IN THE YEAR 1179, King Louis of France announced to the world that, as he was approaching sixty and feeling the weight of his years, he wanted to have his fourteen-year-old son, Philip, crowned king of France. The coronation was to be held on August 15, the feast of Our Lady’s Assumption, and all vassals were summoned to appear at Rheims. This news was not surprising, as it was a common practice in France, unlike England, to crown the son while the father was still on the throne. Then as the new king was trained to his role, the old king faded more and more into the background until the transition was complete.
Henry was expected to attend, as were his sons, but he did not look forward to the occasion. The boys had become fast friends with Philip of France, but Henry dreaded the time when that young cockerel would wear the crown. Although Henry did not like or trust Louis, he was not unreasonable as an overlord of Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine, and could usually be managed. At heart, Henry grudgingly acknowledged, Louis was a good man and his subjects put up with his inadequacies as a king because they revered his piety and loved his humility as a son of Holy Church. But Philip made Henry’s blood run cold. He had never forgotten the incident at Montlouis, when the young prince threatened to take back all his father had conceded to Henry over the years. The boy believed then, and now as well, Henry had little doubt, that he was destined to be the “hammer of the English.” All that could ever exist between Philip of France and him was bitter enmity.
In early August, Henry was at Westminster, in the middle of a council meeting, when a French courier arrived, gray with exhaustion and covered with the dust of the roads, having ridden straight through from Southampton.
He flung himself down on one knee. “Your Grace, Prince Philip of France lies deathly ill of a fever. The coronation is postponed as the boy’s life is despaired of and my master, the most pious and Christian king of the Franks, begs leave to pay a visit to the tomb of the Martyr, Thomas à Becket.”
In the shocked silence that filled the council chamber, Henry’s heart quickened. The French prince lying at death’s door was like the answer to a prayer. Keeping his face and body composed—the courier would report every detail of his response—Henry rose solemnly to his feet at the head of the council table and elaborately signed himself.
“This is sad news indeed. We will all pray for the prince’s speedy recovery.” Henry paused. “I offer my consolation to King Louis in his hour of need. Let him come to Canterbury in peace and friendship.”
The courier bowed himself out.
When he was gone, all the council members glanced at one another in wonder.
“Naturally, I will pray for the prince’s recovery,” began Richard de Lucy in a hushed voice, “and perhaps it is premature to speculate, but if the boy does not live and King Louis himself dies without an heir—” He crossed himself and did not complete his sentence.
“Then the young king and Queen Marguerite will rule France? Is that what you were going to say?” FitzNigel looked down his long nose. “Come, come, my lord, do not be afraid to speak the thought that lies in all our hearts.” It was a known fact that ink, not human blood, ran in the treasurer’sveins, but he got right to the heart of a situation without troubling himself about niceties.
Henry turned and strolled over to the enlarged window slit, hands clasped behind his back. In the courtyard below, grooms were currying horses, falconers airing their hooded peregrines, and fewterers walking their coupled hounds. A Plantagenet on the throne of France! His heart leapt in exultation. A moment later it crossed his mind that if Harry was having difficulty learning to rule England, how would he be able to govern France as well? Louis had an army of councilors to advise him and so would the next king, Henry reassured himself, pushing the unwelcome thought aside.
A fortnight later Henry met Louis at the port of Dover. He could hardly conceal his shock at the sight of the frail white-haired figure dressed in the humble gray garb of a pilgrim. In the six months since he had last seen him, the French monarch had aged a hundred years. There was a look of death about his drawn face.
“Welcome to England, Your Grace,” Henry said with a sudden sense of foreboding.
Louis wanted to leave immediately for Canterbury and they started on the journey. After only several leagues he felt too weak to ride and was placed in a litter. Earlier, the day had been fair and warm. But banks of black clouds appeared on the horizon, lightning flashed with sudden bursts of thunder, and the leaves on the trees shook and quivered in a strong wind. The strange weather plagued them all the way to Canterbury, where the archbishop himself, splendid in his robes and vestments, escorted Louis up the cathedral steps to the dark interior.
“Never has Canterbury been so honored before.” The primate bowed in an ingratiating manner.
“Is this where—where it happened?” With difficulty, Louis knelt before the tomb.
“The very place of my blessed predecessor’s martyrdom.” The archbishop signed himself.
Considering that this primate, like most English ecclesiastics, had no love for Thomas despite his canonization some years ago, and still viewed even the most authenticated miracles with skepticism, the archbishop was putting on quite a performance, Henry thought.
“Is this also where the miracles occur?”
“According to varying accounts miracles are said to occur here and elsewhere in Canterbury,” Henry replied.
Louis peered down at a faint stain visible on the marble floor. “This is the Martyr’s blood?”
With a long-suffering look, the archbishop nodded. From beneath his gray cloak, Louis brought forth a cup brimming with gold and laid it reverently on the stain, then kissed the marble floor. The archbishop’s eyes almost popped from his head.
“I am sure His Grace of Canterbury will accept this tribute to the miracles that occur at Thomas’s tomb,” said Henry with an arch smile. The primate bowed and vanished into the recesses of the cathedral.
Henry had not been inside Christ Church Cathedral since the day of his penance five years earlier. The absolute quiet was overpowering and he suddenly felt suffocated. “My lord king, I will leave you to your prayers and reflections. Take all the time you wish.” Outside he began to breathe more easily.
Henry sat down on the steps. The wind blew and lightning continued to flash but there was no rain. He knew he should be inside praying with Louis, but, how, in all conscience, could he pray for Philip’s recovery when in his heart he desired the boy’s death? He closed his eyes and half dozed until the vespers bell rang. When he looked up, the skies were clearing, the winds had died and Louis was emerging from the cathedral with a beatific smile on his face.
“Oh, my lord king,” he said, tears forming in his pale eyes. “My son will live. The Martyr has assured me of that. Thank you for letting me come.”
“Will you journey to London, Your Grace?” Henry took a deep breath. “Your daughter is eager to see you.”
Louis shook his head. “No, I must return to Dover in the morning and set sail for France as soon as may be. Philip needs me. Even more than my daughter, although her soul is in mortal peril.”
He said nothing more but Henry knew it was not the end of the matter. They spent the night at Canterbury as guests of the archbishop and left for Dover right after prime. The French monarch felt well enough to mount a horse and rode a white palfrey.
“My lord king, it is imperative we discuss the disquieting rumors that have reached my ears concerning my daughter, Alais,” Louis began. “I made a formal complaint to the pope about the delay in her marriage to Richard, but nothing was done because we thought a pilgrimage to the Holy Land was imminent. Well, since that is to be put off, pending Philip’s full recovery and coronation, there is, to my knowledge, no impediment now to the marriage taking place as soon as may be.”
“Duke Richard has his hands full controlling the situation in Aquitaine. I—”
“Your son takes a more favorable view,” Louis interjected. “I spoke to him myself shortly before Philip fell ill.”
“Am I to understand Richard was recently in Paris?” Henry frowned.
“Indeed. Duke Richard is often at the Cité Palace. The young king is there as well, as you know, and Count Geoffrey is also a frequent visitor.”
Henry sent Louis an accusing glance. “I have long suspected you of trying to suborn my sons. Ever since the treaty at Montmirail, in fact.”
“Tried and succeeded, my lord king, tried and succeeded. Do you think I do not know you have always misprized me? In truth, may God assoil me, I have longed for the day I might triumph over you, Henry of Anjou. You took my wife, Eleanor, whom I loved, and with her, Aquitaine; you have defeated my troops at every turn, and now you think to make free with my daughter!”
Louis’s face was contorted into a mask of venom and Henry could see him struggling to regain composure. After a moment, Louis signed himself with a trembling hand. “Should it ever become widely known, or even suspected, that the king of England has an incestuous relationship with a princess of the House of Capet who is betrothed to his own son—” His veined hands clutched the reins and a pink glow suffused his sallow skin. “The scandal will rock all Europe and drag down my daughter’s good name. She is a daughter of France; her reputation must be without stain. What says Holy Writ? ‘And if a man lie with his daughter-in-law both of them shall surely be put to death: they have wrought confusion; their blood shall be upon them.’ You will both be treated as pariahs, for none will forgive you this sin. Your son Richard is a proud man, my lord, who already resents you for imprisoning his mother. This is an insult no prince of the blood could ever ignore.”
Henry felt himself flush from his collarbone all the way up to the roots of his russet hair. Hot and stiff with shame, he opened his mouth to deny the accusations but could not find the words. At this moment an inner strength and fervor possessed the frail French king, making it impossible to lie to him outright. How in the name of God had he found out? Not that it mattered now. Sweet Jesu, he had always known no good would come of his infatuation with Alais. There was even—and this shocked him—a sense of relief that it was over. Deeply shaken, Henry tried to think of an appropriate response that would not incriminate him.
“On the other hand,” Louis went on in a hoarse voice, “if what has reached my ears is only a wicked rumor, wagging tongues will have naught to speculate about if my daughter is sent to Paris immediately.”
Against all odds, Louis was throwing him a spar and Henry went slack with relief as he grasped it. “That is sound advice, my lord king, and I will quell any and all evil gossip by acting upon it directly. I give you my sworn oath, upon my soul’s peril, that I will arrange for the princess to be on her way to the coast even before I return to London. Let her stay in Paris and marry Richard—at your discretion. I leave the matter in your hands.”
Louis glanced at him and then nodded, seemingly satisfied. After a moment, he added, “In regard to your sons, you have only yourself to blame for their lack of filial loyalty. You may consider me a foolish monarch”—he wagged a palsied finger at Henry—“but better that than a monarch who is foolish enough to imagine he can promise power, then withhold it and not suffer the consequences. When I crown Philip, he will be king in all ways. Not in name only.”
Dumbfounded, Henry looked into Louis’s pale blue eyes and saw a wily adversary who knew him only too well. He was so stunned he could not even think of a proper retort.
They rode the rest of the way in strained silence and the bells were ringing for nones when they reached the port. Burly sailors hoisted King Louis and several attendants onto their shoulders and waded through the shallows to a skiff that would take them to a hoy anchored in deeper waters. It seemed to Henry that Louis looked more at peace, whether due to his visit at Canterbury or Henry’s promise, or both, and he felt oddly relieved. Instinct told him he would not see Louis again, not in this world.
He turned to Richard de Lucy, who stood on the beach next to him, along with members of his council and a troop of knights. “Return at once to Westminster with a message for the princess Alais. Say that her father demands her immediate return to Paris and she is to pack her things without delay.”
“You want me to—? Your Grace, I hardly think I am the right person for this task.” The justiciar’s voice was filled with dismay. “After five years in England, the princess has undoubtedly grown attached to—to the place. Such unexpected news might be better received from yourself.”
Henry had never discussed the matter of the French princess with anyone, and neither had the subject ever been mentioned, or even hinted at, to him. But he assumed that his closest advisors either knew or suspected they had a liaison and strongly disapproved.
“On the contrary, my lord de Lucy. I am the least suitable person to tell her.”
“Suppose the princess does not take it well?”
“That is irrelevant. She has no choice but to obey her father’s command.”
Naturally a storm was sure to erupt when Alais heard the unwelcome news but let it fall on de Lucy’s head rather than his own. His justiciar compressed his lips and sent Henry an aggrieved look. Nothing further was said while they waited on the shore until Louis’s hoy was a tiny speck on the far horizon.
Since he was already at Dover, Henry decided to make a short progression through the southwest of England, well aware that this would make him unavailable until Alais had left for France. He was at Pevensey Castle when, ten days later, a French courier caught up with him to deliver the news that even before King Louis arrived back in Paris, Prince Philip was well on the road to recovery. It was nothing less than a miracle, announced the courier, and France was jubilant. The new coronation was now tentatively set for All Saints Day, on the first of November.
Trying to put a good face on these tidings, Henry, who was far from jubilant, continued his tour. At least Alais would be pleased that her brother had survived, which might take the sting out of her enforced return to Paris. As God was his judge, he was not proud of his actions where she was concerned. It had been cowardly ordering de Lucy to do what he could not confront doing himself, but he dreaded the scene he feared she would make: tears, tantrums, threats. Not that she had ever behaved in such wild fashion, but then he had never given her reason to do so. Simply, he sensed that she was capable of . . . In truth, he was not sure what, exactly, she might be capable of and had no desire to find out. Poor weak fool that he was, Alais might even have persuaded him to go back on his word. By this time, thank God and all His saints, she would be well on her way to the coast to take ship for the Continent.
Henry met with his itinerant justices and local sheriffs and, accompanied by them, he left Pevensey to inspect the garrisons at Arundel and Chichester. A sennight later in early September he was still at Chichester, waiting for an autumn storm to pass, when Ranulf de Glanville arrived.
“I bring word from the justiciar that the French princess is proving most obstinate. She flatly refuses to leave England without seeing you, Your Grace. Nothing de Lucy or I said would move her.” De Glanville recounted this news with an air of barely suppressed resentment.
“You mean she hasn’t left for the coast?” Henry demanded.
“And has no intention of doing so. The princess somehow discovered that you were going to Winchester and she is now on her way there. With Prince John in tow. To say she was extremely upset, Your Grace, is to put it in the mildest of terms, and my lord de Lucy, fearing she might say or do something indiscreet, allowed her to go accompanied by a large escort. He really had no choice.”
“God’s eyes! How could de Lucy let her drag Prince John into this business? What a coil! At the very least he should have accompanied her himself.”
“I hope I do not speak out of turn, my lord king, if I say that there are pressing affairs of the realm to attend to. It is hardly fair to hold my lord de Lucy responsible for this unfortunate situation or ask him to waste his time playing nursemaid.”
“All right! You’ve made your point.” Henry scowled. It had all been going too easily, he thought morosely. “If we leave at once, we may catch Princess Alais before she reaches Winchester and divert her to the Dover road.”
“Unlikely, Your Grace,” de Glanville replied in a resigned voice.
All the bells in all the churches were ringing for evensong when Henry left Chichester in the wake of the storm. The evening sun was sinking behind a line of purple hills, brushing the sky with a fiery glow. By the Apostle, he would rather face a banneret of armed knights than the reproaches of an angry woman with a justifiable grievance.
On an evening in late September, Eleanor, who had been staying at Winchester for the past fortnight, retired early. While usually quartered at Salisbury, she was often moved to Winchester, which made a welcome change. She had expected to return to Old Sarum several days earlier, but a sudden storm raging through the local countryside had left fallen trees and muddy roads in its wake, delaying her departure. The captain of her escort had told her at supper that they would be ready to leave in the morning.
She was about to doze off when she heard the faint sound of the gates being opened. After a moment, she turned over and fell soundly asleep only to be awakened a short time later by the pounding of horses’ hooves riding into the courtyard. She sat up, her eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness of the chamber, dimly lit by a single taper. There was the stomp of booted feet, growing fainter as the party who arrived entered the keep. Wide-awake now and filled with curiosity, Eleanor swung her legs over the bed and gently shook Amaria, snoring on the trundle, with her foot. “Wake up.”
Amaria awoke with a start, her face still crumpled with sleep.
Eleanor slid from the bed. “Two sets of riders have arrived, one shortly after the other. Go and find out who they are.” She walked quickly over to the table and lit the rest of the tapers in the silver candelabra from the one already burning; the chamber sprang into brightness.
“Merciful heavens, madam, can’t this wait until morning?”
“No. I want to know if King Henry has arrived. Hurry.”
“The steward said the king was not expected, madam.” Grumbling under her breath, Amaria rose; pulled on her shift, gown, and tunic; covered herself with a brown mantle; and, taking the single candle set in a pewter holder, dragged herself out of the chamber.
Eleanor padded to the bed and sat back against the pillows, pulling the coverlet up to her shoulders. Instinct told her that it was Henry who had arrived. Perhaps he was on his way back to London after seeing Louis off at Dover and had decided to detour to Winchester. She had heard the news of Prince Philip’s illness—all the important news reached her, though often the details were lacking—and that Louis had come to England to pray at Thomas’s tomb. As a mother she commiserated with Louis and hoped that Philip would live; as queen of England, she knew that the Plantagenet empire would fare far better if God took the French prince now.
Eleanor was aware of a frisson of anticipation coursing through her veins at the prospect of seeing Henry, whom she had not seen for almost a year. He had been on the Continent, of course, for the past six months and there was no reason for him to visit her, but still . . . After what seemed a very short time, Amaria returned.
“The king has arrived, madam, without any prior notice apparently.” Yawning, Amaria removed her mantle and hung it on a wooden pole protruding from the wall. “In a rare state, said one of the servants. Everyone is staying well out of his way and glad that he leaves again in the morning. Meanwhile the castle is turned upside down while fresh horses are found and food prepared.”
“It sounds all too familiar.” Eleanor smiled in reminiscence. “Who was it arrived before the king?”
After a long pause, Amaria said, “The French princess, I believe, and Prince John.”
“Alais and John here? What a happy coincidence!” Eleanor was pleased, wondering if she would be permitted to see Alais, whom she had not seen for more than five—no, six—years now. She noticed Amaria staring at her with a concerned, almost fearful look. “Is anything amiss?”
The maid turned hastily away. “No, madam. With your permission, I would like to go back to sleep now.”
“Of course. It was thoughtless of me to have awakened you.” She paused. “I have not seen John in, well, I cannot even remember the last time. He was still at Fontevrault. Sweet Marie, he must be all of thirteen by now. I confess I am curious to see him.”
Amaria signed herself. “I doubt you will be allowed to see him. Or the French princess, for that matter.” She climbed into the trundle, pulled the blanket up over her plump shoulders, and closed her eyes. “Just as well, too,” she added under her breath.
“Why just as well?” But Amaria did not respond and Eleanor let the question lie unanswered.
Perhaps she could pay Alais a secret visit—no one need know. Then she shook her head in consternation. What was she thinking? The child would have gone to bed. And John, too. But Henry might not be abed. Often after a late arrival he would stay awake and work for several hours. Eleanor started to rise, then sank back again. After all, Henry might be having a late meal. She would leave it for a quarter of an hour or so and wait until he was settled in. There was no urgency.
When Henry, exhausted and ill-tempered, dismounted in the courtyard at Winchester well after compline, he was not surprised to hear that the French princess and her party had already arrived, having missed them on the road.
“I have put her in the guest chamber she usually occupies,” said the steward.
Henry nodded impatiently. “I want a tub of hot water brought to the solar. Prince John is already there, I assume.”
“No, my lord king.” A look of dismay passed across the man’s face. “Another chamber is being prepared for him. And yourself, of course. Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, Queen Eleanor is still occupying the solar. After all, no one had any advance word of your arrival and—”
Blood of Christ! Eleanor at Winchester? Henry clapped his hands to his head in exasperation. It was the last thing he had expected to hear.
“The queen would have been gone long since but due to the recent storm it was thought better to wait—” The steward continued to babble on.
“All right!” Henry took a deep breath. “She will have retired by now, I assume?”
“The queen retired to the solar directly after supper and has not left her chamber. She is due to leave after prime tomorrow.”
“Then by cockcrow I will be on my way to London, and the French princess en route to Dover. See to the arrangements. There is no need to inform—my wife that I am here.” The steward bowed.
Of course Eleanor would find out, but by then he would be gone, and Alais as well. He would think of some tale to tell Eleanor when next he saw her.
“Bring me some wine and cold meat,” he told the steward, then strode angrily into the keep, up the spiral staircase, and into the great hall.
De Glanville and other members of his party warmed themselves at the central fire. No one spoke. After a few moments, the steward entered and announced the chamber was ready, the tub of water warming. Henry followed a yawning page up the staircase, and down the passage to a chamber at the very end of the corridor.
When he opened the door, Alais was sitting on a cushioned stool with John beside her. God’s eyes! Was he not even to have a moment’s privacy before the onslaught started? Her dark hair flowed loosely about her shoulders, and she looked voluptuous in a blue tunic and the ermine-lined crimson cloak he had given her. Her eyes were wary and her body tense, reminding him of a cat with its back arched, claws unsheathed, ready to spring.
“I am not pleased to see you here, my son, and even more displeased to see you, mistress.”
John colored and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I will leave, my lord.”
“I want John to stay as a witness,” Alais said in a tight voice.
“To what?” Henry took off his dusty cloak and threw it on the blue-canopied bed. “In the name of God, I do not understand the game you are playing at, mistress.”
“What of your game?” The expression of anger and disbelief on her face unnerved him and he felt a trickle of guilt. “I am ordered to leave for France with no explanation, or even a say in the matter.”
Henry knew for a fact the situation had been explained to her but held his tongue. “Upon your father’s orders, as you well know. No one had a say in the matter.” He turned to John. “In truth, I think it would be best if you left, my boy.”
With a quick glance at Alais, John bowed and opened the door.
“Now then,” Henry began, folding his arms across his chest.
Eleanor looked at the hourglass standing next to the candelabra and decided that enough time had passed. She rose from the bed and hastily put on an ivory gown, green tunic, and ivory headdress. Carrying the small pewter candleholder in one hand, she padded softly across the chamber then stopped in front of the door. What would she tell the guards, certain to ask where she was going? She wished to see her husband. Who could argue with that?
Both guards were half asleep and nodded indifferently when she told them. Security had grown lax, a part of her observed, even as another part realized it was to her advantage. She walked quickly down the passage, wondering which chamber Henry had taken for his own since she was in the solar. She stopped where the passageway, lit by a torch set into the wall sconce, divided. To the right was a spiral staircase that led to the hall below and the battlements above. On her left the passage continued leading to several chambers set into a squared outlet of the keep. A beam of light could be seen coming from a chamber at the far end of the passageway, as well as the faint sound of voices. Brightness flooded the corridor as someone opened the door and stepped out. Approaching her was a black-haired youth of medium height and sturdy build. He seemed unfamiliar at first until she lifted up her candle. Dark eyes met hers and in a start of recognition Eleanor realized it was her son John. Unprepared, she took a backward step, while John stood still. An expression of mingled surprise, grief, and anger passed over his face so fleetingly Eleanor wondered if she had imagined it. A moment later he had masked all feeling.
“How are you, my son? What a long time it has been,” she said inanely, her heart contracting. When he did not respond, she continued awkwardly, “I was looking for your father. Of course if he is occupied . . .”
John shook his head. With a smile that was somehow not a smile, he silently pointed toward the lit chamber whose door was still slightly ajar, bent his knee in an elaborate bow, and walked past her. Guilt concerning John, usually suppressed, suddenly assaulted her so strongly that Eleanor felt compelled to reach out to him. She lifted a supplicating arm, took a step after his retreating form, and softly called his name. But either he did not hear or chose not to and continued on his way. Torn for a moment, she paused uncertainly, until rising voices diverted her attention. It sounded like an argument was in progress. Curious, she approached the door.
“You had no business involving my son. Have you no shame?” It was Henry’s voice.
“Do you have the gall to speak to me of shame? When you have done your best to rid yourself of me like some chattel?” The voice was oddly familiar although she could not quite place it. And while instinct urged her to leave before she heard another word, Eleanor found herself unable to move.
“What else could I do? Your father strongly suspects that we are involved in—in an unseemly way and, quite rightly, predicts dire consequences should it gain notoriety. I promised him I would send you back at once. Come, ma jolie, we both knew it could not go on.” The cajoling, persuasive tone was one Eleanor had heard before.
“Did we? That was not my impression.”
Suddenly her body began to tremble and Eleanor wondered if she were going mad. Alais? Could Henry be talking to Alais?
“In fact, I do not recall that we ever spoke of it.” The voice sounded older—as of course it would be—but definitely recognizable as Alais’s.
Reeling back, Eleanor did not wait to hear any more. Stuffing a fist in her mouth, she ran blindly down the dimly lit passage praying she would not faint until she got to the safety of her chamber. The candle she held guttered and went out and the holder dropped from her stiff fingers. Blood pounding in her ears, she stumbled against the wall of the passage, could not regain her balance, and almost fell. At last! Eleanor pushed past the guards and staggered into the solar. Chest heaving, she took a deep shuddering breath and sank back against the closed door. The enormity of what she had heard was so overwhelming that for a moment she doubted the evidence of her own ears and refused to believe it. It was simply not possible.
After a time, the chamber became icy and she began to shiver. Dazed, she limped over to the table and blew out the candles, all but one, before collapsing onto the bed. Holy Mother, it could not be true! But she knew it was. Her neck arched in anguish as she waited for the tears to fall. None came. An image of the scrawny French princess when she first arrived in Poitiers ten years earlier appeared in her mind’s eye. She had taken the hostile, secretive child in hand, lavished affection on her, trained her, educated her, molded her tastes, and tried to bring out the best in her personality. Although her aim had been to create a perfect consort for Richard, Eleanor had genuinely loved her future daughter-in-law. The thought of Henry lying with his son’s future bride, touching her, was so unbearable that she gasped, leaned over the side of the bed, and voided the contents of her belly onto the floor. Wave after wave of pain broke over her limp body. The grief and agony she had suffered over Rosamund de Clifford could not be endured all over again. Never.
This night she had been dealt a wound so deep it must be mortal.
Henry noticed the door was ajar and pushed it shut.
“You never told me I would be forced to leave England,” Alais said in a surly tone.
“By God’s splendor, what did you think would happen when you married Richard? I know it is sudden and unexpected, but there is nothing we can do.” Henry ran his fingers through his hair. “I feel as wretched about it as you do.”
Alais stared at him, her black eyes burning like live coals. “I do not feel your wretchedness. What I feel is that, having deflowered me, you are just going to cast me off like a doxie you no longer have any use for—”
There was a knock on the door and the steward entered carrying a wooden tray with cold slices of game hen, two pewter goblets, and a silver pitcher of ruby-colored wine. He laid the tray on the oak table and poured wine into the goblets. “The servants are bringing the hot water—”
“Later!”
The steward quickly bowed himself out.
“Cast you off? That is hardly the case, is it? When the king of France in the name of Holy Church threatens widespread exposure, charges of incest, and papal reprisals unless I return his daughter so she can be properly wed to my son, what choice is there?”
Henry began to wolf down slices of game hen. “He was very persuasive, I assure you, and I gave him my word you would return to France.” Henry could not explain even to himself the strong impression Louis had made. Like the voice of an inner moral conscience that had rarely made itself heard in recent years.
Alais said nothing for a moment, then slipped off her cloak and flung herself down on the bed. “You should have thought of all this before you seduced me, my lord.”
Henry restrained an urge to shake her. “As I recall, it was the other way ’round. You came to my chamber, more than once, and thrust temptation into my face. Not even a saint could have resisted, and God knows I am no saint.” He drank off half the goblet of wine.
“Who will believe that? I was young, helpless, innocent—”
“Innocent?” He was growing angry and, setting down his goblet, he strode up and down the chamber. “I wonder if you were ever innocent, even in your cradle.”
Suddenly she jumped from the bed and flung herself at him, clutching his neck with such vigor that he almost lost his balance.
“Alais, in the name of God, this is hardly the time. Let me go.” He tried to untangle her arms but she held on tenaciously.
“Please, please, don’t send me away. You cannot be so cruel, so—”
“God’s eyes! It is not cruelty, but survival! Why can’t you understand—” Henry felt her hand reach between his legs and found himself instantly rising. “Stop it! Vixen! I tell you I will not be swayed in this—”
She pressed her mouth against his, opening her lips and probing with her tongue. Her body, usually so soft and pliable, was rigid with desperation. She clung to him, her face damp with tears, murmuring incoherently against his lips, leading him toward the bed. She lifted her gown and tunic and lay back, parting her legs and pulling him down on top of her. Her need was so palpable that Henry, half out of pity, half out of the excitement she roused in him, took her in a brief frenzied coupling that repelled him the moment it was over.
He rose from the bed, pulling up his drawers and hose, wishing he could cleanse himself in the tub of hot water he had delayed. Alais lay quiet, her eyes closed, a half-satisfied smile on her face. Henry adjusted his tunic then walked over to the table and finished eating the slices of game hen, washing them down with gulps of wine. She was a past master at manipulating him through sensation and he cursed himself for his weakness. Devil take her, his flesh was in thrall to this siren and they both knew it. But this time their mating had resembled something out of Dionysian ritual: a crazed Maenad flinging herself on a satyr in a lustful orgy. And when he remembered that Eleanor slept under the same roof, he was filled with self-disgust and bitterly ashamed.
“I must have slept for a moment.” Alais yawned, looking lazy and content as she always did directly after lovemaking.
“Mea culpa. That should not have happened.” Henry walked back over to the bed. “You probably did not realize that Eleanor is at Winchester.”
Alais twisted her face away. “I do not know why her presence would matter.” Her indifference was disturbing. Then she reached out and grasped his hand. “Do I please you as much as she did? More?”
“Why do you persist in this folly?” He attempted to pull his hand away.
She bit her lip. “Suppose I refuse to go?”
“You would not be so foolish.”
“If Eleanor were in a convent and your marriage was annulled, would you marry me?” Her eyes glittered like pieces of onyx.
Shocked, Henry pried her fingers loose from his and walked back over to the table. “But she is not in a convent and the pope refuses to grant an annulment.” In truth, the pope had simply avoided the issue by not even mentioning the subject, and Henry was of a mind to leave matters as they were.
“You never wanted an annulment, did you? Not really. Even before Rosamund—” Alais sat up and pulled her skirts down over her legs. “Suppose Eleanor were dead? Then would you marry me?”
“Christ’s blood!” Henry hurriedly signed himself. “That is a wicked, blasphemous thing to say, or even think!”
“There was a time you would have been glad of Eleanor’s death.”
“Never! Blinded by rage, I may have said things I did not mean and done things I later regretted, but, as God is my witness, I never wished her dead. Christ be thanked she is alive. In any case, so far as you are concerned, it would make no difference. You are betrothed to Richard.”
Alais began to weep, covering her face with her hands. “I will not marry him.”
“We both know you have no choice.” Henry picked up his goblet and downed the rest of his wine.
“Suppose I were to tell you I was with child, Henry? Your child.”
For an instant he was taken aback, then turned abruptly and saw at once she was lying. “How fortunate that you leave for the coast tomorrow.” He fixed her with a stern unblinking stare. “Naturally your father will have to be appraised of the situation in order to arrange the wedding at once. We must thank the Holy Mother the babe will resemble a Plantagenet.”
After a moment she looked up at him from under her sooty lashes, a mutinous expression on her face. “Suppose I were to tell you that—that Richard is a sodomite. In Poitiers, I saw him lying with Bertran de Born.”
Henry’s blood turned to ice in his veins. God’s eyes, in her wild rebellious state, what other inflammatory nonsense might she spout? To what improbable lengths might she go to get her own way? “Have you lost your wits? Keep your voice down.” He glanced at the door. “Bertran de Born? That mischief-making minstrel is the most notorious philanderer in all Aquitaine, usually being pursued by a host of irate husbands. Do you expect me to believe such an absurd tale?” He felt slightly sick to his stomach.
“I thought that might be your response, or I would have mentioned it long ago. And that’s not all I could tell—”
“Enough! I do not want to hear one more word from you! Since you must make an early start in the morning I suggest you go to your chamber and try to get some rest.” His voice was crisp with authority and brooked no rejoinder.
Alais flung herself off the bed and began searching for her cloak, her lips pressed together in silent fury while tears ran down her crimson face. Henry’s heart started to melt but he knew that if he showed the slightest sign of weakening it would be tantamount to sounding his own death knell. She brushed back her raven hair, slipped on her cloak, marched to the door, and opened it without a backward glance. When she was gone, Henry let a long breath of mingled relief and frustration escape him. To send her to France in this state was like loosing a chance arrow over castle walls, not knowing what damage it might cause, but he would sooner fend off a wild boar with a short spear than deal with Alais of France one moment longer.
At cockcrow the next morning, Henry stood in the still dark courtyard watching Alais’s litter and mounted escort make its way through the open gates into the town of Winchester. Moments later he followed with his own party, taking John with him. By the time Eleanor awoke he would be gone. No doubt she would be disappointed and upset that he had left so hurriedly, but he would visit her soon at Salisbury and make his apologies.
“Did you know your mother was at Winchester?” Henry asked John, as they rode toward London under a pale pink sky still pricked with fading stars. He still thought it best that Eleanor be kept from her sons and he thanked God she had not seen Alais.
“Was she?” John’s voice was indifferent.
Struck by this lack of interest, Henry gave him a questioning look. “Do you ever think of her?”
“Who?”
“Your mother, my boy.”
John shrugged. “Why would I think of someone who is a total stranger to me, my lord?”
When Henry reached Westminster ten days later, having stopped first at Newbury and then Richmond, a French courier was waiting with the news that King Louis had been back in Paris barely a sennight when he had been struck by a paralytic malady that immobilized the right side of his body. He was not expected to live. But his son, Philip, was now fully recovered and the coronation was to take place as planned.
Stunned, Henry retired to his council chamber alone to ponder this new situation. The French monarch’s fatal illness added yet another complication to what was already a tangled skein. Not to mention a grim reminder of his own mortality. He was forty-six, after all, Louis only twelve years older. Despite their enmity, he would miss him, he realized in surprise. No question about it. Fortunately, Alais would be safely in Paris by now. Even without Louis’s presence, Henry assumed her brother would insist on the marriage to Richard taking place. The sooner the better, as far as he was concerned. He’d had a narrow escape, with the help of God and Louis of France, and he was well out of a dangerous situation. Idly—merely as an exercise in speculation Henry told himself—he wondered: Was a private oath sworn to a living monarch still binding after his death?