IN FEBRUARY OF THE New Year, five weeks after she had left Argentan, Eleanor received a letter from Henry explaining why he could not come to Poitou, and urging her to return to Normandy. It was the most disastrous moment of Henry’s reign; she knew how much he needed her and she truly wanted to be with him. But Normandy was under interdict; Anjou might be next. To involve herself meant involving Aquitaine—with unpredictable consequences. Sick with worry, she wrote again, pleading with Henry to seek refuge in Poitiers. All Christendom might assume he would be crushed and disgraced by Thomas’s murder, but if they stood together, united by this tragedy, with all the resources of the duchy behind them, they could brave any storm.
In late March Henry replied with the unexpected news that he was taking a troop of knights and archers into Ireland on behalf of Holy Church to win the pope’s blessing. Stunned and dismayed, Eleanor walked back and forth across the solar reading and rereading the letter. Henry had often talked of his desire to conquer that untamed land across the sea from Wales, and had even sent an expeditionary force to explore the possibilities—but this venture struck her as a foolhardy way to make amends. If he would not come to Poitiers, at least he should take the time to punish the four guilty knights. Finally she sent for her uncle.
“What do you make of this?”
“That the Plantagenet may be foolhardy, but he is no fool,” said Ralph de Faye when she showed him the letter. “It is politic for your husband to vanish from view until the cataclysm blows over, and in the process he cleverly diverts attention from his sins by adding another conquest to his vast empire. And in the name of Holy Church, to boot.”
“Sins? I keep telling you, uncle, Henry did not instigate this murder!” She snatched the letter from his hands.
“Not deliberately, perhaps.” He wagged a ringed finger in her face. “But Thomas Becket, may God assoil him, was a constant thorn in your husband’s side. Can you deny that he is well rid of him?”
No. She could not deny it. “I do not understand why he goes to Ireland. It is a Christian country, what can he do there?”
“Christian?” Ralph snorted. “Not that anyone can recognize, it isn’t. In any case, there is no more you can do for the duke at the moment.” Ralph thoughtfully stroked his chin while warming his shanks at a copper brazier. “But it occurs to me that a unique opportunity is at hand. The Plantagenet is far away, and the last thing on his mind is your duchy. At the moment you have a totally free hand, and I would take advantage of it.”
“Take advantage how?” She raised her brows.
“The Plantagenet has always been considered an oppressive influence here, and you have made a good start in undoing the damages he inflicted. Go a step further. How many years has it been since you made a progress through all your domains? Isn’t it time to remind your subjects that foreign dukes may come and go, but the duchess of Aquitaine is always to be relied upon? And take Richard with you.” He paused, and a pleased smile twitched at the corner of his thin lips. “After all, Ireland is a savage place, by all accounts. Should the Irish take it into their heads to roast the Plantagenet and then eat him, he would not be greatly missed, would he? At this moment anyway.”
“Uncle!”
He really was incorrigible. And she felt sick at the thought of anything happening to Henry. But he had given her some sound advice and Eleanor decided to act upon it. She rode tirelessly from one corner of her duchy to the other, glad of this opportunity to show Richard his magnificent heritage: the green chessboard of fertile valleys, sparkling rivers, and ripe fields of golden grain; the vineyards and dark woodlands, the rocky red cliffs that melded into hazy purple hills. Wherever they rode, Eleanor offered peace and goodwill as her father and grandfather had done before her. She solicited renewed oaths of homage, tried to reconcile warring nobles, and made efforts to placate those in conflict with the ruling authority: namely, Duke Henry.
At the same time she took steps to ensure Richard would be recognized as future duke of Aquitaine. At Niort, he was officially presented to the nobles of the area, who also paid homage to him. In the church of Saint-Hilaire, before an audience of her most puissant barons, he received the saint’s holy lance and banner from the archbishop of Bordeaux. In Limoges, at the cathedral of Saint-Étienne, the local bishop placed the ring of Saint Valerie, the city’s patron saint, on Richard’s finger. All these ceremonies were accompanied by sworn oaths and high Masses, huge banquets and lively jousts. Eleanor was immensely gratified by her son’s reception. With his golden hair, which had developed a tinge of red as he grew older, and his piercing blue eyes; his natural air of authority and skill at arms amply demonstrated in the lists; as well as his unexpected gift for the gai saber, it was easy to present Richard as the ancestral heir of the dukes of Aquitaine.
By the time they returned to Poitiers it was mid-May. Two days after their arrival, Eleanor awoke with a pleasurable feeling of well-being. Before dressing to attend prime, she gazed briefly out of the enlarged window of her chamber in the Maubergeonne Tower. It promised to be another balmy day of deep-blue skies and radiant sunlight, the air redolent with the scent of spring blooms. Normally this was the start of the season for warfare, but this year, through her efforts, the duchy was largely at peace. Officially, of course, she was not in charge of Aquitaine, not even appointed regent, merely a temporary steward until Henry put one of his own men in authority to replace the late Lord Patrick, earl of Salisbury. With all her recent accomplishments to dangle before Henry’s eyes, Eleanor hoped to convince him to leave matters as they were.
The church bells rang, and humming a joi d’amor, she turned from the window and finished dressing. Just as she was about to leave for the morning service, there was a sharp knock on the door.
“Enter,” she called.
Richard opened the door, scowling. “Harry arrived from England late last night, Maman.”
Her hand flew to her breast. “Why? Has something—”
“No. No. He says Father sent him back. Marguerite and William Marshal are with him.”
“What tale is this? His father is not even in England.”
Richard shrugged and would not meet her glance.
“I will see him after the service.”
Eleanor’s feeling of well-being started to diminish. Did her eldest son’s unheralded visit to Poitiers mean he was in some sort of trouble? Perhaps Richard had got it wrong.
When Eleanor entered the great hall after the service, Harry was already seated at the high table. Marguerite sat on one side of him, William Marshal on the other. “This is a surprise, Harry.”
Eleanor kissed him and Marguerite, nodded to William, then seated herself. “What brings you to Poitiers, my son?” she asked, noting that he was sumptuously adorned in a richly embroidered blue tunic, polished riding boots of Cordovan leather, a gold circlet on his head and jeweled rings on his nail-bitten fingers. Most significant was the lack of his usual affability.
“I didn’t want to come. Father ordered me to.”
“Surely the king is in Ireland?” Eleanor looked to William Marshal for confirmation.
“King Henry came to England for a brief visit to confer with various prelates, and to appoint another council member to help ease the justiciar’s burden. There is still a great deal of turmoil there, madam.” With an awkward look on his face, William cleared his throat. “Apparently he will be in Ireland longer than expected, and while he is away King Henry wants to leave the country in the hands of capable prelates, his justiciar, and a council of nobles he can trust.”
Now she understood. Of course Henry would never leave England in the hands of a green untried youth, and wisely so.
“In truth, Lady,” William continued, “King Henry was worried for Harry’s safety under the circumstances.”
“I had no idea the country was in such a state still.”
Her son looked sullen. “I am not a child but the young king. I should have been allowed to stay and help.”
Naturally he would feel that way, but she sensed this was not the whole story. The chaplain intoned grace and when he was finished Harry said, “Father said he is sorry he could not come himself, and that you would understand. I have a letter with me still in the saddlebag.”
Eleanor understood that England had the greater claim, but why could Henry not come to Poitiers as well? “Did your father tell you how matters progressed in Ireland?”
Harry looked blank.
“Apparently King Henry has failed in his attempts to subjugate the Irish chieftains,” William Marshal said quickly. “But the venture has not proved totally unsuccessful in that the Holy Father has refrained from excommunicating him, and the interdict on Normandy is temporarily lifted, pending an investigation by the Papal Curia into the death of Thomas Becket.”
“This is good news.” Relieved, Eleanor crossed herself. A servitor placed several smoking wheaten loaves on the table and pages poured ruby-colored wine into silver goblets. “Did you and your father quarrel, Harry, is that why you look so disgruntled?”
The boy flushed. “As a matter of fact, we did. We quarrel often. Every time he gives me money he insists I account for every penny. Now he won’t give me any more. When I ask to sit in on his councils, sometimes he says yes, and sometimes he tells me to go attend a tournament. If I am at a council meeting, he won’t let me say anything. I’m supposed to be king, but I’m treated like a halfwit, even worse than I was before I was crowned.” He swallowed. “And I sometimes feel Father holds it against me that because I did not see Thomas before, you know, before—that it was assumed the primate lacked the royal protection, and this is what led to—to—it wasn’t my fault!” His lower lip trembled. “I loved him, how could I have known what would happen?”
“I am sure your father does not blame you,” Eleanor said gently, “nor must you blame yourself in any way.”
“And the archbishop of York and his advisors wanted me to study every day all day,” Harry continued, his grievances now pouring out. “Marguerite and I never had a court of our own, only a miserly household where graybeards and tutors and prelates watched over everything we did. Father takes their part and won’t let me go back to England until he returns from Ireland. Right now there is so much hostility in London that . . .” He shrugged.
Eleanor wondered why this should still be the case. “One might expect the archbishop’s assassination to be felt most deeply in his place of birth.”
“It’s nothing to do with that! It is all because the king has not taken steps to punish the four assassins!” Tears spurted into Harry’s eyes and he crossed himself. “Nor has my father done penance as he promised he would to the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury.”
Eleanor glanced at William, who explained, “The king promised the pope he would make amends for his unwitting part in the martyrdom and has agreed to subject himself to the monks’ will. But not until he returns to England.”
What form would this penance take? Eleanor wondered. The monks were known for their excessive zeal when it came to punishing a transgressor. Repressing a shudder, Eleanor said in a tactful voice, “Well, my son, your father has hardly had time to seek out these vermin who must have carefully hidden themselves from the light of day.”
Harry stared at her. “Hidden themselves from the light of day? It is common knowledge that Reginald FitzUrse is fighting with the Normans in Ireland. The others are in seclusion, but not in hiding. Everyone knows where they can be found. All England talks of this outrage.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t seem to hear any news in Poitiers.”
This simply could not be true. Stunned, Eleanor lifted her goblet of wine, then set it down again. Sweet Marie, had Henry gone mad? “I am greatly distressed to hear that matters have taken such a sorry turn.” Servitors placed dishes of boiled carp, rabbit stew, and roast guinea fowl on the table. “When does your father leave again for Ireland?”
“God’s teeth, how am I to know?” Harry grimaced. “The old king doesn’t consult with the young king. Oh no, he has little time for me except to warn me of the evils of becoming a spendthrift and a wastrel. Naturally, he has time to go to St. Paul’s to see his bastard Geoffrey.” His voice tried to mimic Henry’s. “‘Such a brilliant scholar, such a devoted son. With a great future in the Church.’ And, of course, there is ample time for Woodstock and Mistress de Clifford—” Harry froze, his face suddenly crimson.
Woodstock? Eleanor sat perfectly still. She had almost forgotten Woodstock in light of the horrific events of the past six months. Henry was unable to join her in Poitou but apparently had the time, made the time, took the time, to visit his whore.
In the tense silence that followed, William Marshal said in an anguished voice, “I believe the king has already taken ship back to Ireland.”
Was it only last January, she wondered, after several years of carefully separating herself from Henry, that she had allowed herself to be beguiled by his warmth and renewed attentions, virtually reversing her decision to banish him from her heart? What extraordinary weakness and folly had led her to convince herself that the affaire de Clifford might well have run its course? That only she mattered? What a fool, what a blind fool she was to have offered Henry a safe haven in Aquitaine, with all the resources, love, and support he might require.
When the meal was over, Eleanor left the hall before anyone could stop her, seeking the solitary comfort of her chamber, as if there she could hide her hurt and sense of outrage. She walked aimlessly back and forth, finally pausing to stare, unseeing, out the open window. She closed her eyes and laid her forehead against the stone wall, letting the agony wash through her, waiting for the tears that did not come.
Holy Mother, she vowed, this time she had learned her lesson. Never again would she allow Henry to break faith with her; never again would she be swayed by her treacherous heart. From that moment on she would hew to her original goal: to separate herself from her untrustworthy husband and the tumultuous Plantagenet world he ruled.
She left the window and walked slowly over to the bed and sat down on the crimson coverlet. The anguish began to ease as an icy calm replaced it. All well and good to decide she would hew to her original goal, but how to bring it about? At the moment she controlled Aquitaine but that could change at Henry’s whim. If she wanted to remain in control on a permanent basis she would need a plan to follow and specific actions to take. Nothing precipitous, of course, nothing that would call attention to herself. First, yes, first, she would let it be known, in a subtle way, that Aquitaine condemned its duke’s failure to punish the guilty knights. This would win her agreement and sympathy from every baron in Europe and from Holy Church as well. Thoughtfully, she rose from the bed, walked over to the oak table against the wall and idly picked up her gold-embossed Book of Hours. Next she would ally herself with—with whom? With Henry’s enemies, whispered a voice in her head. She caught her breath.
Allies who did not belong to Henry’s empire. But who were friends to Aquitaine. Unbidden, a phrase she had not thought of since her visit to the Levant twenty years earlier popped into Eleanor’s mind: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. She repeated the words to herself like a talisman. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. At the moment such friends would not be hard to find. On the contrary.
A fortnight later, at the beginning of June, Eleanor rode through the gates of the castle at Poitiers, having spent the past five days visiting her son, John, at the Abbey of Fontevrault. Henry, still in Ireland, had asked to be kept informed of his son’s progress, and, regardless of her feelings, she had to be careful to behave in her usual manner. As yet she had taken no action against him, merely explored several possibilities. Meanwhile, with feelings against Henry running high in England and on the Continent, it was always possible that he would bring himself down of his own accord.
Rose and violet clouds streaked the deep-purple sky; a flame-colored sun blazed against the western horizon. The fragrance of night honeysuckle and June roses filled the evening air, and a wind from the south sighed through the approaching dusk. How good it was to be home.
“The abbess made a point of telling me how intelligent and quick to learn John is,” said Ralph de Faye, who had accompanied her to the abbey.
“With no land to inherit, he’ll need all the wits he can muster. He might do well to study law.”
Her uncle had been extolling John’s virtues ever since they had left Fontevrault, and Eleanor was growing bored. She could see for herself that John was exceptionally bright and aware for his five years. Still, it was impossible for her to feel anything but indifference whenever she encountered his oddly shaped black eyes and ugly little face. Unnatural mother. That was what her uncle thought, and the abbess, and no doubt everyone else as well. Certainly it was not John’s fault that he brought back bitter memories but there it was and she could not alter her feelings.
“A prince of the blood study law? What an idea. One would think you did not care for John.”
“What law of God or man states that you must love each and every offspring exactly the same?”
Ralph gave her an incredulous look and crossed himself. “Hark to Ezekiel! ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’ In this instance, mothers.”
Eleanor bit back a sharp retort. As her uncle aged and his fear of death increased, he turned more and more to Holy Writ, often quoting odd snippets that bore little or no relation to the subject at hand.
“Oh, uncle, I don’t blame John for Henry’s . . . Sweet Saint Radegonde, what is happening here?”
The courtyard was bustling with activity: unfamiliar grooms curried strange horses, servants she had never seen before ran to and fro carrying saddlebags and roped bundles. Six scullions staggered under the weight of a huge wooden tub filled with steaming water they carried into the tower. A string of maidservants followed, towels, gowns, cloaks, and headdresses hanging over their arms. There was an air of unaccustomed excitement about the ducal palace, Eleanor noted, and all the faces she saw were wreathed in smiles.
Then she became aware of the strains of a lute, and voices raised in song echoing from the open doors of the tower. This was followed by peals of merry laughter. A moment later her sons Richard and Geoffrey dashed down the steps and raced across the courtyard, shoving each other in their haste to get ahead. They waved to her distractedly.
“Mes enfants, what kind of homecoming is this?” Eleanor called to them, somewhat put out by this unusual behavior.
“Welcome home, Maman!” Richard shouted. He and Geoffrey were now in front of a chestnut mare, elbowing each other aside as they foraged in a saddlebag still strapped to the horse’s midriff. After a moment Geoffrey pulled out a sheaf of parchments and raced back across the courtyard, Richard at his heels.
“What on earth is going on—” Before she finished, they had disappeared into the keep.
Ralph peered at the saddlebag on the chestnut mare. “That crest looks familiar. It is . . . let me see . . . it will come to me in a moment.”
A groom finally came running across the courtyard and helped Eleanor dismount. “Who has arrived in Poitiers?” she asked.
“A party of guests came this morning, madam. I cannot say for certain who they are.”
Eleanor had the impression he was suppressing a smile, as if he knew perfectly well who had arrived.
“Is the young king about?” Harry would not keep her in the dark.
“No, madam. He and Sir William Marshal left for a tournament in Sarlat yesterday morning.”
With a sigh of frustration Eleanor walked up the steps. Two squires brushed past her, followed by the steward, who called out, “The bread must be white, and see that only the best wine is served. Two barrels arrived from Bordeaux yesterday.” He bowed to Eleanor. “A pleasant journey, madam?”
“Yes. Perhaps you can explain what all this commotion is about? Who is so fussy about their bread, pray tell? And why only the best wine?” She made no effort to curb the irritation in her voice.
The steward responded with a broad grin. “Forgive me, madam, but I must let this be a surprise.”
Openmouthed, Eleanor stalked indignantly into the keep. The music sounded familiar and she was stunned to recognize the song as a canso composed by her grandfather:
Behold the meads are green again
The orchard bloom is seen again
Of sky and stream the mien again
Is mild is bright
Now should each heart that loves obtain
Its own delight
The voice was that of Sir Bertran de Born, a gifted and fiery young troubadour-knight from Altafort in Aquitaine who was currently all the rage in Poitou.
Ralph de Faye snapped his fingers. “By the Apostle, I have it. Champagne!”
Eleanor, barely listening, stopped in amazement at the entrance to the hall. The place was packed with troubadours, ladies, knights and squires, even prelates, all clustered around someone, the obvious source of the merriment and excitement. She stepped inside, glowering, waiting for someone to notice her. Word of her presence spread, and a few seconds later the music ceased and the group parted. Frowning, she tapped her foot impatiently and crossed her arms. Now, at last, she would see this interloper who claimed everyone’s attention.
Her heart leapt in her throat and the reproving words died on her tongue. At the other end of the hall, a young woman emerged from the shelter of the crowd and turned in Eleanor’s direction. Arms outstretched she glided, flying across the hall toward Eleanor. Lively, joyous, she radiated delight like a golden halo. Everything about her was achingly familiar: the shining hair coiled around her ears and surmounted by a gold circlet, the tall graceful figure shimmering in pale blue and white, the creamy skin, sparkling hazel eyes and bewitching smile. For a moment Eleanor thought she was going mad. The coloring was different but surely the person coming toward her was her own younger self?
The next thing she knew, Eleanor found herself enveloped in a cloud of lilac scent; a pair of tender arms encircled her body, and a soft cheek pressed warmly against hers. The young woman stepped back and gazed at her with brimming eyes.
“Holy Mary Virgin, blessings be upon her, but this is impossible! Time has stood still! How can you look exactly as you did twenty years ago?” She turned to the crowd of onlookers who had followed her across the hall. “Why did no one tell me how beautiful she still is? But this is sheer magic, pure enchantment!” She waved a dainty, imperious hand. “Bertran de Born, you must compose a joi d’amor on this glorious auspicious occasion.”
The young woman smiled and took Eleanor’s arm. “You do not mind my asking your troubadour this favor? I have my own minstrels, of course, but they do not begin to compare with yours. After all, the Poitevin court is famous for its troubadours. But you must be tired after your journey, yes? I was preparing to take my bath but I insist you take it instead. A feast has been prepared for you and I took the liberty of suggesting certain dishes that I thought would tempt your palate. Although the Poitevin court is known for its delicious cuisine . . . How was Fontevrault and my little half brother, John? May the Virgin keep him safe. I have been to visit him several times.” She stopped and gave a little shiver. “It grows quite chill. I left my shawl, oh somewhere about. Will someone be kind enough to fetch it?”
Half the hall’s inhabitants rushed headlong to do her bidding, falling over themselves in their eagerness to please. Speechless, Eleanor burst into tears, the first tears she had been able to shed since Harry had arrived in Poitiers.
“Oh! Holy Mother, may her light shine forever, the shock has been too much! How thoughtless of me! Here I thought only to surprise you and now look what I have done! I shall never forgive myself. Bertran de Born, play something if you please, a planh, perhaps? No, too depressing, something light and soothing.” She paused. “If you would not think me too vain, after supper I will ask de Born to play something I composed myself and have spent the day teaching him. A humble offering, of course, nothing compared to what my great-grandfather, the Troubadour, blessed be his memory, could have composed, but it is in your honor—Maman.”
As if she were in a dream, no longer in command of her own body, Eleanor allowed herself to be led to the high table. With amazement she saw it was set with the best lace cloths, so fragile they were hardly ever used, her finest silver saltcellars and the most precious set of jeweled goblets. Even her rarely used little gold forks, the only set in Aquitaine, were in evidence. The steward blew his trumpet and the chaplain said grace. Everyone sat down. Below the dais the trestle tables were so full that the pages and servitors had trouble squeezing by. Surely the entire mesnie of knights, squires, men-at-arms, grooms, fewterers, and huntsmen were on hand.
Eleanor could not yet fully grasp that this radiant, exquisite creature, who had barely paused for breath, was her eldest child, the daughter she had abandoned so long ago as the price of her freedom from Louis of France. Except for the fair hair of the Capets, Marie, countess of Champagne, was so much like Eleanor’s youthful self that she could only gape in wonder. She wanted to throw her arms around her daughter but was overwhelmed, fearful that if she made the slightest response she would totally lose control. The bond between them, instant and heartfelt, was so unexpected that she feared a breath would make it disappear. In a daze, she watched Marie chat happily to everyone within earshot, exchanging Latin aphorisms with the bishop of Poitou, and bantering Provençal phrases with Richard and Bertran de Born. Marie held Eleanor’s hand, leaning over to kiss her every few moments, at the same time calling out praise and encouragement to the troubadours who played, surely, with more sweetness and spirit than anyone had ever heard before.
A procession of serving men led by a beaming chief cook carried in one sumptuous dish after another: roast capon and guinea fowl, larks in cream sauce, crisp suckling pig turned on the spit, boiled carp in a parsley sauce, a porray of vegetables, crusty loaves of white bread, bowls of blancmange, and platters of sweetmeats, raspberries, plums and peaches. Such an elaborate feast was usually served only to visiting royalty or papal emissaries. Pages poured white and ruby wines from silver pitchers; servitors passed around white cloths and silver basins of water for greasy fingers. Marie exclaimed over each dish, praised the cook, and complimented everyone from the pages to the squires.
Every few moments Eleanor would turn to her daughter and try to speak then burst once again into tears. She was embarrassed at this unseemly display of feeling and glanced at the other guests seated at the high table. No one appeared surprised or disconcerted at her unusual behavior but seemed to think it quite natural. She also stole a look to see how the children were responding to their new half sister. Joanna and Geoffrey were entranced, and even the normally dour Richard was smiling, with every appearance of being enslaved. Marguerite, also Marie’s half sister, was obviously overjoyed to see her again. The only one who held back was Alais, who seemed unusually—subdued? It was only a brief impression. A moment later it passed from Eleanor’s mind.
Halfway through the feast Eleanor felt calm enough to reach out and stroke Marie’s cheek.
“I have long wondered what I would say to you, ma fille. I thought you must hate me for abandoning you, and have composed many speeches of explanation requesting your forgiveness—”
Marie put a slender finger to Eleanor’s lips. “Nothing to explain. Nothing to forgive. We have found each other again, may the Holy Mother be praised, and surely that is cause for great rejoicing.”
It was cause indeed. Something had been given back to her that she had believed lost forever.
“What—what prompted you to visit me now, Marie? After all this time?” Eleanor tightly held her daughter’s hand.
Marie sighed. “I longed to see you all the years I was growing up, and never quite forgave Father for refusing to let me come to England or Normandy. Then, when I married Count Henri of Champagne, I was hesitant to contact you, not knowing how I would be received. But after I received your message that I would be welcome at Poitiers anytime, well, you can imagine my joy and excitement.”
“My message?” Eleanor was mystified.
“Yes. It took me a while to persuade my husband to allow me to come to Poitou—after all, he did not want to upset my father—but I finally succeeded, thank the Holy Virgin.” She smiled and kissed Eleanor tenderly on the forehead.
“It has slipped my mind, cherie, but you received this when?”
“About one and one half years ago now.” Marie laughed. “I thought it so clever of you to send it while my husband was away at the meeting held by my father in Montmirail.”
“Of course,” Eleanor said, trying to cover her confusion.
Sweet Saint Radegonde, who could have sent a message in her name? She slid a glance at her uncle, who was beaming at his great-niece. Was it possible that Ralph? . . . No. Then who? Only someone attending the conference at Montmirail who knew that the count of Champagne was there without his countess. That left only—What was it Henry had asked her at Bures? Something about receiving unexpected visitors.
Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Henry, Henry, Henry. Tyrant. Oppressor. Adulterer. Nemesis. In one breath she hated him, the next she adored him. But if she lived to be a hundred would she ever understand him?