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  “I would give my life for the young king,” Will said simply, with such sincerity that none of those listening could doubt him. “I do watch over him, my liege. I’ve done my best to teach him what he must know, and I am proud of his prowess, for he is an expert rider and has mastered both sword and lance with admirable ease. But I cannot spy on him, not even for you, my lord king. I am his sworn man, and my first loyalty must be to him. To do less would be a betrayal he would not forgive. Nor could I forgive myself.”

  The silence that followed was stifling. Girding himself to bear the king’s wrath, Will raised his head and met Henry’s gaze. The king’s eyes were the color of smoke, his mouth tightly drawn, as if to stop angry words from escaping. “Keep him from harm, Will,” he said at last. “Do not let me down.”

  Will swallowed, knelt hastily, and then retreated just as hastily, vastly relieved by his reprieve but not fully understanding it. Rainald did not understand, either. “The impudence of the man! Why were you so forbearing with him? Had he dared talk to me like that, I’d have dismissed him straightaway.”

  “If I did that,” Henry said, “Hal would lose the one trustworthy and honorable man in his service, the one man who’d be loyal to his last breath. How would that benefit my son, Rainald? Do you not know how rare such men are? Men who put loyalty above ambition and greed and royal favor?” And even Rainald realized that Henry was speaking not only of William Marshal, but of Thomas Becket, the false friend who’d betrayed him for reasons he could never comprehend.

  People had begun to gather at dawn before the Cathedral church of St Andrew the Apostle, not wanting to miss the spectacle of a king brought low, forced to do penance like all mortal men. They were to be disappointed. Henry arrived with the papal legates and barons and bishops beyond counting. They’d all gone into the cathedral, where Henry swore upon the Holy Gospels that he’d neither commanded nor desired that the Archbishop of Canterbury be slain, and that when he was told of the crime, he was horrified and truly grieved for the death of Thomas of blessed memory. He admitted, though, that the killing was the result of his heedless, angry words, and he pledged to honor the commitments made to Holy Church on this, the last Sunday before Ascension in God’s Year 1172, the eighteenth year of his reign. His son the young king then took an oath to honor all those commitments that did not relate only to Henry. But all of this was done out of sight and sound of the waiting crowds.

  When Henry finally emerged from the church, the spectators were disappointed anew, for he was not bareheaded and barefoot and clad only in his shirt. A few men explained knowingly that he was spared the usual mortification because he’d not been excommunicated, but most of the bystanders took a more cynical view, that kings were always accorded special treatment, even by the Almighty. Henry knelt upon the paving stones, only then removing his cap, and received public absolution by the Cardinals Albert and Theodwin. When he rose, the cardinals and the Bishop of Avranches led him back into the cathedral, a symbolic act of reconciliation with the Church and the Almighty.

  The dissatisfied onlookers dispersed when they realized the show was over. Roger, Bishop of Worcester, stood alone for a moment before slowly reentering the church, for he had been close enough to Henry to hear him say softly after the absolution: “Check, Thomas, and mate.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  June 1172

  Poitiers, Poitou

  From an open window of the queen’s solar in the Mauber-geonne Tower, Maud, Countess of Chester, looked down upon a garden vibrant with summer flowers and echoing with youthful high spirits. Eleanor’s son Geoffrey was playing quoits with two friends, a game that was by its very nature boisterous and somewhat hazardous. When the players were youngsters of thirteen and fourteen, it was guaranteed that the horseshoes would be flung about with abandon, missing the targeted hob more often than not, scarring the grassy mead and scaring songbirds from budding fruit trees and overhanging willows. The shouts of the boys and the barking of their dogs had drawn an audience of giggling girls, all of them highborn and destined for the marriage beds of princes.

  The oldest of the girls was Maud’s daughter-in-law, Bertrada, who’d wed her son Hugh three years ago, becoming at thirteen countess of one of England’s richest earldoms, the Honour of Chester. The prettiest was Geoffrey’s sister Joanna, only in her seventh year but already showing signs that she’d inherited her mother’s fabled beauty. Eleven-year-old Constance, dark-haired and whip-thin, was a great heiress in her own right; betrothed to Geoffrey in early childhood, she would bring to him the Duchy of Brittany. And Alys, also eleven, was a daughter of the French king, plight-trothed to Geoffrey’s older brother Richard, one day to rule with him over the vast, lush domains of Eleanor’s Aquitaine.

  Eleanor and Aquitaine. Maud always thought of her friend in those terms, for it was Aquitaine that had defined Eleanor, that had conferred upon her the queenships of France and then England. Few brides had ever brought such a dowry as Aquitaine to their husbands. Eleanor’s duchy comprised the counties of Poitou, Berry, Saintonge, Angouleme, Perigord, the Limousin, La Marche, the Auvergne, the Agenais, and Gascony. Stretching from the Atlantic Ocean to the Massif Central and the Rhone Valley, from the Pyrenees to the River Loire, it encompassed much of southwestern France, dwarfing the lands controlled by the French king, and it had been blessed by nature and God with a mild climate, fertile soil, deep river valleys, ancient oak forests, and some of the best vineyards in Christendom. By taking Eleanor as his queen, Louis had gained greatly in stature and the French coffers had overflowed with the riches of Aquitaine. Maud thought that her cousin Harry might not even have won his crown had he not wed Eleanor as soon as she was free. Aquitaine had been his stepping-stone to the English throne.

  Maud’s friendship with Eleanor had endured for almost twenty years, but she’d never spent that much time in the other woman’s domains, for neither had Eleanor. For much of her married life, she’d been traveling with Henry or acting on his behalf in Normandy and England or occupied with her many pregnancies. It was only four years ago that she’d taken up residence again in Aquitaine, holding her own court at Poitiers and gathering the reins of government into her own hands.

  Turning away from the window, Maud wandered restlessly about the chamber. Eleanor had excused herself to confer with Saldebreuil de Sanzay, her constable in Poitou, and Maud was growing bored with her own company. Several charters were spread across a trestle table and she scanned the top one briefly. It was a routine act of patronage, remitting taxes for a citizen of La Rochelle in exchange for his agreement to pay rent to the abbey of Fontevrault. What caught Maud’s attention was the change in the form of address. Instead of the usual Fidelibus Regis et suis, it read: Fidelibus suis.

  Maud gazed down thoughtfully at the parchment. Eleanor’s charters had always begun “To the king’s faithful followers and hers.” This one was addressed simply to “her faithful followers.” Did it matter? A careless mistake by her scribe? Or another feather in the wind, a subtle but significant indication that Eleanor was asserting her independence and her authority? Her right to govern in her own name?

  A sudden spate of cursing drew her back to the window. Geoffrey’s friends had begun to quarrel over a throw and before long, they were rolling around in the grass as Geoffrey and the girls cheered them on. Maud watched serenely; with two sons of her own, she knew how little such youthful squabbles meant.

  She didn’t hear the opening door, did not realize she was no longer alone until Eleanor joined her at the window. Eleanor, the mother of four sons, paid even less heed than Maud to the garden brawl. “Petronilla’s daughter has just ridden in,” she said, hazel eyes luminous with pleasure. “I was hoping she’d arrive in time to witness Richard’s investiture.”

  Maud jogged her memory. Isabelle was the elder of Petronilla’s two daughters, wed as a child to the Count of Flanders; Alienor, who’d wed Isabelle’s brother-in-law, the Count of Boulogne, a few years ago, was already here. As far as Mau
d knew, Eleanor had not spent much time with her sister’s children. That she had taken the trouble to make sure both girls were present in Poitiers showed Maud how much her friend missed Petronilla, whose death that past year had robbed Eleanor of her last living link to a sun-drenched, blissful childhood, to a time when she’d been indulged and pampered and cherished as her father’s favorite in this exotic land she so loved.

  Below in the garden, Joanna had decided the tussling had gone on long enough and, with an authority that would have done credit to a girl twice her age, she demanded that the boys stop fighting. They did, probably glad of an excuse to end their pummeling, but Maud was amused by the little girl’s aplomb, thinking that the young Eleanor must have been just as self-assured and poised. Smiling at Joanna’s mother, she said, “Are the rumors true about Joanna? That she may soon be plight-trothed to the King of Sicily?”

  “There have been talks,” Eleanor confirmed. “But we’re still in the preliminary stages of negotiation, so it is too soon to tell how it will go. There is no hurry, after all, for Joanna will only be seven in October. I see no reason for her to grow up in a foreign court,” she said, so emphatically that Maud thought of Joanna’s older sisters. Tilda had been the first to go, wed two years ago in far-off Saxony at the age of twelve. Then it was the turn of Eleanor’s namesake, known as Leonora, wed to the young King of Castile at the age of nine.

  The two women looked at each other, the same thought in both their minds. In their world, princesses were born to be bartered for foreign alliances, and although the Church officially disapproved of child marriages, it was a common occurrence. Henry’s mother had been sent to Germany at the age of eight. Marguerite had been wed to Hal before she was three. Eleanor had been thirteen when her father’s unexpected death set in motion the events that would give her the crown of France and a life in exile. Maud had been older than Eleanor, but not by much, when she’d been married to the Earl of Chester, a man utterly lacking in either honor or mercy, but one of the great lords of the realm. Because she was quick-witted and resilient and pragmatic, Maud had learned to live in relative peace with her savage, unstable husband, to take solace and joy in her children, and, eventually, to revel in the freedom of widowhood. But she had made sure that her daughter would be no child bride; Beatrix had not wed Ralph de Malpas until after she’d celebrated her nineteenth birthday.

  As the only daughter in a family of sons, Maud had often longed for a sister, and as she gazed at Eleanor now, it occurred to her that this woman was as close as any blood-sister could be. They had much in common, both beautiful in their youth, both strong-willed, proud, and confident in their powers to charm, both now within hailing distance of their fifth decade, for they would celebrate their forty-eighth birthdays that summer.

  “I had an interesting conversation this morn with your niece Alienor,” Maud commented, with a wry smile. “She wanted to know why I had never remarried after Randolph’s death.”

  “I hope you did not shatter all her illusions about marriage,” Eleanor said, no less wryly. “You must remember that her parents were that rarity, a couple who’d wed for love…or lust. And Alienor seems content enough with her own husband…so far.”

  “No, I was circumspect…for me. I said merely that my memories of Randolph were too vivid for me to contemplate taking another husband.”

  Eleanor laughed approvingly. “It is no easy feat for a wealthy widow to escape her legion of suitors. You must have been very fleet of foot, indeed, dearest.”

  “I made sure,” Maud acknowledged, “never to leave my lands without a sizable escort, one large enough to discourage any ambitious young lordlings with ambush and marriage on their minds.” Knowing that Eleanor had fended off two such attempts to force her into matrimony as she’d journeyed back to Aquitaine after her marriage to the French king had been annulled, she indulged her curiosity to ask: “If you could have been certain, Eleanor, that you need not fear being remarried against your will, would you have remained unwed?”

  Eleanor’s mouth tightened, almost imperceptibly. “You do not truly think that the French court would have permitted that? No sooner was the ink dry upon the annulment decree than Louis’s advisors were arguing amongst themselves, deciding which French puppet to place in my bed. Had they even suspected I’d so hastily wed a man of my own choosing, they’d never have allowed me to return to my own domains. But yours was a conjectural question, was it not? So in that spirit: ‘Be not entangled again in the yoke of bondage.’”

  Maud blinked, for Eleanor rarely let her bitterness show so nakedly. “Your interpretation of Scriptures is somewhat uncanonical,” she said dryly. “That is from St Paul, is it not? If my memory serves, he also said it was better to marry than to burn, hardly a rousing endorsement of wedlock.”

  “I have never understood,” Eleanor confessed, “why the Church sees lust as so great a sin. Why would the Almighty have made coupling so pleasurable if it were so wrong? But when I tried to argue that point with Louis, he was horrified that I dared to question the teachings of the Holy Fathers, and it convinced him that we were a depraved and wanton lot, we southerners. He could never forgive himself for the carnal pleasures he found in my bed. He was not much of a husband, or a king, either, for that matter, but by God, he’d have made a superb monk.”

  Eleanor’s face shadowed, for even now, memories of her marriage to the French king were not welcome ones. “He may well have been right, though, about the people of the south. We view lust as we do wine and food and laughter, as essential ingredients for a joyful life. My grandfather…ah, how he loved to vex his priests and distress his confessor! He wrote troubadour poetry, you know, and some of it would have made a harlot blush. He liked to joke that one day he’d establish his own nunnery and fill it with ladies of easy virtue. On our wedding night, I told Harry some of the more scandalous stories about my grandfather, and he laughed until he nearly choked, gasping that between us, we had a family tree rooted in Hell.”

  This last memory was both more pleasant and more painful than those from her marriage to Louis, and Eleanor fell silent for several moments. “I think,” she said at last, “that I would have wed Harry even if I were not threatened with a husband of the French court’s choosing. I wanted children, for I knew Louis would never let me see our two daughters, and indeed, he did not. I needed an heir for Aquitaine and I wanted to give Harry sons, to prove wrong those who’d dared to call me a barren queen. I always knew it was Louis’s failing, not mine. How could I conceive if I so often slept alone?”

  “And I am assuming that you had no trouble getting Harry into your bed?” Maud queried, so blandly that Eleanor could not help smiling.

  “You could safely say that,” she conceded, and Maud felt a surge of sadness that things had gone so wrong between her cousin and his queen. She remembered how it had once been, remembered the early years of their marriage, when they’d been so sure that the world, like the English crown, was theirs for the taking, lusting after empires and each other, striking such sparks with their quarreling and their lovemaking that the air around them always seemed charged, as if a storm were about to break.

  Eleanor’s attention was focused again upon the gardens. She was still a very handsome woman, but even queens were vulnerable to the passage of time. Now, though, her smile was dazzling, chasing away the years, cares, even regrets. Maud glanced over to see what she found so interesting.

  Another youth had sauntered into the garden, accompanied by a huge wolfhound. Maud guessed him to be about sixteen, for he was already taller than many grown men, and he moved with the athletic grace of one utterly comfortable in his own body. Maud knew how unusual it was for one so young to have such physical presence; both of her sons had been as clumsy and gangling as colts when they were this boy’s age. He had curly red-gold hair and a scattering of freckles, and she would later marvel that she had not known his identity at once, but it was not until Joanna gave a delighted squeal and flung herself into his a
rms that she realized she was looking at Eleanor’s second son, Richard, who would on the morrow be invested as Duke of Aquitaine.

  “Jesu, that is Richard!”

  “Indeed it is.” Eleanor glanced curiously at her friend. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “Because the last time I saw him, he was a boy, not a man. He looks older than his years, for he will not be fifteen until the autumn, no?”

  “September. He was born on the Nativity of Our Lady. The first and only time that Harry was present for one of my confinements.”

  Maud grinned at the memory, for she’d been present, too, at Richard’s birth. “I remember now. Harry’s brother Will later told me that they’d been hard put to keep him from bursting into the birthing chamber. Harry was never one for waiting.”

  Below in the garden, Richard was swinging Joanna in circles, making her shriek with laughter. The other girls had clustered around him, but Geoffrey and his friends did not seem as pleased by his arrival in their midst. Maud could not blame Geoffrey for his discomfort. Although only a twelvemonth separated the birthdays of the two boys, Geoffrey looked like a child next to his brother, his slightness of build and his lack of height cruelly accentuated by Richard’s adult appearance. Maud’s two sons had been allies from earliest childhood. She suspected that was not the case with Richard and Geoffrey.

  The sight of Eleanor’s sons reminded her that all of the royal brood was not accounted for. Hal and Marguerite were in Normandy with her brother Roger, making plans for their coronation at Winchester. But no mention had been made of Eleanor’s youngest nestling, John. The lastborn, the afterthought, the child jokingly dubbed John Lackland by his father.