THE NIGHT BEFORE HE was due to leave for Lusignan, Henry sat in the ducal bedchamber of the Maubergeonne Tower long after the bells had rung for compline. Perched on a gold-embroidered cushioned stool, he leafed through a sheaf of parchments spread out on a small oak table in front of him. Another sheaf lay upon his lap.
The chamber, appointed with sumptuous crimson hangings, matching bed curtains, silver candelabra, and an elaborate prie-dieu, oppressed him with its opulence. As did much of the palace. In truth, he had never been comfortable in the Maubergeonne Tower, nor anywhere in Eleanor’s duchy for that matter, knowing how much the Poitevins preferred her to him.
“I think Harry regrets having defended Thomas as he did,” said Eleanor, interrupting his thoughts.
Henry lifted his head and watched her remove her green barbette and toss it onto an oak chest. Her hair, freed from confinement, rippled down her back in heavy chestnut waves.
“He has not said so to me,” Henry responded as Eleanor unclasped her gold girdle and slipped out of her green velvet tunic.
“The boy is often frightened of you, Henry. After all, you demand so much of him.”
“And why shouldn’t I? Considering the vast empire he will inherit. Sometimes I think Harry lacks the ability to reason.”
“If you refer to Thomas, wiser heads than his have failed to discern that behind the primate’s charm and erudition lies just one more ambitious prelate puffed up with his own importance.”
Henry stared down at the sheaf of parchments in his lap. Was she implying that he had failed to discern this as well? “In the event of trouble spreading to Poitiers,” he said, abruptly changing the subject, “I want you to see that John and the girls are taken to Fontevrault for safekeeping as soon as I leave.”
“What do you mean by ‘trouble’? I thought you were going to deal with all that.”
“I am. But I cannot control every rebel knight on the run, or outlaws taking advantage of the strife in Lusignan. It is just a precaution.”
Henry read through several writs, and when he next looked up Eleanor had taken off her green tunic and oat-colored gown and was carefully hanging the garments on a wooden pole protruding from the wall. Half turned away from him, she slipped off her shift, and in the moment before she reached for a furred pelisse, Henry found himself stirred at the sight of her ripe loveliness. They had not been intimate since John’s birth, he realized with surprise, due to both circumstance and the growing estrangement between them. An image of Rosamund appeared before him and he instantly banished it. God’s eyes!
“You look very beautiful, Nell,” Henry said, feeling the need to assuage his guilt. “Very seductive.”
Eleanor discarded the pelisse and climbed into the bed. “I am pleased you still think so.”
Was that a hint of expectancy in her voice? He could not be sure. From the corner of his eye, Henry saw the coverlet fall away, revealing the slopes of her breasts. Desire, sharp and unexpected as the thrust of a dagger, caught him by surprise. How he ached to feel once again the length and breadth of her body pressed against his own, to lose himself in the all-consuming passion that had satisfied and sustained them both for so long.
Sheaves of parchment fell from his lap as Henry half rose just as Eleanor arched her back and stretched her arms above her head. Not for the first time, she reminded him of a golden lioness he had once seen in the park at Woodstock, when wild animals were still kept there. But what he remembered was that the beast had been magnificent and seemingly gentle until, without warning, she sprang. Henry fell back onto the stool as if he had struck an invisible shield.
“Are you coming to bed now?”
Henry hesitated. He wanted to say, yes, immediately, but could not bring himself to move. Across the chamber he could see her watching him. Fragile as a breath, the moment trembled in the air between them. Then it was gone.
He heard himself say, “Not just yet. There is much to do before I leave at dawn. God rest you, Eleanor.” When he picked up the parchments from the floor, he noticed that his fingers were unsteady and sweat coated his palms.
Without speaking, she blew out the candles next to the bed, pulled the coverlet up to her ears, and turned on her side.
All his instincts cried out, go to her, embrace her, mend the breach between you. Now! Instead, Henry bent again to the stack of parchments on the table, his heart like a stone in his breast.
Sweet Jesu, what had come over him? Did it have to do with the rebels in Lusignan? He had not revealed to Eleanor the full extent of his plans. Was it to do with Rosamund? He had not seen her since the painful experience with the exorcist five months before, and, to his surprise, he sorely missed her. In truth, he was not sure why. Passion did not drive him. Indeed, despite the fact he had bedded her, Rosamund still retained the allure of virginity. She was like the chaste and cool moon goddess, beckoning but always out of reach. Strange sentiments for a man of his appetites. None of this had anything to do with Eleanor. Or with anything else that he could identify. Yet he could not dispel the feeling that, all unwitting, a corner of his life had been turned.
News from the fortress of Lusignan reached Poitiers in increments: Henry had mounted an attack; then he had captured the castle and garrisoned it; a sennight later he razed the outer walls and ravaged the surrounding countryside. Finally, in late February, several of the ringleaders had escaped, and some of the noblest families of Aquitaine were stripped of all they possessed and left homeless. In mid-March young William Marshal appeared at the Maubergeonne Tower.
“Is it true that the Lusignan brothers have escaped?” Eleanor asked, seated on a stone bench in the rose garden.
“Yes, madam, it is true.”
“Then the whole effort was fruitless, niece,” grumbled Ralph de Faye. Clad in sumptuous blue velvet with a blue cap over his head, he folded his arms across his paunch.
“Henry will have gone after them,” said Eleanor, trying to hide her shock and dismay. “He will not rest until the area is secure.”
“Aquitaine is secure, madam,” said William Marshal. “The ringleaders may have eluded the net, but they have fled south. The king has declared the area to be perfectly safe now.”
“They will have fled north,” said her uncle, glaring at William Marshal, “since it has long been the policy of Louis of France to offer asylum to all Plantagenet enemies. Why was it necessary to destroy innocent families as well as the rebels?”
“One cannot always distinguish between the innocent and the guilty, my lord. If there was the slightest suspicion of complicity, King Henry acted accordingly.”
And asked questions only afterward, Eleanor added silently. Henry’s tactics were all too familiar. “Now the king has gone in search of the ringleaders?”
“No, madam.” The young knight appeared disconcerted. “As I said, King Henry felt the area to be secure. He left for Normandy to prepare for a peace conference with Louis of France. He wants to ensure that the French monarch refuses to give aid to any Aquitainian insurgents who arrive in Paris.”
Eleanor bit her lip. She knew of the proposed conference but had foolishly hoped Henry would return to Poitiers first. Though why she should expect anything of him after the humiliating way he had treated her on their last night together, she did not know. Although she had not intended to bed him, the fact that he had never even made an attempt still rankled.
An elegant greyhound bitch with a jeweled collar padded across the stone tiles of the garden and laid its head in her lap. She stroked the sleek head. “I intend to go to Lusignan, and see for myself what damage has been done there.”
“When the ringleaders of the insurrection have not yet been caught? Have you no regard for your own safety?” Her uncle threw up his hands in exasperation, but Eleanor ignored him. She wanted to see for herself the extent of the damage Henry had done, talk privately to a few old friends in the area—if she had any left—and get a true sense of what was happening there.
Eleanor arrived in Lusignan on the first of April, All Fools Day, shortly before vespers. Despite what she had heard, she was still not prepared for the grim sight of the countryside laid waste and the outer walls of the castle razed. The castle’s interior had been left intact, but without the protective walls it felt exposed and vulnerable. In truth, the atmosphere of danger was so pervasive, she felt on edge from the moment she entered the keep.
“I cannot eat anything,” she told Lord Patrick, looking with distaste around the great hall, where a fine black soot could still be seen lying amidst the rushes and on the tables and benches. “I would like to retire now, with a local woman to attend me, as I brought no one with me.”
“As I did not expect you, madam, nothing has been prepared,” he replied, clearly nettled at her unexpected arrival.
“There must be an empty chamber available.”
A short while later she was settled in one of the bedchambers with a local woman helping her to unpack.
“Has there been any news of the de Lusignan brothers?” she asked casually. “I understand they escaped and went south.” When the woman paled and would not reply, Eleanor persisted, “Tell me. Do not be afraid.”
The woman swallowed. “There are whispers that the lords of Lusignan never left the region but are hiding somewhere in the vicinity of the castle.” She crossed herself. “Take care, Lady, for it is said they have sworn to take revenge on the Plantagenet duke.”
Although she had expected as much, Eleanor could not repress a chill of fear. The woman refused to say more, and Eleanor could not blame her. The people in Lusignan were a clannish lot and had never felt a sense of loyalty to Henry. Her sense of danger increased and she asked for several guards to mount watch outside her door, an unheard-of occurrence in her own duchy. Despite this precaution, she spent a restless night, waking at intervals, alert to every noise.
The next day, when she broke her fast, she told Lord Patrick what the woman had said but he shrugged it off. Instead, he suggested they form a hunting party so she could see for herself how secure the area was. As he was making an effort to accommodate her, she reluctantly agreed. But when she joined Salisbury and William Marshal in the courtyard and saw only a half dozen knights as escort, Eleanor made no effort to hide her disapproval.
“Surely you intend to take more knights and a band of archers with us?” she asked, as her ginger-colored mare was brought to her. “If the ringleaders are still at large, we are at grave risk.”
“The area is safe, madam.” Lord Salisbury gave her an indulgent smile. “My nephew and I are not wearing armor, and as you can see I do not ride a charger but a palfrey.”
“I find that foolhardy,” Eleanor said, “and would feel less anxious if you wore mail.” In truth, she thought Lord Salisbury far too complacent, considering he was in an alien land and knew nothing of the people or their ways.
“Please trust me, madam. Do you think I would expose you to the slightest chance of danger? The rebellion is crushed, believe me, and if one or two ringleaders have escaped they are on the run.”
What could she say? Undoubtedly he thought she was behaving like a skittish female but she could not ignore what the woman told her the night before. Also she knew her people. Just when you thought you had suppressed all opposition, that was the moment to beware. This was not something she could rationally explain to Salisbury, and perhaps she was being overly apprehensive. They need not venture far, she decided, and she would insist they remain in sight of the castle.
“Perhaps, uncle,” said William Marshal in a tentative voice, “it will make the duchess feel easier if your squire follows us, leading your charger and carrying armor for us both.”
Lord Patrick shrugged. “Will that suit you, madam?”
Somewhat mollified, Eleanor nodded. Although if they were set upon, Lord Salisbury would hardly have time to change his mount, much less put on armor. Despite the faint odor of smoke that still clung to the air, it was a lovely morning. The sky was a pale blue, dotted with puffs of white; rays of sunshine bathed the world in a pale golden glow. Spring lent an emerald shimmer to the budding trees, birdsong echoed from a stretch of nearby woods, and in the far distance a few villeins plowed the fields. There was nothing in the landscape to arouse the slightest qualm, yet Eleanor’s uneasiness grew and she kept glancing over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the surrounding countryside.
“What do you look for, madam? There is nothing to fear, I tell you.” Lord Patrick appeared put out. “Nothing at all.”
Eleanor crossed herself, feeling his careless remark was tempting providence.
William Marshal, riding on her other side, gave her a troubled glance. “I know I am a stranger in these parts, madam, but there—”
She never knew what he might have said, for at that moment there were shouts from the woods as a group of armed horsemen burst from under cover of the trees and galloped toward them.
“There she is!” The faint cry echoed on the wind, and Eleanor realized that she was the target of their attack.
“Make for the castle, madam,” cried William Marshal. “We will hold them!”
Eleanor did not need his warning, for she was already wheeling her mare around. The castle, a shimmering silver shape in the distance, looked impossibly far away. Behind her she could hear Lord Salisbury calling for his charger and his mail. The steady beat of approaching hooves grew louder accompanied by cries from the raiding party. The wind sang in Eleanor’s ears, her cloak blew out behind her, and her heart hammered so violently she thought it would burst.
There was the clang of steel against steel then a loud cry. Terrified, she turned her head, slowing her mount in the process. Lord Patrick, cut off from his escort, was surrounded by a group of armed men. Eleanor saw him raise his sword above his head and bring the blade down on one of his attacker’s helms. As the helm fell to the ground, Eleanor recognized the surly face of Guy de Lusignan. So the whispers in the village were true! The de Lusignan brothers had been hiding nearby all along, heard of her arrival, and waited in the woods for the propitious moment to ambush her. With the duchess of Aquitaine in their clutches, they would have Henry at their mercy and could dictate their own terms. She knew she should ride on at once but she was held in thrall by the scene being played before her eyes.
A man had dropped to his knees and was crawling toward Lord Patrick’s horse. Eleanor screamed a warning, but it was too late, and her cry was lost amidst the shouts of the attackers. While she watched, helpless, horrified, the figure rose at Salisbury’s rear, drew back an arm, then plunged a hunting spear between the earl’s shoulder blades unprotected by any mail. Lord Patrick’s palfrey reared and snorted. Salisbury swayed, seeming to take forever falling from his saddle; one foot caught in the stirrup and his body dragged upon the earth. Eleanor closed her eyes and crossed herself, knowing the blow must be mortal.
Over to the right there were more cries and shouting. She turned her head and saw young William Marshal backed up against a thick hedge holding more than a dozen attackers at bay with a large broadsword covered in blood. He was fighting like a wild boar besieged by hounds, and anyone who came within reach of his blade fell victim to it.
“There is the duchess! Take her alive!” a voice called out, far too close for comfort. “She is worth a king’s ransom.”
A surge of fear released her, and Eleanor spurred her mare, riding as if all the fiends of hell were after her. The shouts began to fade, the sound of pursuing hooves lessened. The castle loomed just over the next ridge. Even without the protection of its walls she knew the pursuers, about twenty in number less those killed or wounded by William Marshal, would not risk following her where reinforcements waited. Throwing one last look behind her, through the haze of dust she thought she saw the brigands lift a body onto a horse. Then she raced ahead, reached the safety of the castle, and fell forward across her mount’s neck.
“Earl Patrick and members of the escort are probably dead,” she gasped, her chest heaving, as welcoming arms lifted her from the saddle. “His nephew may have been captured.”
The troop of knights who had remained at the castle scrambled for helms and shields, flung themselves onto their horses and rode out after the culprits in what Eleanor feared would be a vain pursuit. Archers followed, grabbing bows and slinging quivers over their shoulders while foot soldiers ran for their maces and pikes. Trembling from the ordeal, Eleanor burst into tears. The steward brought her a drink of poppy to calm her spirits, but she waved it away.
“I will need all my wits about me.”
The most important thing was to return to Poitiers at once. Henry’s so-called security had been an illusion, and with the de Lusignan brothers on the loose she was at risk. The next morning, leaving one troop of knights behind to safeguard the area, Eleanor, escorted by a well-armed group of knights, pikemen, and archers, returned to Poitiers to await news of the fate of William Marshal.
Much to her disgust, her uncle Ralph gloated over the incident as he invariably did when Henry had been made wrong. “I told you so, niece. Did I not warn you about the hazards of leaving Poitiers?”
“It is easy to be wise after the fact, uncle.” They had just returned from noon Mass for a meal in the great hall of the Maubergeonne Tower. “It would serve you better to rejoice in my safety and pray for the return of William Marshal.”
“For your return, of course, I am deeply grateful,” he said, crossing himself. “And I will pray for the safety of this young knight, who cannot be blamed for the folly of your husband and the complacency of Lord Salisbury. But if he was only wounded, the de Lusignans will not kill him, for he is worth more to them alive.”
Eleanor had always thought herself a woman of courage, but when she remembered how close she had come to being captured and imprisoned, her stomach grew queasy and her heart pounded. She wondered what Henry’s reaction would be when he heard the news that his lieutenant was dead and that she had been in grave danger.
After the meal, she asked for the scribe who always wrote her letters to attend her in a turret chamber of the Maubergeonne Tower. The scribe, an old man with a cap of white hair whose grandfather had been scribe in her grandmother’s day, arranged his pens and a pot of black ink on a scarred writing desk, and carefully cut a sharp nib with the point of a small knife.
“The letter is addressed to Duke Henry.” Eleanor seated herself on a stool. “My very dear and beloved lord, I salute you in the name of God.” She paused while the scribe wrote on a single sheet of parchment. How she longed to tell Henry that he had been arrogant in his assumption that the traitors were defeated and the rebellion over; that if anyone were to blame for the death of Lord Salisbury . . .
“Madam?”
“Tell the duke that his lieutenant, Lord Salisbury, is dead and by whose hand. That by God’s grace and mercy, we have had a most fortunate escape, for it was undoubtedly the intention of the de Lusignans to capture and hold me for ransom.” She paused while he wrote. “John the marshal’s son, William, was taken while fighting most bravely to defend me, and we believe he will be offered for ransom. I had been led to believe that the Lusignan area was safe—” Safe! Such a wave of fury assailed her that she could not continue. “Do not put that down,” she said, catching hold of herself. Blaming Henry for what happened was not politic. “I will keep you informed.” She could think of nothing else. “That is all.”
The scribe wrote busily and when he had finished cleared his throat. “If I may suggest, Madam, perhaps a line about how you are well on the way to restoring order in the region, and will soon have it under control?”
She stared at him. Neither order nor control had been restored. After a moment a smile spread across her face. “Add that, in those very words, and I will sign it.”
What a comfort to be among her own people again where everything was understood.
“Given at Poitiers on the tenth day of April in the year of Our Lord, 1168,” said the scribe with a flourish of his pen.
Within the sennight, Guy de Lusignan sent word that William Marshal was seriously wounded but alive, and could be ransomed. Eleanor paid the huge sum immediately and a few days later the young knight, pale and weak, was delivered to the castle in a litter.
“I had not thought to see the light of day again,” said William, lying on a bed in a small chamber while Eleanor watched an old crone, skilled at healing, examine a wound in his thigh. “I was imprisoned in a dungeon cell without light, given nothing to bind my wound, and fed on such swill as pigs would disdain.” Tears of relief shone in his eyes. “I am forever grateful, madam, and will serve you to the end of my days.”
“It is I who should be grateful.” Eleanor could see that the wound festered and wondered that he was still alive. “You saved my life, after all, and I have made a full report to my husband of your courage. I am sorry you were so harshly treated. One day those dogs will pay dearly.”
William winced and bit his lip as the woman washed his wound with vinegar and water and bound it with white linen cloths. “My ordeal at the hands of the de Lusignans is easily forgotten, madam. But not what those felons did to Lord Patrick. I will never forget. Not only because he was my uncle, but because those rebels slew the lieutenant of their suzerain!”
“Henry Plantagenet became the duke of Aquitaine when he married me. But not everyone in the duchy regards him as their suzerain.”
“But that is treason, madam; those who defy their suzerain should be punished.” His voice was shocked.
Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed with a goblet of wine. “I am sure they will be.”
“I wonder who the king will send to replace my uncle?”
“That need not trouble you now. Rest assured that whatever hardship you have suffered in my cause will be made up to you.”
A look of outrage passed across his face. “I do not need to be rewarded for doing a knight’s duty, madam!”
“Still, you will be given a new mount, armed and reequipped as needed. I have it in mind to attach you to my son Harry’s train, but this will require King Henry’s consent. Meanwhile, you will remain here in Poitiers until you have made a full recovery.” She held the goblet to his lips and he drank.
William’s eyelids fluttered and Eleanor rose to her feet. “Sleep now. God rest you, William.” His eyes closed and his head slumped on the pillow.
“What would you say, I wonder,” she murmured aloud, “if I were to tell you that Lord Patrick’s successor is already here? Fate has presented me with this golden opportunity, and I intend to make the most of it.”