Devil's Brood (33 page)

In her youth, she’d been an accomplished flirt. Her mirror had not yet become her enemy, but she was no longer young. After studying her guards with care, she finally selected a lanky, gangling boy not much older than her sons. It had taken little effort to gain Perrin’s good will, required no more than a few smiles and the light, teasing tone that she used with Richard.

Perrin was soon her unwitting accomplice and her conduit, sharing with her his news, gossip, and rumors. From Perrin, she learned that on the day of her capture, her husband had entered the city of Vendôme in triumph, having restored the count to power and vanquished his rebellious son. She learned that the Earl of Leicester and his rebel countess had been sent from England and were now sharing her confinement at Falaise. But Perrin could tell her nothing of what was happening in her own domains. What had that whoreson Porteclie told them? Did her Poitevins know that she had been seized by Harry’s men? Did they think she was dead? Or had she just vanished, her disappearance cloaked in mystery, her fate unknown?

F
IVE DAYS AFTER
her arrival at Falaise, Eleanor awoke to find winter had laid claim to Normandy during the night. Opening the shutters, she stood at the window, gazing down upon the snow-coated roofs and steep, icy streets of the village. The air was cold, colder than in Poitiers, and the wind carried the damp chill of the sea, for they were less than thirty miles from the coast.

She was still at the window when a deferential knock sounded and Perrin entered with a tray—bread, cheese, and wine to break her fast. She closed the shutters, smiling to see a small branch of holly beside her wine cup. The day before, the boy had brought a fragrant sprig of winter marjoram, doubtless stolen from the castle herb gardens. The holly was a dark shade of emerald, festooned with bright red berries, a vivid flash of color midst the drabness of her confinement. But her smile faded as she glanced over at Perrin, for he was visibly perturbed.

“My lady…” He hesitated and then blurted out, “One of the sergeants told me that the king will be holding his Christmas Court at Caen.”

“I see…” As their eyes met, they shared the same understanding. Caen was twenty miles north of Falaise. Her day of reckoning was coming sooner than she expected.

A
FTER PERRIN HAD DEPARTED,
Eleanor went back to bed. Propping a pillow behind her, she shut her eyes and tried to think calmly, objectively. She truly did not know what to expect. Her husband had been remarkably lenient with rebels in the past, for he never seemed to take it personally. Because he saw their rebellions in political terms, his detachment allowed him to forgive his adversaries in the interest of the greater good, a stable, peaceful kingdom. The clemency he’d accorded the Breton lords was not unusual for him; unlike most men, he could be dispassionate about treachery. The only time he’d shown himself to be vengeful or vindictive was the one time that he’d seen the betrayal as personal—with Thomas Becket. Eleanor had rarely been so cold; she could feel goose bumps rising on her skin, even after she’d burrowed under the blankets. Few betrayals could be more personal than that of a wife and a queen.

She did not think her life was in danger. It was true that one of Henry’s more notorious ancestors, the brutal Fulk Nerra, had burned his wife at the stake for the crime of adultery. That had occurred almost two hundred years ago, though, and the unfortunate woman had not been a ruler in her own right. As Henry’s wife, she was at his mercy. Errant or unwanted wives could be banished to nunneries, shut up in remote castles, meet untimely, convenient deaths, and few would protest. But the Duchess of Aquitaine could not just disappear. Her vassals, her lords and barons would demand answers. So would her sons.

Logic told her that the worst she had to fear was imprisonment, and judging by the conditions at Falaise, it would not be a harsh confinement. When Maurice de Craon had returned to Chinon and escorted her to Falaise, he was obviously acting under Henry’s orders. If he’d wanted her cast into a dungeon, it would have been done already.

Logic also told her that she need not fear the violence that so many women must suffer in silence. Theirs was a world in which both Church and society sanctioned a husband’s right to discipline his wayward wife.
A woman who is not under the headship of the husband violates the condition of nature, the mandate of the Apostle, and the law of Scripture.
The Archbishop of Rouen’s bitter rebuke had been a blunt summary of a woman’s subordinate role in the eyes of the Almighty. And she was wed to a king, a man known for his fiery temper. But in more than twenty years of marriage, he had never raised his hand to her.

She’d long ago concluded that she owed Henry’s forbearance to his family history. His parents’ marriage had been as turbulent as it was wretched. It had been doomed from the first, for Maude was twenty-five, the beautiful and imperious widow of the Holy Roman Emperor, and Geoffrey was fifteen, a spirited, spoiled youth used to getting his own way. She had not wanted the marriage, but her father had given her no choice. After being an empress, Maude felt it was demeaning to be a mere countess, and she was outraged to find herself yoked to a headstrong boy. Geoffrey was accustomed to females who were compliant and adoring, for he was wealthy, highborn, and so handsome that he was called Geoffrey le Bel. He was not prepared for a wife who was worldly, alluring, and disdainful, and he’d soon begun lashing out with his fists. When he decided that he’d had enough and sent her home to her father, she’d found no sympathy at the English court. The old English king cared nothing for her bruises and humiliation, blamed her for her marital woes, and persuaded Geoffrey to take her back. They’d eventually reached a tenuous truce, but Henry’s earliest memories were of turmoil and discord, and those memories had left their mark.

So she should feel confident about facing him. Why, then, did she feel such unease? Because this was uncharted territory. When had a king ever been defied by his own queen? Who could predict what he would do? It was possible he did not even know that himself. Eleanor nestled deeper in the bed, vowing to stop torturing herself with conjecture and supposition that served for naught. She’d know soon enough. Despite her determination, though, she could not sleep.

T
WO DAYS LATER,
Perrin alerted her that a rider had been sent ahead to prepare for the king’s arrival. The next day, though, he was absent from his duties. Another man brought her meals, and served her with a swagger, a jarring familiarity she’d not encountered before. After years of dealing with prideful Poitevin barons, she had no difficulty in putting him in his place, and he gave her no further cause for complaint. But when he delivered her dinner that afternoon, he watched her from the corner of his eye with a smug smile, and she knew then that her husband was expected at any time.

For the rest of the day she did nothing but pace and keep vigil at the window. Darkness fell, but she continued to watch, and not long after the village churches rang for Compline, she saw the flare of torches in the distance. She left the shutters open just enough to give her a view of the bailey without being seen herself, and watched as the castle was caught up in the inevitable chaos and excitement that heralded the king’s coming. Henry was astride one of his favorite stallions, a big-boned grey with silver mane and tail. Riding at his side were William de Mandeville and his brother Hamelin. But Eleanor’s attention was riveted upon the slender figure of a woman, clad in a fur-lined mantle of fine scarlet. She’d known that Harry had been living openly with Rosamund Clifford since he’d been told of her part in the rebellion, but it had not occurred to her that he’d flaunt his concubine at his Christmas Court. Stepping away from the window, she closed the shutters upon her husband and his harlot.

E
LEANOR BOLTED UPRIGHT
in the bed, her breath coming in ragged gulps, her pulse racing. The dream had been terrifying. She’d heard muffled screaming, and when she opened the window, she saw flames engulfing the buildings in the bailey. She’d pounded on the door and shouted till she was hoarse, but no one came to let her out. She’d been forgotten.

The dream still seemed so vivid, so real that she shuddered. But that was all it was, a bad dream. Memory came back in a rush, the long hours waiting for her husband, waiting in vain. She’d not settled herself in bed until after midnight, and she’d stayed fully dressed, but eventually she’d fallen asleep. Throwing back the blankets, she went to the window, was startled to see that the night was gone.

A loud rapping spun her toward the door, but almost at once she realized that Henry was not likely to knock for admittance. “Enter,” she said, and felt a throb of disappointment at sight of the guard, for it was the same churl from the preceding day. Where was Perrin? He kept his gaze down as he placed her tray on the table, but he smirked when he saw that last night’s meal had gone virtually untouched. Eleanor ignored him, and as he picked up the second tray, she reached for the wine cup, took several deep swallows. Her back was now to the door, and so she did not see Henry come into the room as the servant departed. When she finally turned and found him standing in the doorway, she gasped and her hand jerked, wine splashing onto the sleeve of her gown.

Henry closed the door and leaned back against it. “Your nerves are on the raw this morn.”

So that was how he wanted to play it. Eleanor raised the cup in a mock salute. “I’d offer you some wine but the castellan has given me only one cup. He does not seem to think I’ll be doing much entertaining.”

He was still leaning against the door, his pose deceptively casual, for he seemed as taut to her as a drawn bowstring. “You are looking wan and careworn these days.”

“So are you,” she shot back, and it was true; his eyes were hollowed and bloodshot. She’d assumed that he’d delayed their meeting to torment her, but now she wondered if he could have been as loath as she to have this confrontation. Setting the cup down, she said, “I am glad you are here. We need to talk.”

“I daresay we do,” he said laconically. But she noticed that he was clenching and unclenching one of his fists at his side, evidence that his nerves were on the raw, too.

“Sir Nicholas de Chauvigny and two of my knights are being held at Loches by your provost. I would hope that as a matter of fairness, you will order their release. They have done nothing to deserve such harsh treatment.”

“Nothing at all, aside from treason and rebellion.”

“They are loyal to me, Harry. How can you blame them for that?”

“And you know so much about loyalty.” And without warning, the ice cracked, giving her a disquieting glimpse of the profound rage just beneath his surface composure. When he moved, it was so fast that she took an involuntary step backward.

“I’d always heard that women could become fickle and flighty once they’re too old to breed, but I never truly believed it—until now.”

Although she tried to hide it, she knew he could see that his words had wounded. They were the most dangerous of adversaries, intimate enemies who knew each other’s vulnerabilities, knew how to draw the most blood. She said nothing, though, watching him warily as he strode toward her.

“Did you truly hate Rosamund as much as that? Enough to tear our family apart because I strayed?”

“You think this was because of Rosamund Clifford?” She shook her head incredulously and then startled him by laughing. “You are good in bed, Harry, but not that good!”

The expression on his face was one of disbelief. “What grievance could you possibly have other than Rosamund?”

“Aquitaine! Richard and Aquitaine!”

“For the love of Christ, Eleanor! I’ve heard enough of that foolish babbling from our sons, do not need to hear more of it now from you!”

“You may have heard, but you did not listen. You never do. Dear God, Harry, you think you’re an easy man to live with? You suck all the air out of a chamber, leave none for the rest of us to breathe!”

He’d begun to move and she moved with him, holding her ground, so that they seemed to be engaged in an odd, deadly dance. “So you rebelled because I was not a good listener?” he jeered. “My sons are too young to know better, but there is no excuse for your betrayal. You were one of the very few people on God’s Earth whom I truly trusted! Raimon St Gilles came to me at Limoges, warned that you were intriguing against me, and I would not believe him. I was furious that he dared to accuse you of such base treachery—more fool I!” He drew an uneven, audible breath. “But if I was a fool, what does that make you, my lady duchess? It makes you my prisoner, for as long as I choose to hold you. And all for what?”

“Yes, I have lost,” she said, raising her chin and meeting his eyes without flinching. “But so have you. You just do not know it yet.”

“Indeed? And who is going to defeat me? That quivering mound of valor, Louis Capet? Our disgruntled fledglings?”

“You may prevail on the field. You probably will. But it matters for naught. You can win battles, not the war. You’ve already lost what you value almost as much as your kingdom. You’ve lost your sons.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek, and his lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl. “That may be so, but you’ll not be able to enjoy it. Whatever happens with my sons, you’ll get no more chances to poison their minds against me. I will never forgive you,” he spat, “never. You could beg for your freedom on your knees for all the good it will do you!”

“I’d rather die!”

“That could be arranged.”

“Yes, I suppose it could. You need only return to the great hall, throw one of your celebrated fits of temper, and demand to know why your lords and barons let you be mocked and defied by your troublesome wife. Ah, wait…you did that already with Thomas Becket. And it did not work out so well for you, did it?”