ALAIS OF FRANCE NEVER forgot her first sight of Eleanor of Aquitaine.
The Duchess of Aquitaine was not nearly so young as her stepmother, Adela of France, but far more beautiful, almost without age, and she glowed as if one hundred candles were lit inside her. Dressed in a pale lavender gown with a purple tunic, a gold-filigreed girdle encircled her waist and a lavender wimple framed her face. She and two men sat in the center of a large solar hung with gold and green tapestries, engaged in animated conversation. One was an old man in sumptuous blue velvet with a gold-embroidered blue cap perched on his gray head, and an expression of crafty benevolence on his face; the other was a black-clad cleric with sharp gray eyes and a hooked nose. Scrutinizing the two from under carefully lowered lids, Alais decided that neither was important. At the French court she had learned very quickly to tell who mattered and who did not.
“. . . Both King Louis and Duke Henry come out of it very well, niece,” the old man was saying. “Peace in their domains; the duke can be assured of a smooth succession, while Louis receives the homage of the Plantagenet sons and the future duke of Aquitaine as a son-in-law. What could be better?”
“Louis’s vassals will be placated, madam, knowing that when your sons come into their majority, the king of France will be their direct overlord,” added the cleric, whom Alais surmised was some sort of secretary.
“On the face of it a sound treaty, I agree,” said the duchess in a throaty voice. “Everyone apparently gets what they want. Why do I feel troubled, then? As if everything proceeded almost too smoothly?”
Alais saw the older man throw up his hands and shake his head. “If you are looking for problems to solve, niece, then it would behoove you to find a real one. Such as how to get Thomas Becket back to England so Harry can be crowned.”
“I agree that Thomas should return to England but there is no urgency to crown Harry, is there? He is far from ready to assist his father in ruling the Plantagenet domains. Yes?”
Alais had heard snippets of gossip about Eleanor of Aquitaine. The former French queen was still whispered about at the French court, but never mentioned in front of Alais’s father. Her old nurse had said Eleanor was a bold shameless adulteress, not fit for their saintly King Louis; France was well rid of the Aquitainian harlot who would come to no good. But as far as Alais could tell, Eleanor had come to a great deal of good despite her reputed wickedness. Which merely confirmed her belief that grown-up people either lied or were too dull-witted to know what was true and what wasn’t.
A female attendant whispered in the duchess’s ear. Alais watched her turn her head, a pleased expression on her face. From under slanted brows, sparkling hazel eyes examined Alais with lively interest.
“Oh, but she is enchanting!” With a wide smile Eleanor held out her arms.
Alais, motherless since birth, who had never been called enchanting or any endearment that she could remember, did not know what to do. She had been warned that Richard, her betrothed, was his mother’s favorite and that Eleanor would be highly critical of any maid destined to be her son’s wife. She took a few hesitant steps then stopped, uncertain and distrustful.
“Come here, ma petite, I will not bite you.”
The attendant woman who had taken her to the solar pushed her forward. When Alais reached the armchair she was aware of a delicious scent like rose petals crushed together as a pair of warm arms enveloped her. Soft skin pressed against hers, gentle lips kissed her cheeks. In all her life, Alais could never remember anyone holding her in their arms or kissing her in this fashion. Unexpectedly her eyes grew moist. How she longed to throw herself into this wonderful embrace and return the affection, but she did not know how. So she stood stiffly in Eleanor’s arms until the duchess let her go.
“Well! Let me examine you more closely, ma jolie. Step back. Now turn.” Eleanor nodded. “You are so different from your sister. There is not a trace of Capet. Your mother must have been a striking woman.”
Alais did not know what to say. No one had ever told her how Constance of Castile had looked. All she really knew of her mother was that she had been queen of France, had died an untimely death, and that she, Alais, had been the cause.
“Poor child,” said Eleanor. “You must be overwhelmed by all of this strangeness, leaving France and everything you have known. Still, we will make you feel very welcome here. I imagine you miss your brother and stepmother? And your father, of course.”
Alais finally found her voice. “I miss Philip.” This was true. Her little half brother was, perhaps, the only person she did miss, the only person for whom she had ever felt any deep affection.
“Not your stepmother?”
Alais looked carefully at Eleanor before replying, trying to guess what the duchess wanted to hear. In France she had become quite good at guessing correctly and then saying what was wanted or expected of her. I hated her, she wanted to blurt out. “We did not always get on very well, madam.”
Eleanor regarded her thoughtfully. “My mother died when I was very young, and I think I would have hated a stepmother if I had had one. And your father?”
Although her father had showed her a distant affection, Alais felt nothing for him. In her eyes he was weak and rather foolish, truly caring only for God and Philip. Naturally, she had learned how to please him, after all he was the king, but how could you miss someone who prayed all the time?
“I almost never saw him unless I went with him to church or visited the poor to kiss the feet of beggars.”
“That is carrying piety too far!” The elderly man with the paunch made a face.
“Indeed.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Typical of Louis, however. I wonder if he still wears a hair shirt? Well, we have rescued you just in time it seems. Here, ma jolie, you shall have a very different life, I promise you. You will continue your lessons, of course—I hear you are very good at them—and wear pretty clothes, and learn all about the gai saber. You must know something of the troubadour’s art, as Richard is very gifted in writing songs and playing the lute. I don’t imagine you heard much music and poetry at the French court. I certainly didn’t.”
“No. I want to like what Richard likes.”
Eleanor gave her a delighted smile. “You have taken to Richard, then?”
Alais said what she knew Eleanor wanted to hear. “Indeed, madam.” In truth she and Richard had taken an instant dislike to each other, although she was not sure why. The other boys, Harry and his brother Geoffrey, were easy to get along with, obviously liked her, and laughed a lot. But Richard always wore a scowl.
“I am sure that you and Marguerite have lots to talk about, and she will want to show you through the ducal palace. Take all the time you need to be comfortable, my child.”
Alais watched Eleanor turn to the attendant. “Find something more suitable for her to wear. In that dull blue and white the child looks like she is going to become a novice, heaven forefend.” Eleanor studied her. “Let me see. Something bright and colorful like scarlet and yellow, I think, or an azure blue. She must wear her hair down as well.” She leaned over to stroke Alais’s dark hair. “Colors that will show off this rich ebony hue, those enormous dark eyes and olive skin.” Eleanor leaned forward and lifted Alais’s chin, turning her face this way and that. “You may not be beautiful in the current fashion, which is all pink and white and flaxen-haired, but before I am through with you, ma petite, you will turn every head and break every heart.”
Eleanor sat back. “I hope you will be happy in Aquitaine but if you are not, if something disturbs you, anything at all, you must come straight to me. Now, have you any questions? Anything you especially want or need? Don’t be shy.”
Alais, who had never been asked how she felt about anything, only told what she must and must not do, was speechless. Again she blinked back tears and shook her head.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and meant it.
As she left the chamber, Alais was overcome with something she had never felt before. Gratitude yes, but more than that. There was a deep warm feeling in her chest for which she had no name. But it frightened her. Why was Eleanor so flattering and affectionate, why was she trying to win her trust? Alais had learned to survive at the French court by not trusting anyone, never showing her feelings, lying as needed, and carefully observing everyone around her to learn their weaknesses. That had proved a safe path to follow, and she was not ready to give it up.
Ever since she was able to understand things, Alais had always felt accursed because her mother had died giving birth to her. It often happened when a wife died in childbirth, her nurse said; a babe who killed her mother coming into the world was born under a dark sign. If she had been a son, of course, it would have been different. The only person who paid her any attention when she was little had been her half sister Marie, Eleanor’s oldest daughter by Louis. But Marie, though kind and affectionate, was so much older that Alais rarely saw her. When her father married his third wife, Adela of Champagne, Alais had been two or three years old. Her stepmother made no secret of the fact she hated her, hated all Louis’s children in truth, but Alais was the youngest and an easy target for the queen’s petty cruelties.
She was five when the longed-for son, Philip, was born. Starved for someone to love, Alais had lavished all her affection upon her little half brother. One day, she had persuaded his nurse to let her hold him. Adela had entered the nursery and Alais, startled, had almost dropped the baby. Adela had shrieked at her in a fury, slapped her several times on the cheek and accused Alais of deliberately wanting to hurt her brother because she was jealous. The babe’s nurse, trying to defend her, had been flogged then dismissed.
Alais had not mentioned the incident to anyone, but her father must have heard about it. Without explanation he gave Alais two highly bred deerhound puppies, a very lavish gift. A fortnight later, when Alais had grown attached to the puppies, who followed her around everywhere, her stepmother had taken her into a remote corner of the garden. There she had ordered her brother, Theobold of Blois, to strangle one of the puppies and throw its body into the fishpond. Over Alais’s screams and protests, Theobold obeyed.
“This is what I will do to the other one if you ever touch the prince again, you little Castilian bitch, or go whining to your father about me.”
Alais had cried bitterly over the dead puppy. “But why, madam? What have I done wrong? I love Philip and would never hurt him. And I never said anything to my father.”
Adela had smiled that icy smile of hers. “I don’t believe you. This will serve as a warning.”
Adela’s older brother, Henry of Champagne, who had been present, chided his sister. “That was cruel and unnecessary, Adela. What harm has the child done you or Philip? What harm can she do you?”
“Better not to find out when it is too late. Let her learn to fear and obey.”
Count Henry had awkwardly tried to comfort her with a promise of another puppy but Alais knew he was unable to stand up to his much-stronger sister. No one was a match for Adela. Since the birth of Philip, everyone was wary of displeasing the queen and trod carefully in her presence. Alais had brushed away her tears, heartsick over the loss of the puppy but also aware that she had learned something new. If you loved or cared for someone you could be hurt, and if you possessed the kind of power Adela had, you could do whatever you wanted and never have to be afraid.
The next day, Alais dropped the other puppy into the fishpond. Sobbing uncontrollably, she had made herself watch it struggle and yelp before the waters closed over its little brown head. Afterward, she felt strangely heartened, as if she had gained courage from drowning what she loved. She never deliberately crossed her stepmother, but Adela found out about the drowned puppy and left Alais strictly alone from that time on.
In Aquitaine, Alais thought now as she was led back to her chamber, the duchess Eleanor was all-powerful. Just as Adela was in France. She knew about Adela’s kind of power and the cruelty that was part of it. Now she would learn about Eleanor’s kind. In that way, perhaps, she might become more powerful than either of them.
Rosamund was relieved when the drought ended, for with the coming of the rain, tensions eased. No more signs appeared on the apple tree or elsewhere, and another Lammastide came and went.
After the incident at the fair, Aude had sent her a message through one of the stable hands at Woodstock manor expressing a wish to meet “the king’s leman who also knows how to heal.” At first Rosamund had been reluctant. She knew the old woman had saved the queen’s life when her last son, John, was born, but also remembered that Aude had been ducked in the river for a witch, and that the Church disapproved of her. Would it cause undue talk if she associated with such a woman? Suppose Henry came to hear of it? He might not be in England, but Rosamund felt certain that he was privy to all that she did. In the end, accompanied by Hildi, she went twice to the old woman’s cot. On both occasions Aude had been tending to village folk who had taken sick, and Rosamund had had no opportunity to talk to her.
On a fair May afternoon, Rosamund decided to pay Aude another visit, alone this time, as Hildi was gone to see her ailing mother in Wallingford. She left Everswell soon after sext, riding Bronwin. The old woman lived by herself in a stretch of woods that bordered the road between Oxford and Woodstock, her dwelling hidden by a fringe of beech trees. Unless one knew the cot was there, it was unlikely one would stumble upon it by chance. This time when Rosamund arrived, Aude was alone. After giving her a wooden cup of hot blackberry tea sweetened with honeycomb, the midwife handed her a straw basket and offered to take her into the woods behind her cot and show her where healing plants could be found.
After following a worn path they paused under the shade of an elder tree. “Does ye know elderberry cures fever?” Old Aude asked.
Rosamund shook her head.
“When the Dog Star shines in the night sky and the heat o’ summer be in the leaves, that be the time to pick them.” She turned away from the tree and pointed her elmwood stick at a tall speckled flower with a purple one next to it, and then at several shrubs and bushes. “Does ye know these?”
“Foxglove. Strengthens the heart. The purple one is comfrey to help broken bones knit well. Not long ago I used it at the Woodstock stables to help mend a hound’s broken leg.” Rosamund bent forward to peer at a green bush. “Rosemary, good for the headache, and the plant next to it is chamomile, for sleep. I have these in my herb bed.”
“I sees ye do know summat, lass.”
Leaning on her staff, Aude slowly threaded her way through the dense thicket of trees, sometimes stopping to pluck a plant or fern and toss it into Rosamund’s basket. Their footsteps made no sound on the mossy forest floor. Needles of sunlight danced through the green lattice of leaf-laden boughs; a soft breeze sighed through the woods, and oak, aspen, yew, and elm rustled in response. Rosamund caught a glimpse of the rust-colored brush of a fox as the beast leapt in front of Aude; a brown badger treaded on her heels before it disappeared into a pile of leaves. Rosamund was amazed at how unafraid the animals were around the old woman, who blended into the forest as though she were part of it.
Aude suddenly stopped, carefully lowered her wizened frame, and pointed to a pale-blue flower with purple-black berries. “Ye knows this?”
“Deadly nightshade, isn’t it? Poisonous to animals and people.”
“Banewort, I calls it, and ye gots to be careful o’ it, but a small amount o’ leaves and roots crushed in a mortar do heal chest ailments or the colic.” She then brushed away damp earth to expose a large rootlike plant with thick leaves and yellow flowers. “Here be yarrow.”
Rosamund recoiled. “The devil’s root!”
“Devil’s root?” Aude snorted. “Ye’ll find it a sovereign wound wort.” She pulled up the plant, shook off the dirt, then dropped it into Rosamund’s basket. “Help me up. Me bones ain’t what they was.”
Rosamund helped the old woman to her feet.
“Yarrow be kin to the marigold and daisy plant, naught to be feared whatever ye may have been told. People be witless sometimes, scared o’ their own shadow. Like they was last Lammastide, when the drought come. Remember how they shuns me? Me, who been a-caring for these folk since time out o’ mind.”
Rosamund nodded in sympathy.
“O’ course they mistook the time for the sacrifice. Thought the drought were a sign, but the sacrifice not due then.”
“The sacrifice?” Rosamund’s heart leapt, remembering the talk she’d had with Hildi about the old ways. Although, since then they had both carefully avoided the subject.
“The sacrifice be due nigh on six month from now, when the old year dies. That be the time. The old gods will have their blood.” Aude narrowed her eyes. “But ye knows o’ such things, I reckon.”
For a moment Rosamund couldn’t breathe. “No. No I don’t. I have naught to do with such matters.”
“Ye has a touch o’ the Old Wisdom, lass, I can see that for meself.” She gave a high cackle when Rosamund started to protest. “Ye may not think so here”—she pointed to Rosamund’s head—“but ye knows it here.” She tapped her heart. “As ye be King Henry’s leman and bound to him, and since he be the one spared, it do have to do with ye, make no mistake.”
Rosamund was shocked to find herself suddenly weak with relief. “Someone is to die for him, then?” The words popped out of their own accord and she suddenly felt so hot that a trickle of sweat dripped from under her arms. With trembling fingers she slipped off her blue cloak and tucked it into the basket.
“Sommat has to die for sommat else to live.” Aude fell silent, her eyes looking past Rosamund. When she spoke, her voice took on a singsong lilt that reminded Rosamund of the Welsh bards that had come often to the hall at Bredelais.
“It do go back a long ways, lass. Before the Conqueror or the Northmen come; before the Christian God come. Since time out o’ mind the king be leader o’ his tribe, but he must pay the blood price and die for the good o’ all when it be needed. But it do happen that certain kings cannot be spared, so then a substitute be found and die instead.”
A troubling memory surfaced in Rosamund’s mind, an image of a black goat dripping blood. “An animal?”
Aude nodded. “Or a person.”
“Every seven years at one of the big sabbaths.” Again the words came out of their own accord as the names of the sabbaths came to Rosamund: Candlemas in February, Beltane in May, Lammas in midsummer, and Samhain in October. How did she know of such things?
“Or sometimes in between at a lesser sabbath too. There be one at the end o’ December, about the time o’ the winter solstice. This sacrifice be due then.”
There was a guttural croak and a hawk swept by with something struggling in its mouth. The sound seemed to startle Aude. She blinked her eyes and with a deep breath hobbled quickly through the woods toward her cot. On the horizon, the sun was still high, just starting to sink behind the rolling purple downland. It must be close to vespers, Rosamund realized. She ran after Aude.
“Who will the substitute be? Do I need to warn the king?”
Aude turned to her with a look of alarm on her face. “Do not speak o’ these things, lass. Never.” Her voice held a threatening note. “Naught to anyone.” Brown fingers, surprisingly strong, clutched at Rosamund’s arm. “I talk to ye as to one who have the wise-craft. Whether ye own the gift or not makes no never mind.” Her voice sunk so low Rosamund could barely hear but the menace was unmistakable. “What will be will be, aye, and ye cannot change it nor should ye wish to do so. Not if ye wants the land to thrive. Death and rebirth, that be the way o’ things.”
Opaque and pitiless, Aude’s black eyes bored into Rosamund’s. For an instant she had the impression of a sharp-beaked raven clawing her arm. A wave of fear swept through her. “I do not want to stop anything, only to know who the substitute will be. I promise never to speak of it.”
Aude’s eyes softened. “I tell ye only this: In the old times when there be a king and a flamen, it be the flamen who die for him, as there be a bond between the two.” She hobbled to the door of her cot and opened it. The door slammed shut behind her before Rosamund could ask who, or what, a flamen was.
Rosamund placed her basket on the bow of her saddle. With a glance over her shoulder, she rode cautiously down the path that led away from the cot and came out onto the deserted road. The visit had frightened her, but it also left her oddly exhilarated.
By the time she reached Woodstock, the sun was half hidden behind the downs though the light still held, turning the sky to rose-violet. A bustle of activity in the courtyard caught her attention. Grooms were currying horses she did not recognize, squires and knights milled about, and a small group of clerics talked among themselves. Rosamund’s heart skipped a beat. Had Henry arrived at last? He had been gone for eighteen months and she was eager to see him again. She was about to ride around to the stables when she caught sight of one of the grooms she knew rubbing down a chestnut mare.
“Will,” she started to call out, then stopped in surprise as several packhorses were led out to reveal three boys in an open space in a corner of the courtyard.
Two of them were practicing swordplay under the eyes of a tall knight while the third watched. Another youth in monkish garb held the hand of a small black-haired child. Rosamund recognized the youth as Henry’s misbegotten son, Geoffrey, who had been a witness to her exorcism three years earlier. A careful glance at the others told Rosamund these were Henry’s legitimate sons. Beset with curiosity, she rode into the courtyard.
The misbegotten Geoffrey looked up and approached her with a smile. “Well met, mistress.” Taller than she remembered, he now had a russet tonsure, and was dressed in black habit and thonged sandals.
The small boy tugged at Geoffrey’s hand. “Who is she?”
“This is my half brother, Prince John,” Geoffrey said to Rosamund, “who has come to England with his brothers. We arrived here yesterday evening.”
“Is King Henry—” she started to ask.
“Within the sennight. The princes are only here for a day or two and then move on to Winchester.”
“It’s a very special occasion,” said John, who she figured must be four years of age by now.
Geoffrey looked down at him with a smile. “Very special indeed.”
Rosamund wondered what it was. The child’s dark eyes examined her from an intelligent ugly little face filled with mischief.
“She’s so pretty. Is she the one they call my father’s whore?” John’s voice sounded unnaturally loud and shrill as he pointed a finger at her. “Is that who she is?”
To Rosamund’s horror everyone in the courtyard fell silent. Heads turned. Even the two boys engaged in swordplay stopped to stare at her. One of them, his corn-gold hair matted to his head, flushed a deep red and his lips compressed into a thin line. The other, with green-gold eyes and honey-brown hair, looked embarrassed. Finally the tall knight supervising the swordplay walked over to John and picked him up.
“What a rude remark for a little prince,” he said. “Time you were taught some manners. Bed for you, my boy.”
“Not yet. What did I do? Did I say something wrong?” His lower lip stuck out and he twisted and turned, trying to escape from the tall man’s arms.
“Here. I’ll take him in.” The oblate Geoffrey lifted John from the man’s embrace. “He did not understand what he said, mistress, and meant no harm. The child just repeats kitchen gossip.” He walked away with the still-protesting prince.
In an agony of shame, Rosamund tried to leave, but the tall man put a hand on Bronwin’s bridle. “Mistress de Clifford, isn’t it? Please forgive the boy.” He bowed. “My name is William Marshal, tutor-in-arms and companion to the king’s eldest son, Prince Harry.” He indicated the boy with honey-brown hair. “I do not believe you have met the king’s sons?”
Nor do I want to now, Rosamund thought, wishing herself a hundred leagues away. William Marshal beckoned the boys. Two of them came, albeit reluctantly. The one with gold hair did not.
“Here is Prince Henry, Harry as we all call him, and the king’s third son, young Prince Geoffrey. Prince Richard—where is Richard?” He turned and crooked a finger.
The tallest of the three boys walked slowly toward her, unwillingness in every step he took. Harry and Geoffrey mumbled stiff greetings, covertly glancing up at her. Richard said nothing but his blue gaze held such fierce hostility that Rosamund felt her fingers tighten on the reins.
“I am glad to meet all of you,” she stammered, her heart beating so loudly she was sure they must hear it. “I have heard a great deal about you.” The words sounded foolish in her own ears.
“Have you really? Has Father told you about us?” Harry, the first to thaw, was staring at her now in the kind of openmouthed admiration long familiar to her.
“Yes.” Rosamund made herself smile. Henry had said that when she smiled she would melt the devil himself. “I understand you are in England for an occasion of some sort?”
Prince Harry lifted his head proudly. “I am to be crowned next month at Westminster!” He paused, looking at her expectantly. “Crowned king of England.”
Rosamund knew that Henry had long intended for this to occur, indeed he seemed obsessed with crowning his son king while he still sat on the throne. But as this was not the custom in England there were many difficulties involved, not the least of which was the lack of an archbishop of Canterbury.
“I must congratulate you.” She was reluctant to ask, but curiosity got the better of her. “Forgive me but isn’t—isn’t the primate required for the actual crowning of a king? I thought he was still in exile?”
Richard, who had not uttered one word to her, turned to his brother. “What did I tell you? Everyone will be asking about Thomas Becket.”
The prince flushed. “I wish it were Thomas, of course I do, but better that Roger, Archbishop of York, crowns me than not be crowned at all. The pope has given his permission.”
“So we all hope,” said young Geoffrey, whose green eyes were as pale as gooseberries. “There is some confusion as to what the Holy Father actually said.”
Rosamund looked from one brother to another, acutely aware of the tension between them, and trying to conceal her shock at this news. Little as she knew of church affairs, she did know, along with the rest of England, that the archbishop of York had no right to anoint a monarch.
“The pope gave his blessing,” Harry asserted, “and everything is arranged for me to be crowned.”
“I suppose I must learn to call you Your Grace now?” Rosamund had not used the title with any seriousness but she saw the prince was gratified at her words.
Richard was staring sullenly at his brother. “Your Grace?” he mimicked her. “It is a meaningless title, just as your being crowned is a meaningless ceremony, done only to assure everyone that the succession cannot be questioned.”
“What do you mean?” Harry looked pugnaciously at his brother.
“If the throne is never vacant, dolt, no one can usurp it.”
“Even when the crown is set upon your head, brother, you will still be under our father’s thumb,” added Geoffrey. “You don’t believe you will be allowed to rule on your own, do you?”
“Not at first, no. But when I am sufficiently trained of course I shall rule.” He looked at William Marshal. “I will be king, won’t I?”
Rosamund, who shared his confusion, saw William Marshal send a glance of irritation at Geoffrey and Richard. “Yes, young master, you will indeed be king, but you will still be your father’s man as well. Just as Prince Richard and Prince Geoffrey will be when they come into their majority and their titles.”
“See? You will be my men too, remember,” Harry said imperiously.
“Your men? Geoffrey may have to do homage to you for Brittany, but I have only sworn homage to King Louis.” Richard narrowed his eyes. “I will be duke in Aquitaine, which pays no homage to England, only France. When you are king you can strut about like a peacock all you wish, but don’t think you can order me about.” He shoved his brother in the chest.
Before Rosamund could take it all in, Harry had pushed him back and the next moment the two boys were rolling on the ground, punching each other while Geoffrey joined the fray by giving Harry a vicious kick with a brown-booted toe. A horn sounded from within the keep and a tall thickset man with walnut-colored hair who vaguely resembled William Marshal strode out the open door.
“God’s face, the young cubs snarling at each other again! Can’t you keep them apart, William?” He beckoned one of the squires and said something in his ear.
William Marshal smiled wearily. “I do little else, my lord marshal, but try and keep the princes from tearing at each other’s throats.” He nodded at Rosamund. “Mistress de Clifford, here is my eldest brother, John, who has replaced our father as marshal of England.”
Clearly embarrassed, the new marshal glanced briefly in her direction. “Ah. Good evening.” Rosamund inclined her head. This was the first time she had seen the new marshal although the same family had been producing marshals of England since the first King Henry. She watched while he strode purposefully over to Harry and separated him from Richard, who, arms flailing, continued to try to hammer away at his older sibling. William grabbed Prince Geoffrey and set him on his feet.
“You call yourselves princes?” John the marshal shook Richard in disgust.
The squire returned carrying a large wooden bucket filled with water. The marshal threw the contents of the bucket over the three boys. “This is the way to handle squabbling dogs. Now, the steward has called the supper horn. Go and make yourselves presentable before sitting down to table. Wait until I tell His Grace of this unseemly behavior.”
“They are but boys still, my lord.” William sighed. “In time, and with wise and patient counsel, they will turn into sound men, I doubt not.”
“Let us pray to God you are right. I see no sign of that yet.” The marshal gave Rosamund a curt bow and herded the now-subdued boys in the direction of the keep.
Although there was a similarity of height and coloring, she found it difficult to reconcile either of the Marshal brothers with their brutal, foul-mouthed father whom she had encountered when she first came to Woodstock. William she had taken to immediately and John was certainly an improvement over his father.
From inside the keep, the horn sounded again. “I must go in to supper, if you will excuse me,” William said. Yet he seemed reluctant to go and Rosamund saw him shift from one booted foot to another. “I apologize again for young John’s rude remark and Prince Richard’s lack of manners.” There was an awkward pause. “He is very protective of his mother, especially when he feels she has been wronged.” His face turned pink. “God’s teeth! I did not mean—” He bit his lip in vexation.
There was no malice in his voice just a statement of fact. Rosamund gave him a faint smile. “I know what you meant. And what John said is said by many others as well. It is to Prince Richard’s credit that he tries to protect his mother. Although I pose no threat to the queen.”
“No. But she may not see matters in that light.” Clearly uncomfortable, he paused. “What I am trying to say, mistress, is that I would be grateful if King Henry did not come to hear of any discourtesy to you.”
“He will not hear such from me, rest assured.”
William smiled his gratitude. “Well.” He suddenly seemed at a loss for words. “I best go and ensure another battle is avoided. I bid you good evening then, Mistress de Clifford.”
Rosamund trotted out of the courtyard. Her initial feeling of humiliation had vanished, thanks in part to the kindness of William Marshal and to the realization that Henry would be arriving within the sennight. As she rode through the gathering dusk toward Everswell, her thoughts turned to Henry’s sons. She would never tell him, of course, but she found them disappointing, not at all as she had imagined them to be considering who their parents were. Quarrelsome and contentious, the boys reminded her of bad-tempered colts that resisted snaffle and bridle. Even little John was not likable.
Idly, Rosamund wondered at the possible consequences of crowning Harry king; he seemed such a boy still, so unfit to take command. And, in truth, she could not imagine Henry willing to relinquish a crumb of his power under any circumstances. A thought struck her and she caught her breath. Was Henry’s eldest son to be the substitute sacrifice? Should she warn Henry regardless of her promise to Aude? He was sure to think her mad, a superstitious ninny. Best say nothing. Not until she found out more about the sacrifice and the flamen. Then she would know what to do.