ON THE SECOND DAY of November, Rosamund was in her cot at Everswell, making cakes in honor of Saint Catherine, whose month it was. She had been doing this ever since she was a child at Bredelais—Gwennyth had told her she made the best in the shire. There was a sharp knock at the door and, dusting flour from her hands, she went to open it. A royal messenger stood outside.
“Please to attend the king at Woodstock this afternoon, on a very confidential and private matter, mistress,” he announced with a formal bow.
“Thank you. I will be there.” She watched him ride out of the clearing and slowly shut the door.
Confidential and private? With all England aware of what Henry had in mind? Rosamund finished shaping the dough into little wheels, sprinkled them with caraway seeds, and placed them in the bake oven. She turned the hourglass, then went up to the bower to change her clothes in preparation for the ordeal that lay ahead.
Although Henry had not spoken to her directly, and there had been no official proclamation, it was generally assumed that he would seek an annulment and cast Eleanor aside. Exactly what Reverend Mother had warned her might happen. Although initially Rosamund had not believed him capable of such a terrible act, Henry had grown frighteningly unpredictable since his return to England the previous spring. A jovial mood might suddenly turn to melancholy or rage without reason. For weeks at a time he could be affectionate and amusing then suddenly scowl, pace the cot at Everswell, and rant endlessly about punishing those who betrayed him. Far worse than he had ever been over Thomas Becket. At such times he was so unlike the Henry she thought she knew that, in truth, she had come to believe anything was possible.
There were dark clouds on the horizon, and a damp wind blowing when Rosamund, modestly clad in a sober gray gown and tunic covered with a fur-lined black cloak, mounted the gray palfrey Henry had given her the previous April. Bronze leaves swirled in the gusting air as she rode across the barren park and approached the castle. Although she had carefully gone over what she would say should Henry involve her in this matter with Reverend Mother, her heart quickened and her mouth felt dry when she entered Woodstock. The steward escorted her into a large antechamber off the great hall, where Henry, clad in purple and wearing his crown, was seated on a high-backed wooden chair draped in cloth of gold. His eyes were bloodshot; his expression severe.
Royal officials and prelates stood at the king’s right hand, the young king flanked his left with his brothers Prince Richard and Count Geoffrey beside him. They must have just arrived, thought Rosamund, who had not known they were in England. The French princesses, Henry’s daughter Joanna, and young Prince John sat on a bench in the center of the chamber. The chancellor, Peter of Blois, indicated a stool next to the bench and Rosamund, careful not look at anyone, took her seat. The atmosphere was thick with hostility.
“I have brought you here together,” Henry began in a gruff voice, “to inform you directly of my future intentions, and put an end to any gossip and speculation that may have reached your ears.”
All eyes were fixed on Henry, and Rosamund had the sense everyone was holding their breath in anticipation of what he would say.
“Due to recent events with which you are all familiar, I have decided to—to alter my domestic arrangements.” He cleared his throat. “My wife, Eleanor, has forfeited my goodwill. Due to her treacherous behavior, her underhanded conniving with my enemies, she has lost all right to any titles that came to her through our marriage.” He paused. “A marriage that I can no longer continue and hope to have annulled on the grounds of consanguinity. Indeed, a cardinal from the Holy See who has been in England on other business is even now on his way back to Rome to present this matter before the pope.”
The tense silence was broken by Joanna’s voice. “What will happen to my mother?”
“She has been offered an honorable retirement as abbess of the prestigious abbey of Fontevrault. On condition she relinquish her title as duchess of Aquitaine, of course. It is not uncommon for women of a certain age to retire from this world and prepare themselves for the next.” Rosamund saw Henry shift his gaze to a spot above Joanna’s head. “This leaves me free to make another alliance. Should I wish to do so.”
Although this news could have come as no surprise—everyone present would have heard the rumors—nevertheless, Rosamund could see that they were shocked by the stark boldness of Henry’s declaration. Hearing the words spoken aloud in official surroundings gave them a frightening validity. The young king and his brothers turned ashen; Harry’s wife burst into tears, as did Joanna. Only Alais, Rosamund noted, exchanging a look with John, did not lose her self-possession.
No one glanced in her direction, but Rosamund knew that everyone was aware of her, the unwelcome outsider in what was essentially a gathering of family and advisors to the crown. “Well,” said Henry at length, obviously ill at ease. “Are there any questions?”
Probably many, thought Rosamund, but who would have the courage to voice them?
No one spoke. “Then that is all for the present.”
Everyone filed out of the chamber, except for two bishops and the king’s Chancellor. When Rosamund started to leave, Henry gestured for her to remain.
“Well, sweeting, what do you say to my news?”
“What should I say, my lord? That I am deeply shocked and saddened to hear that you will cast your wife aside. Everyone present felt the same. I wonder I was asked to attend so private a function since the matter has naught to do with me.”
“On the contrary, it has everything to do with you! When matters are settled you will be my queen.”
Now it was out. Henry had not asked for her agreement, nor discussed it with her, just informed her of what would happen, certain of her compliance. Indignant, Rosamund could barely control a sharp retort.
“Until this marriage is annulled, my lord, it is unseemly to speak of another one. When does Queen Eleanor leave for Fontevrault?”
Henry looked as if she had just slapped him in the face. “I cannot say. I mean, this is a situation that by its very nature may take months before all the details are sorted out.”
“Or even years?”
Henry, his face reddening, stared at her for a moment then turned to his chancellor and the bishops of Oxford and London. “You may go.”
“Do not dismiss them on my account, Your Grace.” Rosamund hid her agitation under a brave smile. The last thing she wanted at this moment was to be alone with Henry. “My lord, you have been good to me and my family over the years. For this I am grateful. And I care for you, as you know, both as my sovereign lord and a loving friend. For almost ten years, I have lived as your leman, knowing it was a mortal sin.”
“Rosamund, this is neither the time nor the place to air such personal matters,” Henry began, clearly embarrassed.
“But it is, my lord, since you have brought up the subject.” She heard her voice start to tremble. “I already carry a heavy burden of guilt on my conscience. Now you ask me to jeopardize my immortal soul beyond redemption.”
Henry must know what she meant: how, all unwitting, she had come between her mother and her father, then between Henry and Eleanor as well. Had she not caused enough ill will and suffering? Rosamund felt she would sooner die than inflict more pain.
“You are not being asked to put your soul in jeopardy, my dear.” Henry’s face was flushed. “Rome would see to that.”
Rosamund took a deep breath. Although she had prepared for this moment, her heart leapt in fear. “There is also the question of your children. If you were to annul your marriage, Your Grace, would that not make them illegitimate?”
Obviously vexed, Henry’s face turned scarlet, and he cast a sidelong glance at the prelates. “That question does not concern you. The young king’s subjects, as well as Prince Richard’s and Count Geoffrey’s, have already sworn fealty to my sons so—”
“Still, they would be bastards,” Rosamund interjected, noting that Henry had not directly answered her. “England, Normandy, Anjou, Brittany, and Aquitaine would all be ruled by bastards. I wonder what their subjects and yours would say to that? What will be King Louis’s reaction when he learns his daughter is married to an illegitimate king? Isn’t it against the law for bastards to rule in England? What will be the duke of Saxony’s response when he discovers his wife, your daughter Matilda, is misbegotten? Or the king of Castile’s to find his wife, also your daughter, is a bastard? How will the king of Sicily feel about his betrothal to Princess Joanna under these new circumstances?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamund could see the chancellor eyeing her in pleased amazement. The bishop of Oxford was judiciously nodding his head, and the bishop of London was obviously hiding a smile. Evidently, this argument was not new to anyone present. Henry’s eyes were now like storm clouds and his head thrust forward like a bull ready to charge.
“Forgive me, my lord king,” said Rosamund, her voice breaking, “but I cannot become your official consort. I will never commit—or allow you to commit—so great a sin. If you will permit me, I will happily join the sisters at Godstow. I have never really wanted anything else.”
“You are distraught, Rosamund. Let there be an end to this mad talk.”
“I am not distraught. On the contrary, I have never felt so clearheaded.”
Her heart beating like a drum, Rosamund turned on her heel and ran to the door of the antechamber. When she pulled it open, she almost knocked down Alais of France, who had obviously been listening outside. The French princess’s dark gaze was both disbelieving and speculative as Rosamund pushed her aside and raced down the passage and out the doors of the keep into the courtyard.
Alais was not sure when the idea came to her of taking Rosamund’s place in Henry’s affections. The thought appeared one day, like an unwelcome intruder, in early December about a month after she had eavesdropped at the door of the antechamber and heard Rosamund reject Henry’s offer to make her his queen.
“It does not make sense,” she told Marguerite, after reporting what she had heard. “Why would that low-born slut prefer being buried in a convent to life as queen of England? It must be a ploy of some kind.”
“It can hardly matter what she does, sister, or what King Henry says he will do. Given Eleanor’s position and power, Rome will never agree to an annulment. It is unthinkable.”
“Our father’s marriage to Eleanor was annulled, wasn’t it?”
Marguerite stared at her. “A princess of France married to a bastard?” She suddenly burst into tears. “I refuse to even consider the possibility. The shame of it would kill me.”
Alais patted her sister on the back. She had not meant to upset Marguerite, but at the moment she was more concerned about Rosamund de Clifford’s intentions than Eleanor’s future. If the leman did enter Godstow, and if Henry was able to rid himself of Eleanor, why should he not turn to her? At first she was shocked at such a thought. On the other hand, she felt sure that Henry liked her. At least on the brief and far-flung occasions when she had come into direct contact with him, Alais knew she had made an impression, like on the battlements at Limoges. And if Henry were willing to marry a nobody like the de Clifford creature, surely a daughter of France would be a far more suitable match? Richard would be sure to protest, but she could hardly worry about that. In any case, Alais decided, she was putting the cart well before the horse. The initial step was for Rosamund to enter Godstow. Then she, Alais, would contrive to become Henry’s mistress. Then . . . she reined in her runaway thoughts.
Richard and Count Geoffrey returned to the Continent in mid-December. In the New Year, 1176, plague raged briefly in England, with eight bodies a day being carried out of the various churches for burial. In addition, the winter was so severe that snow and ice covered most of the land from Christmas to Candlemas. As London and even Oxford were deemed unsafe, Henry kept court at Winchester or Marlborough.
When Henry again held his court at Woodstock in the middle of February, Alais was surprised to glimpse Rosamund de Clifford in the stable tending to an ailing mare. Had the girl changed her mind about the convent, or was it really a ploy as Alais suspected all along? Anxious, she asked the one person who seemed to know everything about everyone: John, recently turned ten years of age, was at Woodstock with his tutor.
“It’s quite simple, really. My father won’t let Rosamund enter Godstow,” John said when she asked him how matters stood. “Even though she still refuses to be his official consort.”
“Can he prevent her?”
“Indirectly, yes. She would need a dowry to be accepted. I doubt she has any money of her own.”
They were closeted in a small stone chamber used for John’s lessons, the only place where they could be sure of not being overheard. There was no brazier and Alais pulled her fur-lined mantle about her shoulders. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“In truth, Rosamund and my father are estranged over the issue,” John said with a note of satisfaction in his voice. “My father has not been to see her since I arrived at Woodstock.”
“I noticed that too. Will he change his mind, do you think?”
“About what?”
“Allowing her to enter the convent.”
“Why should it matter to you if Rosamund goes to Godstow or not?”
John was watching her like a hawk watches a field mouse, and Alais realized she had said too much. “Well, it doesn’t matter.” She knew she sounded flustered and was annoyed with herself for having let him catch her off guard. “Of course it doesn’t. But your mother’s plight matters—I mean, I care what happens to her.”
“Do you?” John narrowed his eyes. “I don’t.”
“But you must care that she is not cast aside so that Rosamund can become queen!”
“Of course I care about that, but now I think it unlikely that either of these events will ever occur.” He shrugged. “My half brother Geoffrey told me in confidence that it is very, very doubtful Rome will grant my father an annulment. The pope could drag his feet for years without ever coming to a decision. Eventually, I suppose, the king would simply give up and allow Rosamund to join Godstow.”
Alais’s heart sagged. Years? She could not afford to wait that long. Perhaps waiting for Rosamund to enter Godstow was the wrong approach. Wasn’t it Eleanor who had said that it was always preferable to act rather than wait for others to act? If she did something now to draw Henry’s attention to her it might expedite matters and he would lose interest in Rosamund altogether. Even Rome might look more favorably on an annulment if they realized that the king of England wished to wed a French princess instead of an English pauper. But what could she do?
In March, King Henry moved his court to Winchester, and the opportunity Alais had been looking for unexpectedly presented itself. After supper one evening, Joanna approached her and led her out of the great hall into the passageway.
“I want you to do something for me, Alais.” Joanna gave her an anxious look. “Something important.”
Alais smiled indulgently. “What is it?”
“Before I go to Sicily, I want to see my mother. Tonight I plan to ask my father if he will consider releasing her for a few days so we can be together.” Tears welled up in Joanna’s eyes. “Probably for the last time.”
Alais frowned. “You do not leave until the summer. Why ask your father now, so far in advance?”
“To give him time to think about it. He sometimes makes impulsive decisions when he is angry but over time will change his mind.” Joanna gripped her arm. “I am not brave enough to face him alone. Come with me.”
Alais’s heart jumped. “Why do you choose me?”
“He really likes you, and if he becomes angry, which he might well do, I would be less frightened with you there. Nothing seems to frighten you.”
The expression on Joanna’s pretty round face was so desperate that Alais felt a trickle of pity for her. “That is not true, silly goose.” Alais paused. “Why do you say your father likes me?”
“Oh, I can tell. Please, say you will?” Joanna clutched Alais’s arm so tightly it hurt.
“All right. Let me go now.”
Joanna let out her breath in a long sigh of relief and hugged her. “The best time to catch him is right before he goes to bed, usually after compline. I will meet you outside his quarters when the bells ring. Then, if we avoid the service, we can wait for him inside the bedchamber until he comes.”
Alais stared at Joanna. “Surely you mean wait outside?”
Joanna shook her head. “This is too—too delicate a matter to be discussed in the passageway outside my father’s chamber. Anyone could overhear and he would be sure to start roaring at once and say no. If we are alone I will stand a better chance of convincing him.” She blew Alais a kiss and skipped down the passageway.
In truth, Alais admired Joanna’s spirit. It took courage to storm the royal bedchamber. At her father’s court, Alais knew, no matter how desperate the situation, she would never have dared enter his private quarters without permission. Her first response had been only to help Joanna, whom she truly liked, but then suddenly Alais realized that this might be just the opportunity she had been waiting for. compline was several hours away, which gave her some time.
While everyone was at supper and Alais knew she would be alone, she washed and scented her body with oil of roses, and decided to wear a wine-colored tunic that enhanced her dark eyes and hair. She slipped on a linen chemise that revealed the rounded curve of her hips and the full thrust of her breasts, then picked up a cream-colored gown to wear under the tunic. After examining herself in the silver mirror, she decided to discard it. Instead, almost afraid of what she was going to do, she daringly slipped only the tunic over her head. It was looser without the gown underneath and when she pulled it down, the half-moons of her breasts swelled invitingly over the square neckline. Next she pulled on a dark brown cloak lined with vair, and clasped it at the throat with a gold brooch. The folds of the cloak would conceal her body from the waist up, or reveal it if she so chose, merely by pushing the folds aside.
After another look in the silver mirror, she undid the coils of her hair and shook her head so that the blue-black mane rippled down her back and shoulders. Bertran de Born had described her hair as dark and soft as a raven’s wing, or something equally poetic. Even to her own eyes she appeared sensual, provocative, and yet innocent, all at the same time. The words of her hated stepmother, Adela of France, came back to her, that spiteful voice she would never forget.
“This odd-looking child will never be pretty, much less a beauty. Her nose is too long, her mouth too wide, and her skin too olive. How fortunate she is to be a French princess with a great dowry.”
Alais smiled at the image reflected back to her. She now knew she had qualities far more desirable than mere beauty.
When the bells rang for compline, Alais, holding a candle in a pewter holder, joined Joanna outside Henry’s bedchamber.
“You look lovely, Alais,” said Joanna in a wondering tone. “But why did you change your clothes?”
“I thought it might help your plans prosper if I looked particularly nice.”
Joanna took her hand and squeezed it. “How clever you are. Why didn’t I think of that? My knees are turning to water already.” Under her breath she murmured an Ave, crossed herself, then knocked on the door. “Pray we get past my father’s watchdog, Milo.”
Alais looked at her in dismay. “I thought you said he would be alone?”
“We will be. Milo is my father’s body servant, always there, and my father speaks freely in front of him.”
Alais, far from pleased at this unwelcome turn of events, wondered what else Joanna had neglected to mention. After what seemed an age, Henry’s elderly body servant, whom Alais had glimpsed tottering about the palace, opened the door. He frowned when he saw them.
“Mistress Joanna, the king has not yet returned from compline.” Milo had a scratchy voice and a sour expression on his creased face. He peered at Alais from under bushy gray brows, obviously questioning her right to be there.
“May we come in and wait?”
“Well, it is not suitable, mistress. Not at all suitable.” He blocked the entrance with his bent frame, his watery eyes narrowed in disapproval.
Joanna gave Milo a pleading look, much to Alais’s annoyance. He was the servant; she the princess. In France the servants obeyed instantly. Such resistance as Joanna was encountering now would be met with a flogging.
“This is the French princess, who is to wed my brother Richard.”
“I know that, I know that. Not blind yet, mistress.”
“Of course not.” Alais saw Joanna bite her lip in vexation. “Please, Milo, I must see him and there is never a time that is convenient. Before I leave for Sicily, I hope to persuade him to let me see my mother again.”
To Alais’s surprise, Milo immediately stepped aside and waved them into the chamber. “Why did you not say so at once instead of wasting my time?”
It was a huge chamber, Alais noted, separated into two parts. Where they stood was more like an anteroom, with a bench and a small table. Up two shallow steps was the main part of the chamber with a wide canopied bed draped with green curtains embroidered in gold thread and a matching green bed coverlet. Dried rushes mixed with herbs covered the floor, giving off a sweet scent. Two torches flamed in sconces that were set into the wall. Between them was a prie-dieu on which lay an exquisitely bound missal. On a polished elmwood table near the bed stood a silver pitcher and several jeweled goblets. Cushioned stools were strewn about the chamber. One wall was hung with a green-and-gold tapestry depicting a forest with damsels and courtiers engaged in dalliance, and a unicorn whose horn was woven entirely of gold thread. Such a skilled piece of work could only have come from the Flemish weavers at Arras, who wove the finest tapestries in Europe.
Milo was taking a last look around the chamber, clucking like a fussy old woman as he turned back the coverlet, pulled a pair of mud-splattered boots from under the bed, and stirred up the embers in the copper brazier. Alais set her candleholder down on the table.
“His Grace will be arriving any moment now,” said Milo. “Please to remember he has had a busy day and tomorrow he must be up well before prime to attend the assizes in Romsey. He is to hear an important case and needs his rest.”
“I understand.”
The servitor’s face softened. “If you are permitted to see your mother, Mistress Joanna, tell my most gracious lady that the chamber is exactly as she left it and I have cared for it just as she would have wished. Here she is not forgotten.”
Joanna stared at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Yes. Thank you.”
Even Alais felt a slight lump in her throat. Firm footsteps sounded outside the door, which was pushed open to reveal King Henry in a blue tunic and short cloak, an Irish wolfhound following at his heels. He looked tired and preoccupied, Alais thought, realizing at an instant that this was not the moment to ask him for a favor. Before she could stop her, Joanna ran to her father and knelt in a deep curtsey.
“Well, my pretty, what brings you here so late?” Henry lifted her up, his eyes lighting on Alais in surprise. “This is the last place I would think to find two young maids.” He frowned. “Who should be asleep.” The wolfhound bounded up the shallow steps wagging its tail.
“Father, I—I have a favor to ask,” Joanna blurted out.
“More gowns and jewels to take to Sicily? God’s eyes, do you think I’m made of gold, eh?” He smiled and chucked her under the chin. “Well, what is it? You know I cannot resist you.”
“I wanted to ask—I wanted to—that is to say—” Joanna stopped, unable to go on. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Yes?” Henry yawned, removed his cloak, and tossed it to Milo. “I’m waiting.” The wolfhound barked and curled up next to the brazier.
“Joanna wanted to beg a favor, Your Grace,” said Alais quickly, sensing Henry’s impatience. “Before she leaves for Sicily she would like to see her mother.”
Henry slowly turned and looked at Joanna with raised brows.
“Yes. That is what I wanted to ask. Please, Father.”
“I do not like to disappoint you, Joanna, but you must know it is out of the question.”
“But—” Joanna began.
“No buts, my girl.” He ran a hand over his face and yawned. “You cannot see your mother, and there’s an end to it. Now, it is late, high time you were in bed.”
“But why not? I may never see her again.”
Henry held up his hand. “Enough. I will not change my mind.”
Joanna began to cry in earnest. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! It is not enough that you send me from home to marry a horrible old man. Or intend to put your queen aside to wed your concubine! Now you refuse to even let me see my mother! I will never forgive you. Never, never, never.” She ran sobbing from the chamber. The wolfhound started to yelp.
“Quiet!” The dog subsided and Henry sighed. “God’s eyes, save me from tears and tantrums! Go after her Milo, Alais, see that she gets to her own chamber.”
Milo bowed and followed Joanna out the door, closing it behind him. Alais did not move. Henry looked at her thoughtfully, then wearily climbed the shallow steps, and sat down on a stool. He stretched out one leg.
“As you still seem to be here, make yourself useful. Pull off my boots.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Alais ran up the steps and knelt at his feet, carefully pushing back the folds of her cloak.
She began to pull at one boot, scuffed tan leather with a red spur. It came off easily. Then the next one.
“Joanna will be the last female fledgling to leave the nest.” Alais could not tell whether he was talking to her or thinking aloud. “I wish I could make her understand why this marriage is so important.”
“Joanna was disappointed, my lord,” Alais said, making no move to rise. “If you think she doesn’t understand why this marriage is important, I will explain it to her.”
“You?” Henry raised his brows.
“Her marriage to the king of Sicily will help preserve the balance of power in Europe, will it not? Diplomacy accomplishes this far better than war.”
Henry glanced down at her in surprise then smiled. “Very good. I’ve spent my life trying to balance power and prevent bloodshed. Unfortunately, daughters are quite often the key to establishing diplomatic relations. Pawns in the marriage game, as El—As someone once described it. Joanna will accept her fate in time. After all, both her sisters have settled down very nicely.”
“Speaking as a pawn, my lord King, I hope I fare as well.”
“Ah. So matters between you and Richard have not improved since we talked at Limoges?”
“I only wish they had.”
“A shame, but we must all accept what God sends.” Henry yawned and stretched out his arms. “Thank you for removing my boots. I would also be grateful for a goblet of wine, if you don’t mind. No need to kneel any longer. I’ve seen everything you wanted me to.”
Alais felt the blood rush to her face, and hastily rose to her feet. Feeling like a lackwit, she went to the table and started pouring wine from the pitcher into a goblet.
“What was the purpose of that gambit?” It was Henry’s voice in her ear. He had come up behind her.
Alais almost spilled the wine, she was so startled. Suddenly she felt his body press against her back and his arms go round her, pushing aside the cloak. His hands pulled down the tunic and the chemise, lifting out her breasts and letting their weight fall into his cupped hands.
“This was what you wanted, I assume?” Henry’s voice was husky in her ear.
Was it? Ever since her encounter with Bertran de Born her body sometimes troubled her with unfulfilled longings but this time she had not thought in terms of what she wanted, only what would be of use to her.
After a moment, Henry swung her around and pulled her body tightly against his. He brought his lips down hard on hers, his hands still caressing her. His manner was neither leisurely nor seductive, as Bertran’s had been, nor was she stirred by Henry Plantagenet as she had been by the troubadour, but to her amazement her body was responding to his touch and his kiss. When his fingers began to play with her nipples she let out an unwilling gasp of pleasure. His hands tightened on her breasts and she could hear his uneven breath as his lips opened. Alais, lost in a daze of melting sweetness, arched her head back as his lips moved to the hollow between her neck and shoulder. Then the wolfhound barked and abruptly Henry’s hands fell from her breasts. He thrust her from him so violently that she almost lost her balance.
“I should not have done that, despite your provocation. Forgive my ardor.” He took a deep shuddering breath, walked over to the table, and drank off half the contents of the goblet she had poured. “Cover yourself up before Milo returns.”
Alais hastily pulled up her chemise and tunic top and drew the cloak about her.
“Difficult as I find it to believe, this has the whiff of a planned seduction. Despite its clumsy execution. To what end?”
“No. I mean, it was not planned, however it may look—”
“And I wonder if this is the first time a man has touched you.” Henry slowly turned, and stared at her so intently that Alais thought she would faint. “Not the first time, was it?”
She felt the color drain from her face.
“I see I was right. Who has dared to make free with my son’s betrothed? A princess of France is supposed to be chaste, untouched by another, if touching is all he has done. Who was it?”
Alais, who had never thought to be in a situation where her quick wits would desert her, was frozen with dread, her mind darting hither and yon, trying to think. . . . “Richard. It was Richard.”
Henry’s look of stunned astonishment was almost comical. “Well.” He pursed his lips. “How far did it go? Are you still virgo intacta?”
“Yes.” She drew the remnants of her crumpled pride around her. Here at least she was on firm ground. “We just engaged in a bit of—dalliance.”
“Which you obviously enjoyed.”
She dropped her eyes in embarrassment. “We are betrothed, after all.”
He studied her with that unblinking gray gaze that reduced most people to a quivering mass of fear. “I suppose I should feel flattered.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, Alais of France, whatever else you may be, you are no coward, I grant you that.”
The door to the chamber opened and Milo entered. Henry suddenly yawned.
“The hour grows late and I must be up early.” He lowered his voice. “Next time you decide to tell a tale, think it through. Why are you so reluctant to marry Richard who, by your own admission, has already given you pleasure?” His eyes narrowed. “I will not pursue the matter further, but if I ever catch you lying to me again, it will be the worse for you.”
He stepped back. “Milo, the princess is leaving.”
Milo, his face impassive, held open the door for her as Alais, who felt as if she had just been chewed up then spat out again. Still, she forced herself to walk from the chamber in as dignified a manner as she could muster. Once in the passage, she pressed a hand over her mouth and fled as fast as her legs would carry her. Was it her imagination or behind her did she hear the echo of Henry’s mocking laughter?