Standard of Honor

than even fealty, if such a thing be possible.”

“Hmm …” Eleanor shifted in her seat and then reached out and pulled aside the curtain on her left, and spoke as she gazed out at the long, slanting shadows thrown by the trees on the sloping hillside above them. “It is growing late, my friend. We should be stopping soon, but it may be too late by then for you to ride back home alone. You must dine with us and return in the morning. In the meantime, come what may, I have a thought for you to dwell upon, Henry, and it is this: there has never been a tie, of any kind, that is unbreakable, given sufficient will, and power.”

She turned her eyes back on him again. “Absolve yourself of any guilt you feel, even be it born of gratitude. I will talk to Richard about this. I will not tolerate this idea of forcing you to sail to Outremer. It is a nonsense. Besides, you know my son almost as well as I do. He was yours to mold for years. He is a creature of great passions and enthusiasms, ungovernable and unpredictable to all save me, it seems.”

Sir Henry spread his hands apologetically. “My gratitude for your concern, my lady, but if it please you, I have no wish to be excused from this duty. I would far rather travel with my son to Outremer than bide alone here and fret for him. He is all I have left of family in this world, and life without him holds little attraction for me now that I am growing old. I might be a fool, as you suggest, but I would rather be an old fool near my son than be a lonely old hermit awaiting death here without him.”

Eleanor gazed at him for long moments, then nodded her head slowly. “So be it, my lord St. Clair. I will say no more on it. We are both of us too old and gray to quarrel over the manner of our deaths. The Reaper will find us wherever we may be …” She nibbled her upper lip between her teeth in a mannerism he had long forgotten, and then she added, “You know why Richard was so intent upon enrolling you, don’t you?”

When St. Clair shook his head in honest ignorance, she sniffed. “Well then you should. And take note, if it please you, that I said he was intent on it—knowing my son as I do, it would not astonish me at all to learn that he has either forgotten all about involving you or has changed his mind since then. A move’s afoot in England to have him take the Marshal of England, William Marshall, into his train as Master-at-Arms, but Richard will have none of it, and I would be surprised were it otherwise. Marshall was Henry’s man, dyed in the wool, as fierce and lifelong-loyal as a hunting hound. In Richard’s eyes, Marshall will always represent Henry himself. And, truth be said, I cannot find it in my heart to fault my son for that.”

She paused. “Besides, Marshall is all for England, first, foremost, and above all else. Richard, on the other hand, has more to govern. England is but a by-blow of his empire, and a backward one at that. God’s throat, he can barely speak the language that they growl over there.”

She stopped again, mulling her next words. “I suppose you know about Alais?” She read the answer in his face and grunted. “Aye, of course you do. You would need to be both blind and deaf not to know of it. It was inevitable, given what was involved, but yet I find myself feeling sympathy for the poor creature, goose though she be, for none of what happened to her lay in her control. She has been used and abused her whole life long and she never had sufficient backbone to brace herself for any of it. Myself, I would have killed someone, years ago, had any man tried to do the half to me of what was done to her. But Alais is not me, and now she is home in France again, disgraced, and unlikely to find another husband soon … What is it?”

“What is what, my lady?”

“Whatever is in your mind. You have a witless, gaping look about you, so spit out your thoughts and we will talk about them.”

Henry gestured mildly with one hand. “Merely surprise, my lady. I hear or see no bitterness or hatred in you when you speak of her.”

A brittle smile quirked one corner of Eleanor’s mouth. “Nor should you, for I harbor none against her. Did you not hear me when I said she has been used and abused her whole life? I have bitterness aplenty in me, Henry, make no mistake in that, but none of it is wasted on Alais.”

“But … she stole your husband.”

“Stole? Stole Henry Plantagenet?” Her smile spread wider but grew no warmer. “Bethink yourself, my lord St. Clair, and remember the man of whom we speak. There never was a woman born who could steal Henry Plantagenet or bend him to her will for longer than it took for him to mount her, and I include myself in that. Henry was a taker in all things carnal. He saw, he desired, he took. Oh, I was his match for many years, but as soon as my looks began to change and I began to age, he looked elsewhere. And the old goat was lusty till the day he died.

“No, Alais Capet did not steal my husband. Far from it. She was but one of a long line of vessels for his convenience, used and discarded when the next in line stepped forth to catch his eye. But Henry kept Alais closer than all the rest, because of the Vexin. Had he discarded her, it would have cost him the Vexin or, at very least, a long and brutal war to keep it. And in the end, he lost it anyway, before he died. But Alais was no thief. And besides, by the time Henry first set hands on her, he had already put me away. I had been locked up for years by then, because he said he couldn’t trust me to run free without fomenting plots against him with my sons. He was right, too. I can see that now. But hate Alais? Might as well hate the north wind for bringing down the snow as blame that child for what befell her.

“But her misfortune forced Richard’s hand to what he did, once he was named as Henry’s heir. He could hardly take Alais as his queen when all the world knows she spent most of her betrothal period sleeping with his father. The Church in England was scandalized and made no bones about it. They howled anathema at the very idea of such a marriage, and forbade Richard to proceed with it, under pain of excommunication. And so Richard’s hand was forced. He sent her home to her brother, Philip, as was only to be expected.”

“To be expected, perhaps, my lady, but hardly to be welcomed by her family. King Philip must have been beside himself when he learned of it.”

“Nonsense. The only thing Philip might have been beside was his bedmate of whatever day it was when the tidings reached him. Philip cares nothing for Alais, Henry. He never did, from the day she was born. Women have no place at all in his affections. All he cared about was regaining the Vexin, and now that he has it safe, he will use his wronged sister as a weapon against Richard for whatever advantage he can gain. That is the total of his regard for her—she is a tool for negotiations.”

“That is … inconceivable.” His voice had fallen on the last word, hushed with disbelief, but Eleanor negated his awe with a tightly controlled flick of one finger.

“Nonsense, far from it. It might be unnatural, but then, Philip Capet can hardly be called a template for Nature’s perfection.”

“Aye, I suppose that is true. But what of you, my lady? Have you been to Paris?”

“God’s throat, no! I have been in Rouen, about my own affairs, and now I am traveling home, for the first time in far too many years. I shall stay there for a while, I think, at least until Richard has been crowned in England.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but will you not go to England to witness your son’s coronation?”

She gave him a wintry little smile. “Absolutely not. Richard is more than capable of having himself crowned, and the last thing I need is to be there to witness it. That will all proceed perfectly well and naturally, and in the meantime I will take myself southward, across the Pyrenees to Navarre.” She saw the incomprehension in his eyes and added, “To Navarre, Henry … the kingdom in northern Iberia. There to find a queen for England.”

“A queen, my lady?”

She laughed outright. “Aye, a queen. My son is to be King of England and he needs a queen. England needs a queen. And I have found one in Navarre. In truth, Richard himself found her, three years ago. He met her at her father’s court and wrote to me about her then. Her name is Berengaria, daughter of King Sancho, and now that Richard is no longer betrothed, I intend to generate a marriage. Sancho should prove to be a staunch ally in this coming war, accustomed as he is to fighting off the Moors who threaten him down there in his Iberian wilderness, and I feel confident he can be persuaded to dower his daughter amply for her role as queen consort. And be assured, Richard and England will make good use of whatever he provides for their Holy War.”

“Berengaria. That is a beautiful name. But King Sancho? I have heard, it seems to me, of a Prince Sancho …”

Eleanor’s eyes sought his, narrowing intently, but she detected no awareness of her son’s rumored misconduct with the young Prince of Navarre. “The Prince is Berengaria’s brother. When his father dies, he will