ON AN AFTERNOON IN mid-October of the year 1177, Alais stood in the courtyard of Winchester castle watching Prince John practice at the quintain under the critical eye of the sergeant-at-arms. The quintain was a wooden figure of a knight set into the ground whose arms were a crosspiece that would whirl around at a touch. From one arm hung a shield, from the other a sandbag. Eleven-year-old John, in buckskin jerkin and brown leather cap, sat astride his mare, couching his lance under one arm. He pricked her flanks, she galloped forward and he charged at the quintain, the grizzled sergeant shouting instructions as he ran alongside:
“Hold that lance steady! Knees pinching the saddle! Watch your feet, turn them outward, outward, by Christ! Shield higher, higher, I said! Cover ye chest and head or ye opponent be getting in a mortal blow!”
Having watched countless squires and knights at practice in Aquitaine and England, Alais knew that if John hit the target squarely with the point of his lance and his horse did not flinch, the sandbag would swing around harmlessly behind him. But if his aim were not true . . . It was not, and the sandbag slammed into John’s back, tumbling him out of the saddle. Alais had never watched John practice at the quintain before, but his older brothers had always hit their target.
John was helped to his feet by two grooms. To her surprise, he pushed them away, his arms flailing out in anger, and remounted his horse. Blood streaked one cheekbone and his face was covered in dust. Alais suppressed a desire to laugh.
“Try again, Master John,” said the sergeant in a resigned voice. “Ye can master it if ye keep at it.”
“No! I’ve had enough spills for one day and my body hurts like the devil stuck his pitchfork into it!”
“Now, that all be part of the training, Master John, as I’ve told ye, to make a proper knight out of ye.”
“Not today!” John was fairly screaming now. He suddenly galloped over to the quintain and thrust his lance into the sandbag. The sand poured out.
“The king’ll ’ear about this, ye mark me words!” The sergeant marched off in indignation.
With a pleased look on his face, John threw his lance at one of the squires, who was forced to jump out of the way, then he trotted over to Alais and painstakingly dismounted. He pulled off his cap and rubbed a hand across his face. When he saw the blood he wiped it off with his sleeve.
“That disgusting brute of a sergeant will kill me one day. ‘Couch, charge, recover, couch, charge, recover,’ over and over and over again.”
Alais gave him a disdainful look but said nothing. A gust of wind scattered piles of red and gold leaves about the courtyard. It was growing chill and she pulled her crimson cloak closer about her shoulders.
“A new cloak? And lined with ermine too.” John raised his brows. “Must have cost someone dear.”
She was oh-so-very tempted to say his father had given it to her, but Henry would be furious. He had warned her over and over that if there were even a whisper of their liaison, severe repercussions would follow and he would be forced to send her off to France. Only the night before, having recently returned from a meeting with the French king in Paris, he had mentioned it again.
“Your father continually prodded me about your marriage. When would it take place? Why was there this constant delay? He even threatened to appeal to Rome if matters were not quickly settled, heaven forefend.”
“What did you tell him?” They had been in bed at the time, with Henry’s head resting on her bosom.
“That Richard was still subduing Aquitaine and did he want his daughter living in such dangerous circumstances?”
She had burst out laughing.
“Minx! It is no laughing matter. And that explanation won’t satisfy your father forever. One day I will have to give you up, but at the moment—” His lips had closed over a firm nipple and Alais had given herself up to the moment’s rapture.
“My father gave me the cloak,” she told John.
“You have such a funny look on your face.” John was eyeing her thoughtfully.
Despite her efforts to remain unruffled, Alais felt the heat rush into her cheeks and knew it must show. She wished Henry had not brought John back to England with him. Much better to have left him on the Continent.
“How generous of King Louis to spend his funds on an ermine-lined cloak for you when he is getting ready to go on crusade.”
“Crusade?”
“Didn’t you know that Jerusalem is once again in peril from infidel invaders?”
“Naturally, I knew.” Alais flushed again, having forgotten all about the proposed pilgrimage to Outremer since Henry had said it would come to nothing in the end.
“You seem distracted lately. I wonder why?”
“Not as distracted as you were at the quintain, or you wouldn’t have missed the target and fallen from your horse.”
John scowled, looked as if he were about to retort, then bit back his words. But she had pricked his arrogance and felt a glow of pleasure spread through her.
The cathedral bells rang for nones and John said, “I want to attend the service.”
Alais looked at him in surprise then shrugged. As they walked across the courtyard toward the gates that led into Winchester, she asked, “Why did your father bring you back to England?”
“To study here. But there is another reason too.” He looked around and dropped his voice. “It is still a secret but I am to be groomed to be king of Ireland one day.” His voice was laced with pride.
“Yes, I heard.” It just slipped out, unintentionally, before she could stop herself.
His heavy black brows drew together. “How could you have heard? I only found out myself when I arrived in England last sennight.”
“In truth, such news—such important news—cannot be kept secret for long, can it?” She gave him a flattering smile.
When Henry had told her of his plan, she thought at first that he was jesting. Of course this would not come about for some years yet, but even so, Alais wondered if John, despite his clever and astute mind, would ever become a successful ruler. She could not have said, had anyone asked, why she felt that way.
John’s face cleared. “I suppose not. Important matters do have a way of becoming known.” The smug smile on his face made her want to stick her tongue out at him. “I wonder what my mother will say when he tells her.”
They were at the courtyard gates and Alais stopped. “When who tells Eleanor?”
“Father, of course. The king left Winchester this morning. I’m sure he said Salisbury.”
Alais tried to keep her face impassive. She had spent the whole night with Henry and he had never mentioned this. And when she woke before prime and he was gone, it never occurred to her to ask anyone where he was. After all, he came and went at all hours of the day or night. Not that it mattered whether he saw Eleanor. As they walked through the gates and onto the high street of the town toward the cathedral, she felt John’s keen gaze on her.
“Perhaps Father’s gone to release her.”
Alais felt her heart plummet in dread. Release Eleanor? It was not possible. “Why would you think that?”
John tapped his finger against his teeth, small and sharp like a fox’s. “Well, my father must be lonely after Rosamund’s death, may she rest in peace.” He paused. “I heard a rumor she was murdered. I mean, her death was convenient for those of us connected to the king, but who would do such a foul deed?”
He looked at her consideringly. “I think I will go on ahead, Alais. I like to spend a little time on my own in prayer before the service. I’m sure God hears me best then.” He bowed.
Alais watched John limp toward the cathedral. Sweet Marie, did he suspect something? Or was she only imagining it? Baiting people was his favorite sport, after all. One day, she strenuously hoped, the wretch would fall off his horse while practicing at the quintain and never get up again.
Disquieted, she slowly followed John up the white stone steps into the cathedral, took a pew in the back and for a moment let the choir chanting Te Deum intrude upon her thoughts. The priest began intoning the office, and her thoughts returned to Rosamund’s death. Ten months had passed and Alais’s conscience no longer pricked her quite so often. In truth, she was beginning to wonder if this—this unfortunate accident was actually her fault. Yes, she had left the tainted hare by the door, but since Rosamund herself had cooked and ate it, who was really responsible? In addition, Alais had heard all manner of strange rumors concerning the leman and secret pagan rites. Even her healing of animals, was, well, not entirely natural, was it? Alais crossed herself. Perhaps, in all truth, Rosamund was better off dead.
“I was sorry not to see you last May,” Eleanor said. She sat in a wooden armchair sipping wine from a pewter goblet while observing Henry prowl about the chamber like a caged beast. What was troubling him? she wondered, sorely tempted to ask.
“Business of the realm kept me occupied,” he said shortly.
Neither of them had mentioned their last tumultuous meeting shortly after Rosamund’s death, and although Eleanor had cried for weeks afterward, she sensed that relations between them would now be on a different footing. The hostility of the past had lessened and their communication was easier. To disturb this delicate balance by probing him with questions seemed ill advised.
She had so looked forward to this meeting with Henry, anticipating his arrival with all the excitement of a young girl. In honor of the occasion she had dressed carefully in an old tunic of hunter’s green over a worn ivory gown. A girdle of filigreed gold accented her waist, and a wimple of a pale ivory covered her head. Thus far matters were proceeding well. They had discussed John’s future in Ireland, which she left entirely to Henry’s discretion.
“The birth of Matilda’s second son is wonderful news,” said Eleanor.
“Wonderful,” Henry agreed. “I only wish Harry would start producing a few sons. What do you think of King Louis’s intent to rescue the Holy City from infidel invaders?”
Eleanor shrugged. “The folly of an aging idealist who deals in dreams, not reality.”
Henry laughed. “Well put. Louis has summoned me for another meeting at Gisors, with the express intention, I have no doubt, of persuading me to accompany him on this futile pilgrimage to the Holy Land,” Henry paused to warm his hands at the copper brazier. “What do you suggest I tell him?”
“Assure Louis you will accompany him and actually appear to be making arrangements to do so. Public opinion will be outraged if you openly refuse.” She smiled. “Although no one will expect you to actually go.”
Henry laughed again and wagged a finger at her. “God’s splendor, not one of my advisors can touch you for craftiness, Nell.” He ambled over to the table and picked up a manuscript Father Matthew had recently brought her. “I leave for Angers shortly, where I hold my Christmas court, and in the New Year I will see Louis. Rest assured I shall follow your advice to the letter.” He began to leaf through the beautifully illuminated pages. “Letters of Seneca. I have always wanted to read them.”
“Be careful. If there is even a slight smudge I will hear about it. Will all the boys be at Angers? Marguerite and Alais, too?”
With a brief nod Henry closed the manuscript.
So everyone would be there but her. Her fingers clenched around the stem of the goblet as she tried to hold back an unexpected flood of anger. Four years. Four long years since she had been cut off from the world she so desperately loved. Unwilling to let Henry witness her disquiet, Eleanor swallowed her bile. She forced a pleasant look as he seated himself on a cushioned stool.
He seemed receptive and, partly to get her attention off her own plight, she asked, “Henry, is there something on your mind? Something you have not mentioned?”
All of a sudden he set his goblet firmly on the table and jumped to his feet as if shot out of a catapult. “I am at my wits’ end with Harry!” Before Eleanor could catch her breath he had launched into a full-scale attack on his son. But it was too quick and, while undoubtedly true, it also rang hollow.
“The boy convinces me to send him to the Continent, rides from one tourney to another for the summer, takes his time in reaching Aquitaine and finally condescends to make an appearance in Angoulême, where Richard is conducting a successful campaign.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Did Ranulf de Glanville already tell you?”
She nodded.
“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “While Richard has many problems in the duchy and his behavior is aggressive to the point of being offensive, at least he is building a reputation for himself as one of the most gifted soldiers in Europe. Even Geoffrey is ruling Brittany with some measure of diligence and responsibility. But Harry? He arrives in Angoulême, makes no attempt to aid Richard on the battlefield, then leaves immediately for Poitiers!” Henry began to stalk the chamber again, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Here the boy rallies his old friends—knights and barons from your court among them”—he shot her an accusing look—“and whines his grievances against his tyrannical father into all-too-willing ears.”
“The Poitevins have never made a secret of their dislike for you, Henry,” Eleanor pointed out in a mild voice. “Naturally they would be sympathetic to Harry.”
“More so since Richard’s harsh measures.” Henry ran a hand through his bristly russet hair, his jaw taut as a drawn bow. “Not that Harry is entirely to blame. That troublemaking minstrel from your court, Bertran de Born, has written a derisive sirvente, mocking Harry and calling him ‘lord of little land.’”
Eleanor felt her belly plummet. “Most unfortunate. Bertran de Born has always delighted in creating upheaval and, as he considers himself a patriot of the duchy, people listen to what he has to say.” She gave a weary sigh. “Although there is a kernel of truth in de Born’s sirventes, Henry. The boy has almost nothing to call his own.” She frowned. “Perhaps Harry also resents Richard’s success and now that you mean to crown John king of Ireland, that as well.”
“Harry will inherit the bulk of my holdings. What reason has he for resenting Richard or John?” Henry threw up his arms in exasperation. “As God is my witness, I have tried to give the boy something meaningful to do, but he shows no interest in affairs of the realm and would beggar the kingdom given half the chance.”
There was much that was correct in all that Henry said, she could not deny it, and Harry’s failure to come to Richard’s aid in Angoulême was disturbing indeed. But there must be a way to help Harry realize what gifts he did possess. If only she could think of what to do.
Henry picked up his goblet, drained it, then set it down in a decisive gesture. “You agree to my proposal about ceding the duchy over to Richard?” he asked abruptly.
She had almost forgotten that several weeks earlier Henry had written her a friendly letter in which he suggested that as Richard was doing well in Aquitaine she ought to officially cede the duchy to him. There was no real objection to this proposal, of course there wasn’t, but she could not entirely banish a dull ache in her heart at the thought of losing all sovereignty over her beloved land.
When she gave a reluctant nod, he said, “Good. I will have de Lucy draw up the official writ and you may look it over at your leisure.”
“All right.” Something he had mentioned earlier nagged at her and she asked, “You spoke of Richard’s ‘aggressive behavior’ in Aquitaine, and his ‘harsh measures.’ What did you mean?”
For a moment Henry said nothing, then shrugged his shoulders. “Richard wields a—firm hand. Too firm at times.”
“Does he?” Eleanor bit her lip, wondering why he was not more forthcoming. “I would have thought you approved of firmness in Aquitaine.”
“Did I say I didn’t?” he shot back. “Perhaps Richard and his subjects deserve each other.”
A black cloud still hung over Henry, and it had nothing to do with their sons, she would have sworn to it. Tension was reflected in his voice, his agitated gestures, his pacing of the chamber.
“Henry, please, tell me what ails you?”
He had his back to her and she saw his shoulders form a ridge as if he were steeling himself for—for what? Slowly he turned. Pale-faced, his mouth working, he swallowed several times.
Filled with alarm, Eleanor rose to her feet. “What is it? Sweet Saint Radegonde, are you ill?” She reached out a supplicating hand.
“No. Well, yes, perhaps I am. A fever in the blood, you might say. What I mean—listen, Nell, I have involved myself in—as God is my judge I had no intention of ever . . . The matter has gotten out of hand now and I-I do not see my way clear—I swear to you I would never have initiated—”
The door opened. “The marshal and Lord Ilchester have arrived, Your Grace, and the archbishop of Canterbury is here as well,” announced the steward of Salisbury. “You wanted to be informed?”
Henry passed a shaking hand across a forehead now beaded with sweat. “Yes. I will attend them at once.” His face went slack with relief as he strode swiftly to the door. “Forgive me, Nell, I will be back as soon as may be. This is important business that cannot wait.”
He was gone before Eleanor could even open her mouth to protest. She had never seen Henry act quite so strangely and could not even begin to imagine the cause.
Alais was impressed by the old Roman walls and the many-towered castle of Angers, with its red flintstone ramparts atop its promontory of black slate. Henry had told her he could call no place “home,” for his nature too strongly mingled his Angevin, Norman, and English blood, but this ancient capital of the House of Anjou occupied a special place in his heart.
The Christmas court began reasonably well. Night after night the vast hall of Angers Castle was filled with lords and their ladies, prelates, and knights, who had come from Normandy, Brittany, Paris, and Poitou to attend the Yuletide festivities. Torches flared in girandoles; a tree trunk burned in the central fire, and green boughs and scarlet holly berries decorated the walls. Color blazed from auburn cloaks and vermilion mantles and azure, purple, and emerald tunics. Light shimmered on gem-studded gold necklaces and silver brooches. Jongleurs turned handsprings, jugglers tossed silver balls, and troubadours strummed their lutes and raised their voices in song. There was even a troupe of dancers from Moorish Spain, sent by Henry’s son-in-law, the king of Castile, who clapped their hands and clicked their castanets as they swirled about the hall.
Henry had ordered her to give all her attention to Richard, and Alais had every intention of doing so, but it was proving impossible. Under the surface merriment, hostility and discontent bubbled and sputtered like a cauldron about to boil over. This state of affairs was only unusual in that this time the boys were snarling at one another and not at their father. Richard openly made mock of his elder brother for being a coward and preferring tourneys to real battle. Harry, who was behaving in a particularly churlish manner, retaliated by calling Richard a glutton for senseless slaughter in Aquitaine, spilling his wine goblet over the table, then loudly accusing William Marshal of jostling his elbow. Count Geoffrey of Brittany, newly knighted and full of himself as the rare center of attention, sneered at Harry for being as clumsy with his wine as with everything else he attempted.
Alais, shocked at the young king’s behavior toward his faithful knight, turned to John. “Why is Harry behaving so churlishly with William Marshal?”
“There must be a rift between them. Did you see William’s face when Harry blamed him for spilling the wine?”
Alais had. What lay behind it? she wondered. When the court disbanded in early January of the New Year, 1178, Henry left to spend a few days in Le Mans accompanied by Richard, John, and Geoffrey. Sulking, Harry did not accompany them but remained at the castle with Marguerite and William Marshal. The evening after Henry had left, several new troubadours entertained at supper. Midway through the evening, a slender, swarthy minstrel with blue-black ringlets showing under his purple hood, made an unexpected appearance. With a graceful bow he fell to one knee in front of the dais, fixed his dark smoldering gaze upon Harry, and began to strum his lute.
Alais’s breath caught in her throat. Bertran de Born! He sang in what Alais recognized as a Provençal dialect—which few people present would understand—but from the look on his face and the passion in his voice, Alais guessed that the content was undoubtedly provocative. When he finished, he turned his gaze in her general direction and announced that the joi d’amour he would next sing was dedicated to “Rassa.” Then he sang the song he had composed for her. Alais was delighted and could hardly wait for the entertainment to be over so she could talk to him.
“Well, Lovely, you see I have not forgotten,” Bertran said, after supper was finished and the guests were milling about in the hall. He bent his knee to her with a sly wink.
“Nor have I. Thank you.” They smiled at each other, and the old spark flamed briefly between them. “If King Henry catches you here it will be the worse for you,” Alais said in a low voice. “He is furious over the sirventes you wrote calling Harry ‘lord of little land.’”
“Tiens! Nothing could please me more. High time the young king was goaded into action and his father forced to confront Richard’s atrocities in Aquitaine. But the Plantagenet will not catch me.” Bertran paused. “I thought you might be wed to Richard by now.”
“So did I. But no one appears to be in any hurry about the nuptials—except my father.”
“So much the better for you.” He studied her for a moment, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “But you are obviously enjoying yourself in England. A fortunate man, whoever he is.”
Alais’s heart skipped a beat and she felt a wave of heat suffuse her face, as she met his knowing gaze. “It sounds like you are up to your old mischief-making.”
“I am still an ardent patriot of Aquitaine, if that is what you mean.” Bertran glanced quickly around him. “It is a market day in Angers tomorrow. Shall we meet at the bootmaker’s stall, the one which lies nearest the castle, after tierce let us say? Any castle groom will know where it is.”
“Yes, I think I can arrange it.” Curious and with little else to do, Alais could see no harm in meeting the troubadour.
The next morning the air was filled with a damp mist and a watery sun flickered through gray clouds when Alais, accompanied by two grooms, rode down the winding road to the city proper. Bertran was already waiting at the bootmaker’s stall in the marketplace. As she dismounted, she made a show of being surprised to see him and told the grooms to wait while Messire de Born took her around the stalls. In truth, she never would have dared to venture alone into this noisy world of crooked, teeming streets, which reminded her uncomfortably of Paris: The lanes ran deep with mud, the upper stories of houses slanted precariously forward blocking out the light, even the strong odeur de merde was the same.
“Last time I saw you, you were plotting against King Henry. Now you are hatching a scheme against Richard. One can hardly keep up with your intrigues, Messire de Born,” she said in a teasing voice.
He gave her a black look. “You may choose to make a jest of such matters, Princess, but then you never took political affairs very seriously, did you?” His dark eyes glittered dangerously under his blue cap, and he stroked the pearl-handled knife hilt at his belt. “I do. Especially when your future husband campaigns against those subjects he now calls rebels, although he once fought with them as compatriots. His people fear him and would remove him as their duke if they could.”
Alais had heard something of this from Henry as well, albeit in much milder terms. “I thought you and Richard were allies.”
“Not since he started treating Aquitaine as his personal abattoir.” He paused. “I am only grateful that my lady Eleanor cannot see what her son is doing to her beloved Aquitaine.” He turned to her. “Is it true she is well treated and in good health?”
Alais averted her gaze and nodded.
“Thank God for that, or I would personally slit the Plantagenet’s throat.”
Anxious to change the subject, Alais asked, “Does Richard know you have turned against him?”
“Everyone knows. Just as they know that I have the love and trust of his brother, the young king, and his followers. Harry is like clay in my hands and, if necessary, I will use him to defeat Richard.”
“The young king is like clay in almost everyone’s hands,” retorted Alais. “How, exactly, do you intend to use Harry against Richard? He is of little benefit to you that I can see.”
They turned into a narrow street and Bertran stopped by a goldsmith’s stall. A wind whistled through the market stalls and Alais pulled up the hood of her crimson cloak.
After a moment Bertran spoke again. “Do you know what I think is behind Richard’s behavior?” When Alais shook her head, he continued, “I once told you that to drive the infidel from the Holy Land was Richard’s ruling passion.”
“I remember.”
“I am convinced that, in the back of his mind, Richard hopes to be among those who eventually make this foolhardy pilgrimage to Outremer that your father is proposing. Furthermore, I believe that he is behaving like a tyrant in Aquitaine in order to leave it subdued and orderly when he departs. With the duchy totally cowed, Richard can draw on its resources to support his rescue of Jerusalem.”
“I can hardly believe this wild tale.”
“Believe it or not as you choose. You do not think he really cares for the duchy, do you?”
“But Harry cares?” She gave him a skeptical look.
“He is a patriot!”
Alais strongly doubted this, but there was little point in saying so.
Bertran ambled down another narrow cobbled street and Alais, shivering, followed him. This time he stopped by a stall that sold carved ivory boxes. “Can you not talk to Richard and persuade him to modify his behavior in the duchy?” she asked. “You were once very—” She colored and quickly picked up one of the caskets to hide her embarrassment.
“Intimate? Not for some years now.” He shrugged. “But Richard has others he is close to. One hears whispers of penances performed for ‘crimes again nature.’ Tiens! It is his crimes against Aquitaine that he should be atoning for.
“In truth,” Bertran continued, “the only person who might influence Richard is his mother.” He gave her a considering look. “I understand that no one can see her, but could you get a message to the duchess?”
Caught off guard, Alais laid the box down. “I don’t see how.”
“Not impossible, though?” he persisted. She did not respond and, taking her silence for assent, he clapped his hands together. “Good. I will give you a written message for my lady explaining the situation to her and begging her to intercede with Richard to stop his slaughter.”
“She is not allowed to receive or send letters to her sons,” Alais said quickly.
“She will find a way, if I know the duchess. You will honor my request?”
Alais—thinking it prudent not to offend the volatile troubadour who knew rather too much about her and was obviously capable of rash impulsive acts—gave him what she hoped was an acquiescent smile then said, “Don’t you think you are overreaching yourself? King Henry would never let Harry take over Aquitaine, regardless of Richard’s actions.”
“You might be surprised. A land in turmoil is dilatory in sending its revenues, if it sends any at all. King Henry is also duke of Aquitaine, remember. How long will he tolerate empty coffers and unruly subjects before taking action?”
Bertran turned a corner that led onto the street of the drapers, Alais on his heels. Something from the past, something she had overheard Eleanor say popped into her head.
“Eleanor said that, having once stirred up strife, you retire to your castle in the Midi and let others engage in the actual bloodshed.”
“Ah, how well my lady knew me.” Bertran chuckled as he stopped by a stall where bolts of wool and linen and sendal were stacked. “I have fought in many a battle and can wield a sword as well as Harry or Richard, but my talents are wasted on the battlefield. My strength is to write my sirventes and stir the blood of those who would resist the yoke of tyranny.” He fingered a bolt of gray wool. “Let the devil’s brood of Angevins destroy each other, so long as peace reigns in Aquitaine and my duchess is safe from harm.”
In the back of her mind Alais wondered whether Bertran really did want peace. If it ever came, he would become a less important figure. Would it not be to his advantage to keep matters at a boil by one means or another?
It began to drizzle and Bertran took her arm and they hurriedly returned the way they had come. He had provoked more questions than he had answered and she had a sense that something had been left out.
“Apart from King Henry, I do not see how you will persuade the young king to become embroiled in your schemes when William Marshal still watches over Harry like a huge mastiff.”
Ahead Alais could see the grooms waiting with her palfrey. “Harry is displeased with his mastiff at the moment. He is under the impression that Sir Galahad has lost his head over Queen Marguerite.”
“Sweet Marie, that is absurd!” Alais started laughing. The thought of the chaste, retiring Marguerite inciting anyone’s passion was inconceivable. But then she also recalled Harry’s attitude toward William at the Christmas feast.
“Be that as it may, a coolness has developed between my young lord and his chevalier. Either Harry will dismiss him or William will leave his service, unable to support this stain upon his honor.”
“How on earth did Harry get the idea that William was unduly fond of Marguerite?” Alais slowed her step, not wanting the grooms to overhear.
“How indeed!” Bertran clasped his hand to his heart. “Wicked tongues will drip poison into gullible ears.”
Alais sucked in her breath. She could easily guess which tongue had dripped what poison into whose ear. Sweet Marie, the troubadour was capable of going to any lengths in pursuit of his cause.
“I will see that you get the letter for my lady before you return to England.”
She nodded. He had given her a lot to think about, and when she was alone Alais intended to mull it over at her leisure. Despite the fact she only half-believed his threats, there might be something she could use to her advantage. Naturally she would get rid of the letter to Eleanor at the first opportunity. In the unlikely event that Richard was removed from Aquitaine, it would be to her advantage. No one could force her to marry a deposed duke or one who was far away on crusade.
He gave her an impish grin and clasped her hand. “In the next year or two listen for my sirventes. A storm is approaching, Lovely, and if you would weather it heed my advice: Behave discreetly, and trust no one.”
“Does that include you, Messire de Born?”
“Only a fool would trust a troubadour, and you are no fool.” With a jaunty wave he was gone, mingling with the crowd.
Of all he had told her, this was the one thing Alais knew she could trust absolutely.