she said, “Had he refused, I would have respected his wishes.”
That was a diplomatic declaration of loyalty, a discreet warning that she would not be putting herself or her family at risk for Eleanor’s sake. Eleanor did not blame her, though. “I am gladdened to see you, Maud,” she said,
