The Sixth Surrender

Juliana grasped the door ring with both hands to draw the heavy leaf toward her, only to be swept aside by the two men who strode into the queen’s room—men bareheaded, tall, loose-knit, bred for a destrier’s saddle and the battlefield. They filled the room with their presence and the smell of horses, open country—and liberty.

The Duchess of Aquitaine smiled at the girl’s reaction. Watching the two men, Aliénor did not blame her. Wearing long surcoats, their hands on sword hilts, they looked as if they expected to be attacked, even inside this convent’s walls. The older man Aliénor knew well—William Marshal, chivalry’s nonpareil, and thanks to his marriage, the Earl of Pembroke and Striguil, Lord of Longueville, master of fiefs in Normandy, England, Wales, and Ireland.

Marshal approached first, square shouldered, his narrow face matured into weathered handsomeness, his brown eyes clear and sharp. He was fifty-four, enjoying well-deserved fame as the champion of countless tourneys. Under Aliénor’s wing, he had risen from a landless knight-errant to one of the wealthiest men in two kingdoms, grown gray in service to her and her children. In addition to steadfast and loyal, Aliénor knew Marshal to be as tough as nails and utterly pragmatic. She especially appreciated his unwavering hatred of the Lusignans, which dated back to their murder of his uncle and to his own wounding and capture at their hands while defending her person.

The other man, black haired, was someone Aliénor intended to know. He had sent her a simple wooden casket; inside, wrapped in linen, lay a gold cross. Her cross. She had given it to Richard to protect him, her brilliant, restless, impetuous son, when he rallied the Christian host to recover Jerusalem from the Mohammedans. That had been nine years ago, and now Richard was gone. His mortal remains rested in the crypt of the abbey, at the feet of his father, whom he had betrayed so often—except for his heart, which Richard had bequeathed to Rouen, and his entrails, which he had left to the people of Poitou in remembrance of their many treacheries. Next to him rested his beloved sister Joanna and her dead infant. Fontevraud was becoming a Plantagenet sepulchre.

Marshal dropped on one knee in front of her. Aliénor tapped him on the cheek and presented her ringed fingers, and Marshal kissed them with élan. “My queen, you and the lady Sabine put this beautiful day to shame.”

The Duchess of Aquitaine motioned for Marshal to rise. “It seems your flattery increases with my age, my lord. I am not complaining, although I sometimes wonder what you tell your wife. Do remember me to her. John is now at peace with Philip, but nothing lasts forever. I have ordered charters drawn up for fortresses without trustworthy castellans.”

“Lady Isabel will be honored to be remembered by you. As for the fortresses”—Marshal pulled out a folded sheet from inside his surcoat—“I have several more names for your consideration.” While his mistress examined the names, Marshal shifted uneasily. “Your Grace, the duke will not take kindly to your efforts.”

“I won’t allow John to piss away his patrimony, not while you and I are alive, Marshal. Excellent. Add these names to the list, girl, and make a copy for the seneschal.”

Juliana hurried for the parchment, blushing when Sir William winked at her, as he always did. His attentions had baffled her before she realized that it was just his way of acknowledging her presence, her female presence. He had noticed her, unlike the others who had occasionally appeared before the queen, including the man Marshal brought this time.

Although he was younger than Marshal and hardly homely, he looked much too swart, wary, and world-wise. Despite it—or because of it—she was compelled to grant that most women would find someone like that thoroughly fascinating. And he, no doubt, them. I would wager, Juliana thought, fighting a sudden attack of the giggles, that his wife surely has something to complain about.

Marshal stepped aside for his companion. “Your Grace, as you ordered, I brought with me the man I hold responsible for Richard’s great victory at Gisors.”

The younger man snapped his eyes at Marshal, who beamed as if he had pulled off a trick at his expense. Not having much choice, the man genuflected in Marshal’s place and bowed his head to the duchess.

Taking the opportunity to size up the younger man, Sabine did so with a growing sense of disquiet. Those eyes . . . it could not be. This was a horrible mistake. “Good heavens. Guérin de Lasalle!”

William Marshal caught his companion’s reaction at the same time as the countess did—a sharply raised head, one black eyebrow arched, and on the face of his captain a flash of surprise, plain annoyance, and finally fierce anger, as quickly suppressed as it had appeared. Marshal had seen unruly routiers retreat three paces under that glare. Lady Sabine was made of tougher stuff.

Aliénor held out an amethyst-set cross and said, a queen to her subject, “The circumstances of your resurrection, sir, are, I am certain, suitably miraculous. Tell us, how did this come into your possession?”

The question, polite on its face, contained a veiled accusation. The man, for his part, did not appear anxious to enlighten anyone. His head slightly bowed, he remained silent, as if charting a strategy out of his unexpected predicament. When he finally spoke, his voice was naturally low, but also oddly hoarse.

The voice answered in the dialect of her own Poitou, releasing a buried memory of another man, half a century ago in the gardens of Antioch. Suddenly, she was twenty-five again, and beautiful. Blood rose to her cheeks at the vividness of the memory. With an act of will, Aliénor wrenched herself back to her old body and this chamber. “Tyre? What Tyre?”

“I wish to hear the answer from this man, Marshal. Surely the cat did not get his tongue? Speak up!” She missed the earl’s sharp intake of breath, so when the answer came in a stronger but still gritty voice, Aliénor was not prepared.

The sound of parchments fluttering to the floor ended the silence. Juliana looked down. Her face ablaze, she slid from her stool, dropped on all fours, and crawled after the scattered pages. In the pause that ensued, the queen-duchess leaned forward and placed her hand on the shoulder of the man kneeling in front of her, placed it where the carelessly cut hair nested thickly.

Juliana looked up to catch Lasalle flinch and then make himself very still. The glint of a small silver hoop through his earlobe took her aback, but that was before she saw what the queen did—a pale scar beginning below it, crossing the slope of the neck and disappearing in the hollow of the throat. It looked like a battle scar—only a knight’s ventail would have protected that vulnerable part.

“You have my apology, my lord. The fault rests not in your voice or my old ears, but in my manners.” This time she held out her hand for the man to kiss, making him raise his head to her. Raymond . No, it was not he. The resemblance was only superficial, in the age and the frame and the same pitch-black hair and the lines in the corners of the eyes, etched there by the blinding sun of outre-mer; but it brought back the memory of walled gardens, swaying palms, snow-cooled wine, and the scent of oranges and musk on a man’s skin. She was twenty-five and beautiful.

“Your Grace, are you well?” Alarmed by the queen’s sudden pallor, Sabine moved to her side, turning to Marshal. “We’ve had a tiring day. Tomorrow I am certain the queen will be better able to attend to these matters.”

Marshal nodded, and before her mistress could object, Sabine had the visitors out the door, the doors barred, and Sister Eustace kneeling to knead the queen’s cold fingers. Sabine tried to force a cup into her mistress’s hand. “Drink this, Your Grace; it will steady you.”

“I don’t need to be steadied. I am not about to faint at the sight of scars. Now, get away, girl! Are you trying to hide some unpleasantness concerning your nephew, Sabine?”

The flash of royal temper sent Sister Eustace scurrying, but did not intimidate the Countess de Nevers. She helped herself to the wine cup. “Unpleasantness? It was an outrage.” Noticing Sister Eustace in the corner attempting to look inconspicuous, Sabine paused. “The details of which are not meant for innocent ears.”

Aliénor tipped her head back. Her memory contained an archive of her vassals’ misbehaviors. One never knew where an opponent’s weakness might lie. “He murdered a girl, didn’t he? His brother’s wife?”

Sabine crossed herself. “His brother’s betrothed, in truth. Céline de Passeis was her name. She was Armand de Lusignan’s ward. He had hoped to make by her an advantageous alliance with our family.”

Reluctantly, Sabine obeyed. “Guérin is the son of my younger sister. Yvetta was such a pretty, headstrong thing. She was married well, but her husband died in a hunting accident inside two years. She was left a childless widow with a flock of suitors, including . . . well, never mind. One of them was Guérin de Lasalle, a landless Norman gadabout with Welsh blood, so that’s to be expected. She married him for his looks, and he married her for her estates, before anyone could prevent it.”

“Not for long,” Sabine happily contradicted her. “I had not seen her again after that marriage, although she wrote to me when things became difficult. I offered her my advice, but she would take none of it. They had two sons, Geoffrey and Guérin. Even as children, they could not have been more different, Yvetta said. Geoffrey loved the Church, which did not please his father. I suppose young Guérin turned out as headstrong as his mother, but when it suited him, he could charm the birds out of the trees. It worked on everyone, except his father. He must have resented the attention Yvetta gave the boy.”

“He remained there until he decided to visit his brother before the wedding. He was told then that Yvetta’s entire mesne would go to Geoffrey upon his marriage to Céline. Those were the terms set by Armand. How he managed, I’ll never know.” Sabine cast a glance at Juliana, who sat riveted by it all. “He decided to trump them all by seducing the girl to marry him instead. I am told he worked to turn the girl’s head and abducted her without fuss with the aid of a couple of his friends.”

The queen smiled to herself. “Seduction and abduction. A direct if old-fashioned way out of a landless young man’s troubles. Usually effective, especially if the girl is willing.”

“Only at first. I imagine Céline had second thoughts—defiance of her guardian, marriage to a younger son. Guérin knew that if he forced her, she would have no choice but to consent to the marriage to save herself from disgrace.”

The queen-duchess appeared to be absorbed in her thoughts. Sabine crossed herself. “Such a dreadful thing. But even after that, Céline refused to marry him, and in a rage, he killed her. Armand de Lusignan and Geoffrey arrived in time to bury the poor thing. Armand locked up Guérin and his friends at Pont-de-l’Arche. They would have rotted there had the Devil not intervened.”

“This intervention also involved the Lusignans,” Sabine took pleasure to inform her. “Young Guy needed companions on his journey to the Holy Land, a penance for his part in the Lusignans’ rebellion against Richard. Armand must have decided that Guérin and his friends were the sort his nephew could use. Guérin and the others no doubt concluded that the Saracens were a better offer than rotting in the Lusignans’ gaol. They knew they would receive absolution as well, so they all pledged themselves to Guy.”

“Loyal enough this time to follow Guy to that slaughter at Hattín. Lord, I can still hear the bells. We thought he had perished with the others. A broken heart killed my sister. Her husband went to Wales, where they buried him, as well.”

The bell broke the silence. Juliana fidgeted. If she were tardy again, Sister Domenica would return her to bread and water. She inched from her stool, catching the queen’s attention. This time, Aliénor nodded her dismissal. Juliana dropped a cloth over her writing desk, curtsied, and quietly closed the doors behind her.

Aliénor of Aquitaine stood at the window, watching the twilight encroach upon the garden. “How do you find someone to fight for you? How do you bind them to you even after you are in your grave? How do you find someone to pledge their body and soul to your cause?”