IN JULY, HENRY RETURNED from Ireland.
“A good journey, my lord king?” Richard de Lucy called out.
Henry jumped from the deck of the rocking hoy and splashed his way through knee-deep water to the spit of sand. “Any journey away from the bogs of Ireland is a good journey.”
It was a cool gray dawn and through the curtain of mist Henry caught sight of three black-robed figures on the Southampton dunes.
“Why are they here?” He stabbed an angry finger at the figures.
“Monks of Christ Church, Canterbury,” said de Lucy. “Who hope to persuade you to do your penance. They, all of us, have been here three days awaiting your arrival.”
Henry glowered as he shook the water off his cloak. “God’s eyes, can’t wait to get their hands on me, can they? Drew lots, I shouldn’t wonder, for the privilege of casting the first stone.”
“You agreed, my lord king, after Thomas Becket’s assassination, to do penance—”
“All right, all right, I remember. But they must wait a little longer for their satisfaction. My purpose in returning to England now is to crown my son again, this time with his wife, and speed the appointment of the new candidate for Canterbury, the prior of Dover. No time for anything else.”
He hardly needed reminding, Henry thought, that in a weak moment he had promised the prior of Christ Church, and also the pope, he would do penance at the tomb of—my God, “the martyr” they called him now!—for his unwitting part in the tragedy. But what with trying to subdue Ireland for the past twenty-four months, pockets of unrest flaring up all over England and the Continent, and now this business with Harry who was creating difficulties in spending money he didn’t have and behaving generally like the fool he undoubtedly was and not at all like a king, he could not predict when he would be able to fulfill his vow.
“I understand there has been some difficulty in Ireland,” said de Lucy as they walked across the sand to where grooms held saddled horses, and knights and men-at-arms waited. “Formidable warriors, I’m given to understand. Equal to the Scots and the Welsh?”
“I have fought the Scots. And the Welsh.” Henry gave de Lucy a grim smile. “But ‘formidable’ takes on a whole new meaning when you are fighting the Irish chieftains. I must have been mad to think they would be an easy conquest. Almost two years in that savage land and I have barely established a toehold.”
When he reached the horses, Henry gave the monks a polite smile and bowed, then mounted a chestnut destrier and the party rode from the beach.
“Anything pressing here?” Henry asked. “Your last report mentioned strange rumors floating about, but you did not elaborate.”
“No. I was uncertain if they could be believed or not.”
A damp wind arose and Henry shivered. It was hard to believe it was high summer. “Let me be the judge.”
“It concerns the continued uprisings here. Nothing that cannot be dealt with—so far—but one cannot trace the source.”
“There are similar reports from Normandy, Anjou, and Brittany.” Henry scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I think Louis of France is behind them. Despite our treaty at Montmirail and my agreement to crown Marguerite, the death of Thomas provided that guileless French serpent with the perfect opportunity to sow the seeds of discontent in my domains, and he could not resist.” The air grew chill and the fog so thick Henry could barely see ten paces in front of him. “Did you know that Louis told my vassals I am sure to be excommunicated unless I go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land?”
“No. But I am not surprised. After all, it is how one would expect Louis to behave.” De Lucy frowned. “What we have heard in England is more alarming because it is unexpected. It concerns young Robert de Beaumont, earl of Leicester, who is said to be gathering together a band of mercenaries to rise against you. I asked John the marshal to look into the matter.”
Henry looked skeptical. “I dismissed de Beaumont as co-justiciar because I no longer felt he was entirely trustworthy. Certainly he has never been the man his father was. But the son remains a member of my council. What does he gain by conspiring against me?”
De Lucy looked uncomfortable. “It is said that he wishes to depose you in favor of the young king.”
Henry burst out laughing. “This is a hawk that won’t fly, my lord. Do you tell me that a noble in full possession of his senses, even a treacherous one, would want Harry as king? Good God, man, he is only a boy! And not a particularly bright one at that. In ten or fifteen years’ time, with God’s grace, he may make a reasonably sound monarch, but now?”
“Nevertheless, de Beaumont seems to have dropped out of sight recently, none know his whereabouts, and there are these sporadic but stubborn uprisings. Something is certainly brewing.”
“Well, Harry arrives in England shortly, perhaps de Beaumont will reappear by then.”
De Lucy did not reply and they rode on in silence. Henry knew he had probably offended him but it was hard to credit such an outlandish tale.
“Another persistent rumor is that Thomas’s foul murderer, Reginald FitzUrse, fought with you in Ireland.” De Lucy stared straight ahead.
Henry stiffened. “As God is my witness I have not seen him.”
It was true he had not seen FitzUrse, but he knew perfectly well that the knight had fought bravely against the Irish chieftains. In secret, Henry let it be known that it would behoove FitzUrse to lose himself in Ireland. As for the other three knights who were also responsible for the primate’s death, he did not know where they were, nor did he want to know. Who could deny that these four men, accursed of God as they were but acting out of mistaken and fanatic loyalty to their king, had relieved him of what had become an intolerable burden? Henry crossed himself. Could he swear before God and all His saints, that in the deepest recesses of his heart he had not wanted Thomas—not dead, certainly, but removed as an obstruction? In all conscience, he was still unable to punish these villains, despite the fact that it would be to his great advantage to do so.
“You would do much to quell the unrest here, Your Grace, if you took steps to make these murderers pay for their crime,” said de Lucy, as if reading his thoughts. “It would help reconcile both the papacy and magnates in your favor, not to mention the common folk who revere Thomas’s memory.”
“Doubt not, my lord, that it is my intention to see justice done.” My justice, Henry silently amended.
They rode inland, and as they neared the coast the mist lifted. Soon they traversed green lanes and trotted past fields rich with summer oats and wheat, where villeins stopped their work to watch the party ride by. Fatigued from his Channel crossing, Henry found it hard to concentrate on de Lucy’s words as the co-justiciar informed him of events in England, Normandy, and Aquitaine.
“Poitou has remained relatively quiet,” de Lucy was saying, “and I think we can assume it is due to Queen Eleanor’s beneficial presence.”
Henry was jolted awake. “Beneficial? The treasury ignored my request for funds until I threatened to take action, and not long ago an official of my exchequer was thrown out of the ducal palace! Who does Eleanor think she is, eh? Had a free hand in the duchy for too long and now imagines she can do as she pleases.”
“Poitiers’ revenues are on the rise, my lord king, a sure sign of peace.”
“But expenses have doubled, so where is the gain?” Henry rubbed his eyes. “Tell me, what are these courts of love I keep hearing about?”
“I’m not sure, Your Grace. They have become the talk of the Continent and there is a steady procession of visitors across Aquitaine’s borders, but no one I know has attended one. Something to do with the rules of love, which resemble those of chivalry. Men are subject to what the women dictate, I have heard.”
“Blood of Christ! Now have I heard it all.”
He was acutely displeased with Eleanor, but he could not repress an inward smile. What was she up to, the sly vixen? Courts of love, indeed. What next? Inevitably thoughts of Eleanor led to Rosamund. His thornless rose. How he had missed her. Yet, to give the she-devil her due, he had missed Eleanor, too.
“You have been to Woodstock, de Lucy?”
“As you instructed. Mistress de Clifford fares well. I think I wrote that her father died a year ago, and her brother, Walter the Younger, took seizin of the fief. He paid his sister a visit in June. The first member of her family to do so, I believe.”
He had been relieved—no, glad—when he heard that swine de Clifford was dead. He wondered how Rosamund had taken the news. Well, he figured he would know soon enough. First he had to handle the business of the new archbishop, deal with the crowning, then find out what the marshal had learned about the uprisings nearby. He still felt it was ludicrous to imagine a rebel faction wanted the young king to rule; nevertheless he could not afford to ignore the rumor.
Under a clear-blue sky dotted with white, the road climbed swelling downs and skirted deep-green woods. Henry gazed thoughtfully at his land dozing under the noon sun. After his affairs here were put in order, yes, after that he would recross the Channel and turn his attention to Aquitaine. It occurred to him that Harry and his brothers might have been exposed to any number of far-fetched ideas. Courts of love; rising expenditures; summarily dismissing members of his administration. All of this seemed the result of a frivolous attitude, a lack of respect. And these were only the activities he knew about. Perhaps there was no harm in any of it. On the other hand—Henry’s jaw tightened. His sons had too long been under the influence of Eleanor, and Eleanor had been too long, far too long, her own master.
In July, Alais sat at the high table in the great hall of the Maubergeonne Tower listening to the chaplain read from the Gospel of Saint John. When he was finished, servitors brought in an array of dishes, and Alais helped herself to various kinds of fish and stewed vegetables. None of the food looked very appetizing, and she picked listlessly at a piece of boiled carp covered in a white parsley sauce.
“My dear child, I’ve noticed how unhappy you look of late. Are you unwell, or does something trouble you?” It was the husky voice of Ermengarde, countess of Narbonne, seated next to her.
“I am quite well, thank you.”
“So something troubles you then.” The countess laid a soft white hand on Alais’s arm. “You may confide in me, ma petite. I do not forget what it is like to be young. A boy, is it?”
No one was paying any attention to them and Alais found herself telling the countess all about her problem with Richard. They were betrothed, yet he ignored her; even more than that, he actually seemed to dislike her. She omitted mentioning the fact that initially the feeling was mutual.
The countess nodded sympathetically. “Indifference rather than dislike would be my guess. There are such youths, only interested in tournaments or war. Late-blooming males.” She paused. “You are sixteen now, yes? And I assume it is your wish to marry Richard as soon as may be?”
Alais could not see it would matter when she married him. But it would certainly give her more status and prestige. “I am just fourteen but have already have started my courses. I have no objection to being married.”
“You certainly look much older.” The countess leaned over and whispered in Alais’s ear. “The answer is simple. You must seduce him. Not all at once, of course, but in stages.”
“But—”
“Let me finish. Once you are bedded he will behave quite differently, I assure you. They always do. He will feel obligated to marry you that much sooner. And if you become enceinte, so much the better.” She smiled. “I was your age when I lost my maidenhead, and not yet married. A most delicious experience.”
Alais swallowed, looking owl-eyed at the countess. She remembered thinking that once she was fourteen it would be time to discover what love was all about. “I—had not thought to go so far.” The absolute importance of chastity had been impressed upon her by the Church, by Adela of France, by nurses, by—everyone. “It is a sin, after all.”
The countess looked at her as if she had not heard aright. “A sin?” She shrugged. “Well, yes, I suppose it is, but sometimes heroic measures are required; one must take the bull by the . . . I mean, you are going to marry him, my dear.”
This was true. A betrothal was considered as binding as a marriage vow. “But I am not sure—that is to say—how does one go about it?”
The countess tapped a ringed finger against her lips. “Instinct tells me that Richard will not be an easy mark. On the contrary. Perhaps a bit of practice beforehand would help; a touch of dalliance with an experienced artiste. It can do wonders for the confidence. One goes so far—but never lets the last bastion fall, if you take my meaning.”
Alais only felt confused. “But what am I to do exactly?”
The countess of Narbonne sighed and shook her head. “My dear, I wonder if you’re ready for such a step? I mean, I do want to help, but one cannot explain everything. Sometimes it is best to discover secretis mulierum on one’s own. Perhaps we should leave matters as they are.”
Crestfallen, Alais bit her lip. She did not want to wait to discover “women’s secrets” on her own; she wanted someone to tell her what they were. Her disappointment must have shown because the countess quickly added, “Let me think it over, ma petite.”
For several days following this conversation, Alais thought of nothing but the countess’s advice. The more she thought about it, the more intrigued she became. Practice beforehand, the countess had said. Practice what with whom? She knew what men and women did together—after all, she had seen animals copulate—but what else went on? She had seen many men glance covertly at her breasts and once, only a few months earlier, a visiting nobleman flown with wine had grabbed and fondled her before she had escaped. But beyond that Alais had no idea what to expect. Nor did she fancy anyone. Well, that might not be entirely true, but she could hardly approach someone like Bertran de Born.
About a fortnight later the countess of Narbonne sent Alais a message by one of her ladies. Regarding their discussion, she had a prospect in mind, someone who might be suitable, and would Alais come to her chamber the following day directly after nones? Elated, Alais agreed. The attendant then cautioned her to say nothing.
Alais spent the next morning washing her hair in a wooden tub of hot water, then rubbing her body with oil of roses. She looked down, pleased with what she saw: her breasts were now full and firm, her hips well rounded, and her legs long and straight. In Paris she had never seen herself unclothed. It was sinful to look upon one’s own nakedness, her attendants had said, and they had covered her eyes with a linen towel whenever she bathed. She had been in Poitiers for at least a sennight before she dared glimpse her nude body, holding her breath in dread of what might happen, but God had not struck her down, and gradually she came to realize that God in Paris and God in Poitiers were really quite different.
Alais slipped on her chemise, then a cream gown and crimson tunic. She glanced continuously into the silver mirror while a Poitevin woman arranged her hair three times before she was finally satisfied. She pulled a black furred cloak over her shoulders and sat down to wait for the midafternoon bells to ring, telling her attendant she was going to pay a visit to the countess of Narbonne. By the time a page arrived to escort her to the countess’s chamber, she was in a state of acute disquiet.
“The countess said you were to go right in, mistress,” said the page when they arrived. He left her at the door and ran off.
Her heart pounding, Alais entered the large chamber, then paused on the threshold. It appeared to be empty except for Bertran de Born, who sat on a stool, softly strumming his lute.
“Oh! I didn’t expect . . .” Uncertain, she took a step forward.
“Come in, Alais. I may call you Alais, Princess?” The troubadour stopped playing and rose to his feet with a bow.
“Uh, yes. Is Countess Ermengarde here? Perhaps I have the time wrong.”
“No, you are expected. She will be back shortly.”
Alais swallowed and glanced anxiously around the chamber. “We seem to be alone.” Privacy was rare in the ducal palace, and Alais did not know what to make of it.
Bertran was watching her with a hint of amusement. “If this troubles you, leave the door open. Or I can summon one of the servants if you prefer.”
It was not fitting for her to be alone with him, but Alais did not want to appear either childish or unworldly in his eyes so she resolutely closed the door behind her, walked over to one of the many cushioned stools, and sat down. Bertran resumed his seat and began to play once again. Alais glanced surreptitiously around the chamber. The hangings were embroidered with colorful scenes: huntsmen pursuing a white hart on one wall, damsels picnicking in a forest glade on the other. In one corner was a prie-dieu, in another a large curtained bed with a stack of pallets next to it. Near the narrow glazed window stood a polished oak table set with silver candlesticks, a pitcher of wine, and gem-studded goblets. On the wooden chest were ivory and enamel caskets; the floor was strewn with fresh rushes, and copper braziers gave off a warm glow. Like the countess herself, the chamber was both comfortable and elegant.
From under her eyelashes, Alais darted a quick look at Bertran de Born. After a moment he laid his lute aside and gave her a half-smile.
“You look like a mouse fearful that the cat will pounce. But you have nothing to fear from me, Alais. The countess thought you might be ready for a lesson in amour courtois, but I felt this was premature. Looks are deceiving, I told Ermengarde, she is hardly more than a child.”
Alais’s mouth fell open. So Bertran was the suitable someone the countess had mentioned! “I am no longer a child, Messire de Born, but fourteen years of age. You said yourself I was growing up.”
“Age is not the issue. Now, the countess is a valued friend,” Bertran continued, “but that high-born voluptuary sees every female in her own image. ‘Whatever gave you such an idea about the French princess?’ I asked her. She babbled a lot of nonsense, none of which I believed.” He walked over to the table and poured himself a goblet of ruby wine. “Tell me, was this her idea or yours?”
Alais felt her face grow hot. “Mine. You see—” She stopped. She felt such a goose, what would he think?
“Tell me,” he repeated in a soft voice. “You can trust me.”
Unable to stop herself, she blurted out the whole conversation with the countess.
“Tiens! Seduce Richard?” His voice sounded truly shocked. “Ermengarde has over-reached herself; her judgment dulls with her years. This is not a course of action I recommend. On the contrary, I advise most strongly against such an attempt.”
Alais knew she must be turning beet-red. “I did not intend to follow her advice.” On the verge of tears, her voice trembling, she jumped up from the stool.
“I am relieved to hear it.” Bertran set down his goblet and walked over to her. “Do not cry. Although she has gone about this business with all the finesse of a brothel mistress summoning one of her bawds, Ermengarde thought only to help you in the way she knows best. No harm has been done, I assure you. Now, now.”
In a moment Bertran had his arms around her and was patting her comfortingly on the back. His voice was soft and gentle and when she looked up into his eyes she saw something flicker within the dark depths that made her catch her breath. Without conscious thought she pressed her body against his, and raised her head.
Bertran gave a start of surprise then a slow smile spread across his face. He bent and touched his lips to hers and Alais closed her eyes. A shiver of excitement ran through her, then another, as the kiss deepened and his mouth opened.
“‘Stay me with flagons,’” he murmured, quoting from the Song of Solomon.
Alais felt awash in a tide of feeling and her arms reached up to encircle Bertran’s neck. Without quite knowing how she got there, she found herself on the bed, her tunic and gown off, her chemise pulled down over her breasts.
“‘Comfort me with apples,’” he whispered as his warm hands fondled her. His desire was palpable, fueling her own. From the time she was six, she had done her best to control all her feelings except hatred. And fear, over which she had no control. Bertran’s fingers caressing her breasts, running a fingertip over her nipples, then capturing one with his lips sent waves of enjoyment through her. She pulled his head closer against her, feeling the blue-black curls soft against her fingers. One hand left her breast and lifted the linen chemise up above her hips. Gently he stroked her thigh and slowly slid his hand upward, resting it lightly between her legs. Breathless, her heart pounding, Alais could not stop herself from gasping aloud when his fingers began a lingering exploration of that most secret part of her body, the existence of which she had been taught never to acknowledge. She knew she must stop him, that what he was doing must be terribly wrong but the sensations he was evoking were so exquisite, she felt powerless to do anything but respond. She had not known her body was capable of so much pleasure, and it frightened her as much as it entranced her.
Abruptly Bertran pulled away from her, breathing heavily, his forehead damp with sweat.
“Well! You have managed to surprise me, Alais, and almost made me commit a dangerous folly.” He took a deep shuddering breath as he pulled down her chemise. “I did not expect a maid so untried to give herself so completely to Cupid’s fire. It was not my intention this should happen.”
Disappointed that he had stopped, Alais looked up at him. “Why did you—” She could not bring herself to complete the sentence lest he think her wanton. More wanton, no doubt, than he already did.
“Why did I not continue?” He cocked his head to one side. “This sport can have only one end and I would not break your maidenhead, no, not for all the gold in Aquitaine. After all, I fancy keeping my head on my shoulders.” He crossed himself.
“Am I so dangerous?” The possibility was not displeasing.
“As dangerous as a pit of vipers. One, you are to marry Richard. Two, you are a princess of France. In any case, I prefer not to seduce virgins.” Bertran gave her a teasing smile, his teeth extraordinarily white in his olive-skinned face.
“Do you think me wanton?” She searched his face and was relieved when he shook his head.
“Certainly not. I think you are naturally warm-blooded, which is all to the good in my eyes.” He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her breasts. “And very womanly. Peaches of ivory crowned by raspberries.” Idly, he rubbed his thumb over a rosy nipple. “Raspberries? No, no. Mulberries? Too dark. Let me think. Rubies? Too hard.” He closed his eyes. “Perhaps I shall write a joi d’amour for you, my petite, and none will ever guess to whom I dedicate my song.” He began to hum under his breath then abruptly swung himself off the bed. “You must clothe yourself before the countess returns.”
Distracted, he walked over to where he had left his lute and, still humming to himself, began to run his fingers over the strings. Alais sensed he had almost forgotten her, but she did not mind.
“It has been a goodly while since I wrote a love song.”
“You write tensons for the courts of love,” Alais said. Still in a pleasurable daze, she began to dress herself.
“Simple debates.” He shrugged dismissively. “They hold no interest for me. Nor do the love songs, in truth.” He gently rippled the lute strings in a sweet melody. “My forte is the sirvente.” The tune changed to a stirring crescendo of chords.
These were topical songs, usually of a political nature, and Alais found them more interesting than other examples of the gai saber. She smoothed the skirts of her tunic and slipped on her cloak. “Peter of Blois said your sirventes are inflammatory and foment trouble.”
“Did he now?” Bertran turned and fixed her with his dark falcon’s gaze. “I prefer to call myself a patriot of Aquitaine. My gift is to stir men’s minds to brave deeds and honor in battle.” He began to sing and strum his lute.
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
His voice throbbed with passion and Alais was enthralled. A tapping at the door made her freeze. Bertran put down his lute and smoothed back his hair then pointed a cautionary finger at her.
“Bear in mind we have only engaged in a harmless bit of dalliance, Princess, but it would not do to speak of it. To anyone.”
Alais shook her head. Of course she would not speak of it, not even to her confessor. She wanted to ask him if they could meet like this again, but it did not seem appropriate.
“If ever you hear me sing a joi d’amour addressed to Rassa, you will know it for our senjal.” Bertran blew her a kiss and strutted over to the door. Alais was ecstatic. In courtly love, a senjal was a lover’s code name to maintain secrecy so as not to incur any scandal. Almost as an afterthought, Bertran said over his shoulder: “Remember my advice about Richard.”
What advice? Oh yes, not to attempt to seduce him. The door opened and the countess of Narbonne walked in just as the bells rang for Vespers.
“We have had a lovely time, Your Grace,” said Alais with a curtsy. “Messire de Born has been playing me one of his sirventes.” Without waiting for a reply, she left the chamber and floated happily down the passageway.
In the six weeks since her encounter with Bertran de Born, Alais had not seen him alone again, which was disappointing, although whenever he saw her he gave her a knowing smile, as if acknowledging their secret. In daydreams she relived over and over again the delicious sensations she had experienced with the troubadour-knight; sensations he had obviously shared. If Bertran found her desirable, didn’t it stand to reason that Richard might as well?
Had she dared, Alais would have discussed the matter with the countess of Narbonne, but she suspected that anything she said to Ermengarde would be repeated to Bertran and she did not want the troubadour to know her intentions. At least, not until her efforts proved successful. Richard did not appeal to her as Bertran did, but perhaps in an intimate situation she would feel differently. She reminded herself that Bertran had never even bothered to give her a reason why she should not attempt to seduce Richard. Unaccountably, Alais felt challenged by his caveat, as if an invisible gauntlet had been thrown down. The very fact that she had been told not to do it pricked her like a spur; after all, what harm could come of it?
On a mild day in August the perfect opportunity presented itself and she decided to act. At dawn most of the young men in the palace left for a tourney in Mirebeau, including Richard’s brothers and William Marshal. Because Richard had strained his ankle practicing at swordplay, he had remained in Poitiers while it healed. So as far as Alais could determine, he was alone in his quarters. Eleanor, Marie, and the countess of Narbonne left after tierce for a court of love to be held in Niort, taking Joanna and Marguerite with them; Alais had asked to be excused on the grounds that she was unwell. Ralph de Faye had returned to his own lands at Châtellerault several days earlier. Such a set of favorable circumstances might never occur again, and Alais took this as a lucky omen. For the remainder of the day, she was in a state of mingled anticipation and dread. In truth, the feeling of risk was quite breathtaking. She barely touched her food at supper, and could hardly wait for everyone to retire. When the bells rang for compline she was already in her bed, the curtains drawn, fully clothed, including her cloak and shoes.
Two attendant women shared her chamber, and it seemed to Alais they took forever to prepare themselves for bed. She waited until there was no sound, then carefully opened the curtains. The women had every appearance of being asleep; their bodies lying motionless in the two trundle beds, their breaths coming evenly. Heart thudding, Alais slipped through the curtains and crept across the wide chamber. With a cautious look at the sleeping women, she picked up a candleholder sitting on the oak chest, the wick still burning, and tiptoed to the door. When she pushed it open, one of the women stirred and Alais quickly stepped out into the passage, closing the door carefully behind her. The candle flame guttered in the draft and she covered it with her hand.
Voices and footsteps echoed from somewhere down the passage. Holding her breath, she flattened her body against the wall. Undoubtedly the guards, but still . . . the sound of laughter and the tread of heavy boots grew fainter. How late was it? Sometime between compline and matins, when only the guards would be awake.
Alais’s feet fairly flew down the passageway, up the winding staircase to the very top. When she came out onto the allure, the wall-walk that would lead her across the ramparts, a chill night wind blew her cloak about her ankles. Above, a full moon sailed across the starry night sky, illuminating the towers and turrets of the ducal palace, a wide sweep of dark countryside, even the outline of far-off hills. Several guards stationed along the crenellated walls, on the allure opposite her, talked in low voices, but their backs were turned, and she was far enough away so they would not hear her footsteps or see her unless they turned around. In one quick movement she darted across the wall-walk just as a gust of wind blew out the candle. No one had seen her.
Breathless with relief, she hid the candleholder behind a stone recess in the inner wall and, her excitement growing, started down the winding staircase on the other side of the Maubergeonne Tower. It was dark and she had to feel her way, hanging on to the iron railing for support. From somewhere down below there was a tiny flicker of light. A torch set into a wall sconce or someone in the passage carrying a candle? Alais paused, listening for the slightest movement, the faintest sound. No, she was safe.
And, in truth, should Eleanor ever hear about this escapade she would not be angry. Although sometimes impatient, the duchess never lost her temper with either her own children or those in her care, and Alais knew she occupied a special place in the duchess’s affections. Most likely she would laugh and scold her, not for her wickedness but for being clumsy enough to get caught.
At last she reached the bottom of the staircase. For a moment she waited, her heart jumping in her breast. Not a sound. A torch, set into one of the wall sconces, gave off just enough light to enable her to see her way. Which was Richard’s chamber? Alais walked slowly down the dimly lit passage. Everything was quiet until she came to the last door before the passage ended in another narrow flight of stairs. Was it her imagination or did she hear the faint strains of a lute being softly plucked? She cautiously approached the door. Yes. Someone was playing a lute.
Richard? Few other knights except de Born were interested in performing the gai saber. Abruptly, the melody ceased and she could hear nothing. Alais waited. Despite the night chill, she was aware of sweat trickling under her armpits and around her neck, and she wiped damp palms on her cloak. Trying to summon all her courage, she suddenly noticed that the heavy nail-studded door was not fully closed. She put a hand on the rough oak then hesitated. Her heart beat so strongly it was deafening in her ears. The door made no sound as it slowly moved. Now there was just enough space to see into the chamber. So many candles burned that Alais was half-blinded. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she glimpsed a sword hanging on the wall, an oak chest with wine goblets, a burning brazier and a large bed with the blue curtains open.
At first she did not understand the tableau in front of her. When the scene became clear, Alais was so stunned she could not move. Richard and Bertran de Born, both naked, were lying atop a blue coverlet, clasped in each other’s arms while they kissed. A lute lay beside them. Richard had his back to her but Bertran was facing her. Even as she stared in horrified fascination, she was struck by the contrast of the two bodies: Richard’s so pale and Bertran’s so swarthy. Suddenly, as if sensing her presence, the troubadour opened his eyes. They stared straight into hers. Disbelief. Shock. Outrage.
Quickly Alais withdrew her head then put a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Was Richard a—a sodomite? And Bertran as well? Alais had only a vague idea of what that term meant. But Holy Writ expressly forbade it. Tears stung her eyes as she stumbled almost drunkenly down the passage. She felt numb with unanswered questions. In a world where, without warning, nothing was as it seemed, her predictable future was in danger of tumbling apart. Somehow she managed to get back to her chamber without being observed, and fell into her bed, shoving her fist against her mouth so that she could stifle her sobs.
The following morning Alais was alone in her chamber, still in bed well after prime, while the women who shared her quarters went down to the great hall to break their fast. After a sleepless night she felt so tired she could not bring herself to rise. The thought of having to face Richard . . .
There was a timid knock on the door and a moment later a lady in the train of the countess of Narbonne darted inside the chamber.
“Princess, Messire Bertran de Born wishes to see you,” she said in an agitated voice. “I said I would tell you.”
“I have no wish to see him.”
“He appears very angry and threatens to enter the chamber without your permission. Please dress yourself, mistress.”
Outraged at his impudence but suspecting Bertran would not hesitate to make good his threat, Alais jumped from the bed, splashed cold water on her face from a silver basin, then pulled on the clothes she had worn the night before. After smoothing her hair, she sat down on a cushioned stool and assumed what she hoped was a severe expression.
“He may come in.”
The woman opened the door and Bertran entered. “Wait outside,” he said, “and let me know when anyone approaches.” She nodded and left the chamber.
“I tried to warn you, Princess, but you chose to ignore it. I regret you had to find out as you did.”
Anger surged up into her throat. “I came very close to making a complete fool of myself because you did not tell me the truth.”
He threw back his crimson cloak and rested a hand on the jeweled hilt of his sword. “I have half a mind to tell the duchess and Richard what you were up to.”
Alais felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh please, please! You wouldn’t! You couldn’t! If you had explained I would never have gone! It is all your doing!”
“My doing?” He gave her an incredulous look. “If you deliberately walk into a hornet’s nest, who is to blame if you get stung? Just thank God and all His saints that Richard did not see you at the door or it would have been the worse for you.”
“Surely I am the one who has been wronged?”
“No one has been wronged.” Bertran gave an impatient toss of his head. “Tiens! It is high time you grew up and faced the world as it is.”
Suddenly enraged at his high-handed manner, Alais stood up and slapped him across the face. He reached out and grabbed her wrist.
“So the cat has sharp claws. Stop this foolishness, Alais, before you get hurt.” Bertran’s voice was filled with menace. Alais tried to pry his fingers loose from her wrist but they were like iron. “I take it you haven’t spoken to anyone of last night?”
“Of course not! I was too ashamed at what I had seen to—” She turned her face away.
“Ashamed? You saw nothing for which you—nor anyone else—need feel shame.” Bertran let go of her so suddenly she almost fell. “I hope you are now going to behave in a sensible manner.”
Alais sat back down, rubbing her wrist. “I don’t know why I should.” A lump came into her throat. “I am betrothed to someone who—who will not want to honor my bed. At least this explains why Richard is so indifferent to me.”
“Whatever his preferences, Richard will do his duty as a husband, make no mistake. As future duke of Aquitaine he understands only too well that he must beget an heir. But whether he takes any joy in this process . . .” He shrugged
Tears stung her eyes, and Alais felt an enormous weight settle on her chest. Bertran’s gaze softened and she saw a hint of compassion in his eyes. “What am I to do?”
“What women have done since Eve tasted the apple. Console yourself, as many do even without cause, outside the marriage bed. Come, it is not as bad as all that.”
But it was. Bertran had not felt the cold disdain that emanated from Richard when he was with her. How could she live the rest of her life with a man to whom she was repellent? The tears welled up and overflowed.
“It could be a great deal worse, believe me,” said Bertran gently. “One of my sisters, God save her, is married to a Burgundian lord who beats her regularly and gets her with child every year. But the poor woman is his property and no one can lift a finger unless he kills or maims her. Richard is a man of honor who will always treat you with courtesy and respect.”
“And I am supposed to be content with that?” she burst out. “Grateful that he doesn’t beat me? It is so unfair!”
“But life is unfair, ma belle, it is one of the great truths that we must all learn. Like all young maids, you cherished dreams of a golden cavalier who would carry you off to paradise. But a daughter of France is not born and bred for happiness, is she? You have an important duty to perform and a great role to fulfill. Your happiness can only come from conforming to that destiny.”
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Alais recognized the familiar sermon. Her stepmother, her father, King Louis, her step-uncles, everyone at the French court had lectured her endlessly about the responsibilities of being a French princess. The thought of living a life like Adela’s, bored and perpetually discontented, filled her with horror. Alais now had a much clearer idea of what it would be like to be married to her ascetic, pious father, and fully understood why Eleanor had made her escape as quickly as she could.
“Did the duchess conform to her destiny as queen of France?”
“Ah, Midons!” Bertran put his hand over his heart. “But she is the great exception, isn’t she? Diana, Venus, and Juno, all rolled into one. Such a woman can challenge fate itself.”
Midons, a troubadour term meaning she who is my lady but also my lord, seemed particularly apt in this case, Alais admitted. “So then if she can be successful . . .”
“But Eleanor was born a duchess of Aquitaine before she was queen of either France or England.” Bertran wagged a finger at her. “And to that destiny she has always conformed!”
This was true. Alais had no rejoinder.
“There can be compensations,” Bertran continued. “Richard will make a superb duke of Aquitaine, become a renowned warrior, and as his consort you will share in that power. In truth I doubt he will spend much time in the duchy.”
“What do you mean?” The chamber felt chill and Alais got up and walked over to the brazier, which, she now saw, needed more coals.
“Richard is obsessed with the idea of a crusade to the Holy Land. Should the opportunity arise he would go without a second thought. And could be gone for years.” He gave her a sly wink. “You will have a free hand and in pleasure-loving Aquitaine, you know what that means. Not to mention all the great golden sons he will give you to dandle on your knee. I have several sons and they are a joy to me.”
Alais looked at him in surprise. “You?”
Bertran crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brows. “Naturally I have a family. What sort of irresponsible idler do you take me for?”
She bit her lip. “I do not understand any of this. Not Richard. Nor you.” She felt the color rush into her face. “I do not understand why—I believed you found me—” She could not say it.
Bertran smiled and strutted over to her. “Desirable? Bewitching? Appealing? But I did, ma petite. Indeed, I still do.” He bent his head and lightly brushed his lips against hers. “All you need understand is my great love for the gai saber and Aquitaine, and that Richard shares my feelings.” He shrugged, that elegant lift of the shoulders she had come to associate with him. “I am not particular about my bedfellows, whatever their tastes. So long as they serve my cause.”
“I see.” But she did not. His flippant manner was maddening and she wanted to rake her nails across that handsome face. “And how did I serve your cause?”
“An afternoon’s amusement, perhaps.” The smile faded and his manner changed. “The same way I served yours. I think we are birds of a feather, Princess.” The dark falcon’s gaze bored straight down into hers. “But nothing and no one must come between me and my purpose: to rid Aquitaine of King Henry and all foreign oppressors. For this I need the goodwill and support, the absolute trust of the duchess Eleanor, of Richard and his brothers.” He gave her a little shake. “Do I make myself clear?”
“But that is only to do with—with political matters,” she could not keep from crying out. “Conspiracies. War and intrigue. Nothing of real import. Why need it affect us?”
Bertran’s face was so shocked it might have been comical in other circumstances. Abruptly, he stepped back from her.
“Only with political matters! Sweet Jesu! What else is there? What else is as important?”
There was a discreet knock on the door. “Someone is coming.” Bertran took a shuddering breath, and before she could move to stop him he was at the door.
“Embrace your fate, Princess, as I do mine. You will be surprised at how much brighter the world can look.”