HENRY ARRIVED IN LIMOGES in February of the New Year. Under crisp blue skies and sunlight glancing off towers and spires, the narrow streets were lined with Limousins eager to see their beloved duchess Eleanor, although they looked wary when they glimpsed their redoubtable Duke Henry, who had done his best to destroy their city some years earlier. They had reaped only what they sowed, thought Henry, hoping they had learned a valuable lesson. When Richard rode by in glittering chain mail, a white falcon on his gauntleted wrist, everyone politely cheered. It was obvious they were proud of their handsome young duke-to-be with his red-gold hair blowing in the wind and his fierce blue eyes staring straight ahead. He responded by scattering a handful of silver coins, which Henry knew had been Eleanor’s suggestion.
Henry dreaded the coming event, fearing it would resemble the turbulent days at Chinon where the very air had felt poisoned by his quarrels with Eleanor and Harry. All because of Harry’s refusal to give up three of his castles to John as part of the marriage contract with the count of Maurienne’s daughter. The day before they were due to leave for Limoges, Harry had arrived from Normandy and the hostility had increased tenfold as he and Henry went at it hammer and tongs.
“I intend to separate you not only from your mother and her degenerate court,” King Henry had shouted, “but from all other undesirables as well. You will accompany me everywhere and learn firsthand what it is to be a king if I have to put you in leg irons.”
Despite Harry’s howls of protest he had then summarily dismissed the boy’s favorite jousting companions, and insisted his son—as well as everyone else in the family—accompany him to Limoges. Not only would the final settlement of John’s marriage contract be negotiated, he told them, but he had also decided to officially betroth Joanna to the king of Sicily.
The bristling tension surfaced again soon after their arrival at Limoges. In honor of John’s marriage contract and the presence of King William of Sicily, Henry held a celebratory feast. One of the guests was the Limousin troubadour-knight, Bertran de Born, who entertained everyone with the gai saber and was seated next to Harry. A huge fire burned in the center of the hall, the smoke billowing up in blue wisps to the blackened timbers of the roof. The banquet was almost over and servitors were clearing away the trenchers, removing empty pitchers of wine, and throwing scraps of food to the hounds.
Judging the moment to be propitious, Henry stood up, called for silence, and announced that his daughter Joanna would soon marry the king of Sicily, and that his son John would one day be wed to the daughter of Count Humbert of Maurienne. King William of Sicily was pleasant-looking and reputedly kind and generous, but was at least thirty years older than Joanna and did not cut a dashing figure. Henry saw that Joanna was weeping and he experienced a sharp pang of regret, tempted to call off the entire arrangement. He loved his youngest daughter and seeing her dismay was painful. Of course she’d get used to—His thoughts were interrupted by Count Humbert.
“I offer a toast to Duke Henry Plantagenet,” he announced, beaming. “My daughter’s future father-in-law has not only agreed to pay me five thousand marks of silver in satisfaction of the marriage contract, but will also bestow upon his son John the three castles of Chinon, Mirebeau, and Loudon as a dower.”
There was a murmur of appreciation from the assembled guests. Henry, whose gaze had passed from Count Humbert to Harry, saw Bertran de Born whisper something into Harry’s ear. The boy’s face paled as he reached for his goblet of wine and drank it to the dregs. Then he nodded, started to rise, then sank back down. Bertran’s arm shot out, his fingers closed around the young king’s arm and he virtually lifted him up again.
“I—I strongly protest this arrangement,” Harry squeaked. His hands were clenched into fists and Henry could see his body trembling. “I do not agree that my brother John should be given my dower. These three castles, which border on Anjou, Poitou, and Brittany, are vital to my defenses, and to those of my brothers Richard and Geoffrey, who will one day control Poitou and Brittany respectively, as well. Why should we have to forfeit them?”
Henry had never heard Harry give such a long speech, and it sounded suspiciously as if he had rehearsed it beforehand. To Henry’s shock and chagrin Richard and Geoffrey also rose to their feet. They did not speak, but their silent support of Harry was evident. Henry glanced at Eleanor. Had she known of this? Plotted it with their sons? It was impossible to tell, although the look of pride on her face could not be dismissed. Knowing he must look as dumbfounded as he felt, Henry stared at his son as Harry continued, his voice growing stronger and more assured.
“This is just the latest insult in a series of indignities that I have been forced to endure at the hands of my father. Only recently he dismissed all my companions, as though I am not fit to choose my own friends.” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “My father gives me no money of my own, and allows me no authority although I am supposed to be king of England, duke of Normandy, and count of Anjou! This latest humiliation will—will—” He swallowed convulsively. “Will not be borne and I demand the marriage settlement with Count Humbert not be ratified.”
Silence descended upon the hall so suddenly it was like the hush of death. Everyone, including William Marshal, who sat at the very end of the table, was gaping at Harry in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Henry felt his face flood with color as his jaw clenched.
“I agree with my brother,” Richard said in a strong voice. “And I will support his rights.”
“And I too,” echoed Geoffrey.
The boys sat down. The gazes of the guests at the high table shot back and forth between Henry and his sons as if watching knights jousting in the mêlée.
“What does this mean, Your Grace?” It was Count Humbert’s voice, perplexed and indignant at this unforeseen turn of events. “I had thought there was agreement on this matter?”
“There is, my lord. What you have heard is but the whining of young whelps attempting to flout their sire. It can be safely ignored. I am master in my own house, I assure you. Our contract will proceed as arranged.”
With difficulty Henry managed to maintain a calm demeanor, despite the blow to his pride and the feeling of tightness in his belly. The feast came to an abrupt end as everyone excused themselves, almost falling over each other in an effort to flee from the hall. Henry was certain the whole scene had been carefully planned. But who had planned it? Harry did not have the wits. Bertran? Eleanor? Perhaps both.
Still, he wondered why the young king had chosen to make a public spectacle of the family’s private differences. From all the hints and whispers over the past two years, Henry had discovered there were rumors of some sort of vague plot to depose him, although he had dismissed it as idle chatter that would come to naught. The Poitevins could plot and intrigue and even act precipitously. But carry through a well-thought-out plan? Unlikely. On the other hand, if there was anything of substance in these rumors, Harry had just alerted him to that possibility.
That night Alais slept restlessly. She woke well before prime to find the chamber dark, the candle guttering in its silver holder, and the brazier of charcoal almost empty. The cold was numbing. Joanna, who shared her bed, was still sleeping soundly, as were the other women in the chamber. Alais moved cautiously from under the fur-lined coverlet, slipped into the gown and tunic she had worn the day before, pulled on thick woolen stockings and soft leather boots, and threw her fur-lined blue cloak over her shoulders.
In the hall below, yawning servants were stirring the central fire, setting up the trestle tables, and sprinkling fresh rushes on the wooden floor. She was not supposed to eat until after Mass, but she was so cold she persuaded a sleepy-eyed servitor to bring her a cup of ale and a large crust from a hot loaf fresh out of the bake oven. The bread almost burned her fingers but felt wonderful. Alais walked out of the hall, sipping the ale as she went, then climbed up the winding staircase until she came to the battlements. Surrounded by people every moment of the day for weeks now, she wanted a moment to herself. Unaccountably, the sight of Joanna’s tears over her aging husband had given Alais pause. Would such a man be her alternative to Richard if she refused to marry him? She knew the choice of another husband would not be hers to make. What, then, were her choices? The battlements were one of the few places where she would be free from prying eyes and incessant voices to think about her future.
The night sky was fading fast and in the east a pink dawn was visible, the sun a golden curve over the blue Limousin hills. Alais found an embrasure and stared out over the walls of the still-sleeping town to the fields and meadows sparkling with hoarfrost.
“Peaceful at this hour, isn’t it?”
Startled, she turned. It was King Henry, his russet hair in disarray and wrapped in a heavy brown cloak lined with vair. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue.
“Y-yes, Your Grace,” she stammered.
“Are you always up so early—” He paused, staring at her, then snapped his fingers. “Alais, isn’t it? There are so many fair young maids about I sometimes mistake one for another. Although, in truth, I now remember you quite well from the time we first met at Montmirail.” He looked at the large crust she was still holding. “Is that bread still hot? I’m ravenous.”
“Warm.” Alais held out the cooling crust and also her cup of ale.
Henry strode about the battlements, chewing on the bread and sipping from the cup. He came to rest in front of a stone merlon, his back to her, looking up at a pale-blue sky. “Dawn is my favorite time, I think. Life begins all over again, with another chance to start anew.” He swallowed the last of the bread and downed the cup of wine. “There. I’ve eaten your bread, forgive me.” After a brief pause, he continued: “Are you getting on any better with your future husband, my son Richard?”
Alais was so taken aback she did not know how to respond. Fancy his noticing, much less remembering that Richard and she had not hit it off together from the start. She opened her mouth to say the politic thing, the words he expected to hear. Instead—
“No. Possibly even worse.” She almost choked over the words. “We—we do not like each other. We never have. I doubt we ever will.”
For a moment Henry did not move, then slowly he turned. Pewter eyes in an unreadable face stared at her in that unblinking way that reduced most people to fear and trembling. Alais knew she must not show her fear, so she stared back, trying not to blink. Their gaze met and locked.
“Well, Princess, I fail to understand your lack of harmony with Richard. Quite a handsome lad and brave as a lion.”
Alais swallowed. What could she say? Revealing what she knew about Richard’s preferences was out of the question. Finally she shrugged apologetically. “I really can’t explain, my lord king.”
Henry nodded in apparent understanding. “Sometimes these matters defy explanation. I am concerned at the moment for my own daughter, Joanna, so obviously distressed at the prospect of her marriage. But there you are. Kings, queens, princes, and princesses are not bred for happiness, are they? My mother and my father were certainly an ill-suited pair; in fact, they could barely tolerate one another’s company. But, as I expect you’ve been told, France weds Aquitaine and Richard and Alais make the best of it.” He paused. “Does Eleanor know how you feel?”
“No, Your Grace. I did not think it was my place to tell her.”
“Now, there you are wrong. Eleanor would readily sympathize with your feelings, my girl, although it might be hard for her to understand why anyone would not be enamored of her beloved Richard.” Henry stroked his jaw covered with blue stubble. “She never cared for your father, you know, as either a husband or a ruler. Still doesn’t.”
“Oh, no, I believe she feels quite differently now. They are on excellent terms—” Alais stopped at the look of angry disbelief that suddenly crossed Henry’s face. What had possessed her? She had never intended to say so much.
Henry threw the empty cup over the crenelated wall. “The duchess of Aquitaine is on excellent terms with the king of France?” His eyes were like bits of gray flint. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I know little about the matter, Your Grace, and, in truth, I cannot say what it means. But from the number of letters they exchange I just assumed . . .” She was only making matters worse but could not seem to control herself.
Henry looked at her, his eyes softening. “I’m not going to bite your head off, girl. Letters you say? Official communication that passes between the courts of France and Poitou, or correspondence of a personal nature between Eleanor and Louis?”
Of course there was personal communication. Couriers were always traveling between Paris and Poitiers. How could he be unaware of it? Alais hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was make more trouble for Eleanor and her sons. When the words tumbled out of her mouth it was as though someone else were speaking. “I have not read these letters, naturally, but I believe them to be of a personal nature.”
Henry frowned. He opened his lips as if he would say something, then obviously thought better of it. A moment later he turned his back and gazed down at the courtyard and outer bailey below, where the castle mesnie was starting to come to life. The church bells rang for prime.
“Harry and I leave for Rouen shortly,” he said, abruptly changing the subject as he walked across the battlements toward the staircase. “I no sooner get used to one place than I must leave for another.”
Heart pounding, Alais ran after him. “Why is that, my lord king?”
“There is always trouble brewing somewhere. A vassal ready to cross my borders, pounce upon my flanks, and make common cause with other disaffected vassals. Fires are easier to put out before they blaze out of control. Thus, I have to be everywhere at once.”
“People say there is no one in the world to match your ability to traverse great distances on horseback.” A stiff wind blew the hood from her head.
At the top of the winding stairs Henry turned, a pleased smile on his face. “They say that, do they?” He reached out to wrap a curl of her dark hair around his finger. “I am reminded of the favorable impression you made upon me when I first saw you. Only a child you were then but that early promise has been more than fulfilled. My son is a fool if he does not regard you as highly as he should.” Henry lifted her cold hand and pressed it to his warm lips. “A fool indeed,” he repeated softly.
He bounded down the steps and Alais, her blood racing, followed him. Plainspoken and hot-tempered, Henry Plantagenet was nearly forty years old and, although strongly built and agile, no longer young. He was not of a romantic bent, lacked a courtly manner, and was nowhere near as comely as Richard. In truth, he appeared to possess little, if any, of the attributes glorified in the courts of love. Neither was she drawn to the English king as she was to Bertran de Born, longing to feel his arms around her and his lips upon hers. But the crackling intelligence, the enormous energy and power that radiated from him, was overwhelming. Alais had never felt so alive in her life. And in talking to the king, a decision had been made. How she would act upon this new resolve or what form it would take, she did not know.
What Alais did know was that she would never conform to her “destiny,” any more than Eleanor had done when she had managed to free herself from Louis of France by means of an annulment. Any more than she herself had done when she had drowned her beloved puppy to defy Queen Adela.
She had long sensed that despite Eleanor’s antagonism and resentment, beneath the hurt and the bitterness, she still loved her husband. For the first time, Alais understood why.