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  Eleanor shook her head. “I forgot that you do not know the lengua romana. In my grandfather’s youth, the dialect of Poitou was very similar to the lengua romana or lemozi, as they call it, but nowadays Poitevin is more like the French of the north. Most of those in my lands speak both tongues, and I made certain that Richard was tutored in the lengua romana. Slide your chair closer and I will translate for you.”

  “I’ve lately been in great distress over a knight who once was mine,” she quoted. “She says she loved him to excess, but he betrayed her because she could not sleep with him. Night and day she suffers, lamenting her mistake.”

  Maud’s eyes widened. “Is it common for women of the south to be so blunt-spoken?”

  Eleanor grinned. “In one of the other verses of that song, she declares that she’d give almost anything to have her handsome knight in her husband’s place!”

  Maud shook her head in bemusement. “Life is truly different in these southern regions, especially for women!”

  “Women are more free to speak their minds,” Eleanor agreed. “And men even listen to us at times, for power is not solely a male preserve. Here we do not follow the practice of primogeniture. The eldest son does not inherit his father’s estate; it is divided up amongst all the sons. And often it is bequeathed to a daughter. Take the Countess of Mauguio over there. She inherited Mauguio upon her father’s death and held it in her own right through two marriages. Last year her son dared to call himself Count of Mauguio and began to intrigue with the House of Montpellier, long an adversary of her family. She was outraged by what she saw as his betrayal.”

  “I do not blame her,” Maud exclaimed. “I have so often heard sad stories like this, women swept aside like so much chaff by male kin unwilling to wait for their inheritance.”

  “Ah, but this is not France or England. The Countess of Mauguio struck back swiftly, disinheriting her impatient son in favor of her granddaughter.”

  Maud was amazed. “She could do that?”

  Eleanor’s eyes reflected the closest candle flame, taking on greenish glints in its flickering light. “This is not England or France,” she repeated proudly, and Maud could only nod, thinking, Indeed not!

  Raimbaut d’Aurenga’s joglar had taken up a gittern again, making ready to sing another of his lord’s compositions. His earlier French rendition had been a courtesy for the Poitevin guests, but now he chose his own language, the lyrical lengua romana of the troubadour.

  “Cars, douz e fenhz del bederesc

  M’es sos bas chanz, per cui m’aerc;

  C’ab joi s’espan viu e noire.”

  Without Eleanor to translate for her, the words held no meaning for Maud. She discovered it was easy to be caught up in the flow of the language, though, for it held a melodic harmony that French or English lacked, putting her in mind of the softer sounds of Spanish or Italian. It was a beautiful tongue, this lengua romana, but an alien one. And as she listened, she fully comprehended for the first time that this was an alien world, too, Eleanor’s Aquitaine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  November 1172

  Gisors Castle, Norman Vexin

  Marguerite wished that she did not feel so shy with this stranger who was her father. She did not doubt that the French king was a kindly man, a good man, quick to smile, slow to find fault. The vices of his youth-his temper, his stubbornness-had been mitigated by the passage of time and his piety was acclaimed by all. She knew he was in his fifty-third year, an age that seemed ancient to a girl not yet fifteen. His flaxen hair was sparse around his crown, like a monk’s tonsure, and his eyes were heavy-lidded, but still as brightly blue as a summer sky; she’d always been thankful that she’d inherited his fairness and not the unfashionable dark coloring of her dead mother, a Spanish princess she could not remember. She’d heard it said that he’d been comely in his youth, and she supposed it might well be true. But if she could visualize Louis in his prime, she could not see him wed to her husband’s mother. Each time she’d tried to envision Louis and Eleanor together, her imagination failed her.

  It occurred to her that she could count on the fingers of one hand the times she’d been alone with Louis, for she’d been sent to King Henry’s court before she’d celebrated her first birthday. But she’d grown up knowing that she was the daughter of the King of France, knowing what a proud heritage that was, and never doubting that this father she’d so rarely seen had not forgotten her. Now, though, she was discovering that they had little to say to each other and when Louis suggested that they seek out her husband, she felt a surge of relief, for Hal was never at a loss for words.

  A tiltyard had been set up in the northern end of the upper bailey, and the young King of England had drawn an admiring audience. A skilled rider, Hal had made several successful runs at the quintain, hitting the target dead-on each time, whereas his competitors were not so fortunate. As Louis and Marguerite approached, a knight struck the shield a glancing blow and was unhorsed when he was smacked by the sandbag attached to a wooden pivot. When it was Hal’s turn again, he drove his ten-foot lance into the shield with enough force to set the quintain post vibrating.

  “Well done!” Louis called out, loudly enough for Hal to hear, and then, in a lower tone, to Marguerite, “The lad could not look more like a king with the blessed crown of Jerusalem upon his head.”

  “I think so, too,” she agreed, so ardently that Louis smiled, pleased that she seemed to have found such happiness in her marriage. At that moment Marguerite happened to notice the boy watching from the sidelines, a pale, solemn child with an untidy shock of brown hair, her half brother, Philippe. So jubilant had Louis been upon Philippe’s birth on an August evening seven years ago that he became known as Philippe Dieu-Donne, the God-given. Louis had already sired four daughters, but Philippe was his heart’s joy, an only son born late in life to a man who’d long despaired of begetting a male heir. Never had Marguerite seen such a doting father and, as she glanced over at her little brother, she found herself thinking unkindly that no one would ever say of Philippe what Louis had just said of Hal.

  Once Hal caught sight of them, he tossed his lance to a squire and swung from the saddle. He greeted Louis with a flourish, acknowledging their kinship both by marriage and vassalage, for he’d done homage to the French king for the duchy of Normandy. Slipping his hand into Marguerite’s, he entwined their fingers together, a silent but subtle declaration of unity that Louis noted approvingly. He was very pleased with this young son-in-law of his, for Hal was good-natured and gallant, but also malleable and overly eager to claim his kingship, chaffing at the bit like a finely bred stallion ready to run.

  “Come, walk with me,” Louis said, shepherding them in the direction of the gardens, bare and fallow under a pallid November sun. Passing through the wicker gate, he seated himself upon a wooden bench, gesturing for them to join him. “Your invitation to meet me at Gisors gladdened my heart,” he murmured, “and was a most welcome surprise, for I’d heard that you planned to remain in England into the new year, holding your Christmas Court at Winchester.”

  “That was our intent,” Hal admitted, hesitating before confirming what Louis already knew. “But my lord father summoned me to return to Normandy.” Adding, after another, longer pause, “And of course I obeyed.”

  But not willingly, Louis thought, not willingly at all. “Marguerite told me that you came to Gisors straightaway from the harbor at Barfleur. How long shall I have the pleasure of your company ere you must seek out your lord father?”

  Hal’s shoulders twitched in a half shrug. “In truth,” he said, “I am in no hurry to see my father.” Finding a smile, he said wryly, “The Church holds that fighting during Christmastide is a sin, a violation of the Truce of God.”

  “Are you so sure that you and your father will quarrel once you are together?” Louis asked, and Hal raised his head, his eyes searching his father-in-law’s face. He seemed to be making up his mind how much to confide, and Marguerite leaned over, wh
ispered something in his ear too softly for Louis to hear.

  “Am I sure that we will quarrel?” Hal said at last. “No…it need not be. I have only to defer to my father in all matters, stifle my complaints, accept his judgment without question or qualm, and we will be in perfect accord.”

  Louis was faintly surprised that the wound had already begun to fester. The lad was like his father in one way if no other-their mutual lack of patience. “If you were to defer to Henry in all matters,” he said mildly, “you would be a puppet prince, not an anointed king.”

  Hal stood up suddenly, began to pace. “If you see that so clearly, why cannot my father?”

  “Well, we shall have to make him see.” Turning then to his daughter, Louis suggested that she make sure that her little brother Philippe did not get into any mischief whilst he and her husband continued their discussion.

  Marguerite had been taught that obedience was a woman’s duty, and she did not object to being dismissed so summarily. As she exited the garden, she glanced back and smiled at the sight meeting her eyes-Hal and her father talking quietly together, their heads almost touching, their faces intent. He has found an ally in Papa, she thought, and with a light step, she went to find Philippe.

  Normandy was a land honeycombed with castles, but none were as formidable as the cliff-top stronghold overlooking the River Ante. Beneath the walls of Falaise, the village straggled down the steep slope, its narrow street deserted in the chill November twilight. From a window in the upper chamber of the castle’s great keep, Meliora looked in vain for signs of life. The villagers were huddled by their hearths, secure in the shadow of the royal fortress as night descended over the Norman countryside.

  Meliora pulled the shutters into place with a shiver, went to stand by the chamber’s sole source of heat, a brazier heaped with charcoal. She knew her mistress did not like Falaise and she understood why. The castle had dominated the valley for one hundred years, and had been designed for defense. The towering rectangular keep was impregnable, but not particularly comfortable. Rosamund Clifford’s chamber was neither spacious nor well lighted, although the wall hangings were made of costly Lincoln wool and the canopied bed was piled high with plush coverlets. Since Henry was so rarely there to keep her warm at night, he at least saw to it that she did not lack for fur-lined blankets.

  Rosamund was seated before a wooden frame, working upon an altar cloth of finely woven Spanish linen. She was an accomplished needlewoman and passed much of her free time embroidering church vestments. She had recently finished a beautiful cross-stitched chasuble for the priest at Godstow priory, and Meliora supposed that the altar cloth was meant for Godstow, too, as Rosamund was very generous to the nunnery where she’d been educated. She looked up with a quick smile as Meliora drew near and the older woman smiled back, wishing that Rosamund did not look so pale, so fragile.

  When the king had engaged her for Rosamund, she had accepted eagerly, for she was a widow twice over with grown children and she preferred life on a larger stage than her home village back in Cornwall. She’d assumed that the king wanted her to act as a shepherd, keeping his little lamb safe from wolves. She’d not expected, though, that his lamb would become so dear to her.

  Nor had she expected that her employment would last so long. Far more pragmatic than the convent-reared Rosamund, she’d assumed that the king’s passion for the girl would soon flame out. But seven years later the fire still burned, although she wondered cynically if their frequent separations played a role in that. She often thought Rosamund must be the most neglected concubine of all time, for her royal lover practically lived in the saddle, patrolling the length and breadth of his empire with a speed that seemed to defy the laws of nature. When the French king had remarked sourly that he could almost believe Henry had learned how to fly, he was speaking for legions of frustrated adversaries and thwarted rebels. But to Meliora, Henry’s remarkable mobility meant only that most of Rosamund’s nights were lonely ones.

  “I do not suppose,” she said, “that the king told you how long our stay at Falaise will last?”

  Rosamund shook her head. “I doubt that he knows himself. He expects to be in Normandy for the rest of the year, and so it makes sense for me to be here. Falaise is conveniently located, accessible from most areas of the duchy.”

  Meliora agreed that Falaise was well situated, but she suspected that Henry’s choice had also been influenced by the fact that it was not a castle favored by his queen; he would not want to risk another awkward Woodstock encounter. Given Falaise’s history, Meliora found it rather ironic that he should have tucked his mistress away here of all places, where one of Christendom’s most notorious liaisons had begun. From these castle battlements, a Duke of Normandy had noticed a young girl washing laundry in the village stream below. Bedazzled by her beauty, he took her as his bedmate, and the following year she gave birth to a son. Marriage was out of the question for Arlette was only a tanner’s daughter, but the duke recognized their son as his, and when he later took the cross, he named William as his heir. Against all odds, the boy known as William the Bastard would lay claim to the duchy and end his days as King of England. As for Arlette, she’d married well after her lover’s death, and this tanner’s daughter would be remembered as the mother of a king, a bishop, and a count.

  During these past weeks at Falaise, Meliora found herself thinking often of Arlette, her duke, and their bastard-born son who would become the great-grandfather of England’s current king. She wanted to believe that Rosamund would be as lucky as Arlette, but she did not think it likely. Arlette had been strong enough to defy the world, prideful enough to ride through the main gate of the castle when the duke summoned her; no back alleys for her. Whereas Rosamund reminded Meliora of a flower set down in alien soil; she was too tender, too delicate to thrive at the royal court. The two women were unlike in another way, too; Arlette had been fertile, while Rosamund was barren.

  Meliora supposed that it was not entirely accurate to apply that cruel term to Rosamund, for twice she’d gotten with child, only to miscarry in the early weeks of the pregnancy. What saddened Meliora the most was Rosamund’s lack of hope. As much as she yearned for children, even children born out of wedlock, she had no expectations of motherhood. She loved Henry enough to live in sin with him, but she never forgot that they were sinning, and she saw her failure to conceive as God’s punishment for those sins.

  Rosamund’s head was bent over the altar cloth, and Meliora reached out, brushed aside the long, blond braid dangling across the embroidery frame. She was not usually given to whimsical notions, but it seemed to her that she could sense Arlette’s bold spirit in the chamber with them, a ghostly presence watching over Rosamund with that most condescending of emotions-pity.

  Rosamund’s breathing had quickened, coming in audible gasps, and she was clutching at the sheets like one grasping for a lifeline. When Henry gently shook her shoulder, she jerked upright, eyes wide and unfocused, and he said soothingly, “It was but a bad dream, love, no more than that.”

  She rolled over into his arms, clinging with such urgency that he gazed down at her in surprise. “You truly are disquieted. What did you dream to give you such a fright?”

  “I do not remember,” she lied. In truth, she remembered all too well, for this was a recurrent nightmare, one that troubled her sleep several times a year. It was always the same: she was lost in the woods, alone and afraid as darkness came on. “It matters for naught,” she assured him, “just a silly dream. I am so sorry, beloved, for awakening you!”

  “I was not asleep,” he admitted, and she strained to make out his features in the shadows. A faint glimmer of lamplight filtered through the slit in the bed hangings, not enough to illuminate his face. He’d arrived long after nightfall, as usual without warning, and wasted no time in carrying her off to bed, so the only conversation they’d had so far was carnal in nature.

  “What chases away your sleep?” she asked, so solicitously that he brus
hed her mouth with a quick kiss.

  “My eldest son.” Sitting up, he shoved a pillow behind his shoulders. “Hal came back from the French court with a head full of foolish notions and saddle bags stuffed with laments. The lad has begun to collect grievances like a miser hoarding coins.”

  “I cannot imagine what grievances he might have with you. You made him a king!”

  “Well, he now sees that as an empty honor. He complains that I have not provided him with income adequate to his rank, that I have given him naught but promises, that I continue to delay his knighthood and to refuse to allow tournaments in my domains, and above all, that I treat him like a raw stripling instead of a man grown.”

  Rosamund was not deceived by his matter-of-fact recital of Hal’s complaints. “I think,” she said indignantly, “that he owes you more gratitude than this.”

  Henry’s mouth tightened. “Hal insists that he be given the governance of either England or Normandy, and I know full well who planted that baneful seed. The lad has always paid heed to the wrong people, and when he opens his mouth these days, the French king’s words come tumbling out.”

  “You refused him, of course.”

  “Of course. He is far too young to govern on his own. Nor can his judgment yet be trusted. His susceptibility to Louis’s blandishments proves that all too well.”

  “What happened when you denied his demand?”

  “He went off in a rage, is sulking with the little Marguerite at Bonneville.” Henry was both angered and hurt by Hal’s willfulness, and with Rosamund, he had the luxury of candor. “I had no choice but to refuse him, Rosamund. He is not ready for such responsibilities. After his coronation, I’d instructed him to meet with the Canterbury monks. It is past time for the archbishopric to be filled again. But the monks have balked at accepting my nominee, the Bishop of Bayeux, and I’d hoped that Hal might make them see reason. He met with them only briefly at Windsor, showed little interest in resolving the dispute. It grieves me to say it, but he seems more intent upon the pursuit of pleasure than in learning the duties of kingship.”