Lionheart (10 page)

“Grandame, forgive me if I am being intrusive. But you’ve seemed restless and out of sorts in these recent weeks. Would it help to talk about your worries?”

“No, child, but I bless you for your keen eye and your loving heart.”

Richenza revealed then how keen her eye really was. “Are you anxious about Uncle Richard’s safety in the Holy Land? I know I am.”

Eleanor regarded the girl in surprise. She hadn’t realized her granddaughter was so perceptive. “I have been melancholy of late,” she admitted, “but it will pass, Richenza. It always does.”

“God willing,” Richenza said softly. She wished that her grandmother was less guarded, for in sharing Eleanor’s sorrows, they could have shared hers, too. She still mourned her mother fiercely, and she suspected that Eleanor’s “melancholy” was a belated mourning for her own dead, all taken during last year’s fateful summer. A daughter dying in a foreign land. The woman who’d been her closest friend. And the husband who’d been partner, lover, enemy, and gaoler. Richenza had seen Henry and Eleanor together often enough to realize that theirs had been a complicated, volatile, and contradictory bond, one few others could understand. But to Richenza, it seemed quite natural that Eleanor could have rejoiced in the death that set her free while grieving for the man himself.

Eleanor reached out, stroking her granddaughter’s cheek. “You are very dear to me,” she said, adding briskly, “now I am going to speak with the castle chaplain about that altar cloth we’ve promised him. And you, my dearest, are going to bid your husband welcome.”

Following Eleanor’s gaze, Richenza saw that Jaufre had indeed ridden into the castle bailey, and a smile flitted across her lips, for she’d found marriage to her liking and when she offered up prayers for her uncle Richard, she prayed even more fervently that the Almighty would safeguard Jaufre, too, in that blood-soaked land where the Lord Christ had once walked. She waved to Jaufre before turning back to her grandmother. But Eleanor had gone.

ELEANOR HAD MENTIONED the altar cloth as a pretext, not wanting to continue the conversation. She had never found it easy to open her heart, especially to those of her own sex. She’d only had two female confidantes—her sister Petronilla and Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester. Petronilla had been dead for a number of years, but Maud’s loss was still raw, as she’d died barely six months ago. Glancing over her shoulder, Eleanor saw that Richenza was hastening to greet her husband. Turning away, she headed toward the chapel.

It was deserted at that hour and she found the stillness soothing. Pausing to dip her fingers in a holy water font reserved for clerics and the highborn—for even in church class differences were recognized—she moved up the nave. Kneeling before the altar, she offered prayers for lost loved ones. William, the first of her children to die, the image of that heartbreakingly tiny coffin still burned into her brain. Hal, the golden son, a wasted life. Geoffrey, called to God too soon. Tilda, a gentle soul surely spared the rigors of Purgatory. Maud, missed as much as Eleanor’s blood sister. And Harry, whose name had so often been both a caress and a curse. “
Requiescat in pace
,” she murmured and rose stiffly to her feet.

It had taken her by surprise, this quiet despondency. It was not dramatic or despairing, more like a low fever, but it had lingered in the weeks following the Christmas festivities. And because Eleanor the prisoner had mastered one skill that had often eluded Eleanor the queen and duchess—the art of introspection—she’d been giving some thought to this change in mood. Could Richenza be correct? Was it a mother’s anxiety that was fueling her unease?

There was justification for such fears, God knows. How many of the men who took the cross ever saw their homes again? Outremer had become a burial ground for thousands of foreign-born crusaders. And since she’d regained her freedom, she’d made a startling discovery about her eldest surviving son. Richard had won battlefield laurels at an early age, earning himself a well-deserved reputation for what their world most admired—military prowess. But his health was not as robust as his appearance would indicate; she’d learned that he was subject to recurrent attacks of quartan fever, contracted during one of his campaigns in the Limousin. And more men were killed by the noxious diseases and hellish heat of the Holy Land than by Saracen swords.

Or was it memories of last summer? So much had happened, so fast. On the day her husband had drawn his last, tortured breath, she’d been a royal captive. By nightfall, she was the most powerful woman in Christendom, the one person who had the complete trust of England’s new king. The news of Maud’s death had reached her soon after Richard’s coronation; it had taken longer for word of Tilda’s death to come from Germany. But there’d been little time to mourn, for in those early weeks of Richard’s kingship, they’d been riding the whirlwind.

The more she thought about her flagging spirits, the more it made sense to her. She was grieving for the dead and fearing for the living, for the son who’d always been closest to her heart. And because she was a political being to the very marrow of her bones, she feared, too, for her duchy and their kingdom should evil befall Richard in the Holy Land. She’d have given a great deal if only she could have convinced him to abandon his quest, or at least delay it until he was firmly established upon his throne. But she knew that was a hope as easily extinguished as a candle’s flame. Richard would gladly sacrifice his life, if in so doing he could free Jerusalem from the infidels.

Eleanor leaned against the altar. “Ah, Harry,” she said softly, “if only Richard shared your sense of practicality. You were satisfied to be a king, not the savior of Christendom.”

“Madame.”

Eleanor spun around, her cheeks burning. She wasn’t easily flustered, but being caught talking to her dead husband was embarrassing. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the intruder. Constance of Brittany was once her daughter by marriage, but Eleanor regarded her now without warmth. “Lady Constance,” she said coolly as the younger woman dropped a rather perfunctory curtsy.

“My lady queen, may I speak with you?” Taking Eleanor’s consent for granted, Constance approached the altar. “I have come to ask a favor,” she said, although there was nothing of the supplicant in either her voice or her posture; Constance had learned at an early age to use pride as a shield. “It is my hope that you will speak with the king on my behalf. He claimed the custody of my daughter last autumn and sent her off to England despite the agreement I’d struck with his lord father. King Henry promised that he’d permit me to keep Aenor with me if I agreed to wed the Earl of Chester. I held to my side of the bargain, but now my daughter is gone and I’ve not seen her in nigh on six months. Where is the fairness in that?”

“Your deal was with Henry, not Richard. Does it truly surprise you that Richard regards you with suspicion? How many times did you ally yourself with his enemies? How many times did Geoffrey lead a Breton army into Aquitaine?”

“I’ve sought only to protect Brittany, to safeguard my duchy. I would think that you of all women would understand that, for Aquitaine has been the lodestar of your life. You even sacrificed your marriage for it. So how can you judge me?”

“I am not judging you for your devotion to your duchy,” Eleanor said icily. “I am faulting you for your inability to learn from your mistakes. You have never made a secret of your antipathy—”

“Are you saying I had no reason for resentment? Have you forgotten that Henry forced my father to abdicate and sent him into exile? I was five years old when I was torn from the only home I’d ever known and betrothed to his son. Yes, I bore him a grudge. I was not a saint.”

“Or a good wife to my son!”

Constance gasped, for she’d not seen that coming. “I do not know what you mean, Madame.”

“I mean that you did all you could to estrange Geoffrey from his family. Again and again you urged him to make war upon Richard, and then you convinced him to disavow his father and ally himself with our greatest enemy, the French king.”

“That is not true! I never encouraged Geoffrey to do that. It was his decision to seek out Philippe in Paris.”

Eleanor did not bother to hide her disbelief. “I am not saying you bear all the blame. Geoffrey must bear some, too, as must my husband. But this I do know for certes. If Geoffrey had not gone over to the French king, he’d not have been taking part in that tournament, and he’d still be alive today.”

The manifest unfairness of that left Constance momentarily speechless. “How dare you blame me for his death? I loved Geoffrey!”

“Did you, indeed?” Eleanor said skeptically. “I will grant you this much, Constance. I do believe you love your children. But you are putting their future in peril by your stubborn hostility toward Richard. If you were half as clever as you think you are, you’d see that. Richard will be facing daily dangers in the Holy Land, and if he dies there, he leaves no heir of his body, only his brother and his nephew—your son, Arthur. Any other woman would be doing whatever she could to gain Richard’s goodwill, to convince him that he should name Arthur as his successor in case he dies without a son of his own. But just as your desire for vengeance was stronger than your so-called love for Geoffrey, it is stronger than your responsibilities as a mother and as a duchess, for you cannot be such a fool as to believe Brittany would fare better under French rule.”

When Constance would have protested, Eleanor raised her hand in an imperious gesture. “There is nothing more for you to say. I will not intercede with Richard on your behalf—not until you prove that you can be trusted.” Brushing past the Breton duchess, she walked swiftly toward the door. Her outward calm was deceiving, for the accusations she’d made against Constance had ripped open a wound that had never fully healed. She’d had to accept the fact that Hal had brought about his own doom. But Geoffrey . . . surely Geoffrey could have been saved. If only Harry had not been so stubborn, if only Geoffrey had not been so proud. If only his wife had not been so vengeful and filled with malice.

Constance had begun to shake, so great was her fury and her pain. She was almost as angry with herself as she was with Eleanor, for she realized how badly she’d botched things. She’d made an enemy of the only woman who could have helped her. She’d ruined her one chance of getting her daughter back.
I loved Geoffrey!
The irony of her outburst did not escape her—that she’d admitted to Geoffrey’s mother what she’d never said to him.

She sank down on the step leading into the choir, wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees to stop her trembling. How dare Eleanor accuse her of being a bad mother? Geoffrey’s parents had failed their children in so many ways, above all in having favorites. For Henry, it had been Hal and then John, and for Eleanor, Richard. Geoffrey had been the forgotten son. He’d always sworn that he’d never make that mistake with his children, that he would be a better father than his own. But he’d had so little time with Aenor and had never even seen his son, for Arthur had been born seven months after his death.

Tears had begun to burn Constance’s eyes, but she blinked them back, for what good would crying do? She could fling herself onto the floor of this church and weep and wail until she had no more tears, until her cries would echo unto Heaven. But Geoffrey would still be dead. She’d still be yoked to a man she could not abide. Her son would still face a precarious future, her daughter would still be a hostage, and Brittany would remain trapped between England and France, a rabbit hunted by wolves.

Constance hadn’t heard the soft footsteps approaching and her head came up sharply at the sound of her name. Angrily swiping the back of her hand against her wet cheeks, she frowned at the sight of the woman coming toward her. Since her arrival at Nonancourt, Alys Capet had been seeking her out at every opportunity, eager to reminisce about their shared past. It was true that Constance and Alys and Joanna had passed several years at the queen’s court in Poitiers, but friendship needed more than proximity to flourish. The fact was that Joanna had been too young, and Constance and Alys, while the same age, had never liked each other. Constance remembered even if Alys apparently did not, and she’d been hard put to be civil, as Alys insisted upon making their time together sound like an idyllic childhood. Now before she could get to her feet, Alys sat beside her upon the altar step.

“Constance, you’ve been weeping! What is wrong? May I be of any help?”

Her concern seemed genuine and, much to Constance’s dismay, she heard herself blurt out that she’d just sought Eleanor’s aid in recovering her daughter, to no avail. It was almost as if the words had escaped of their own will, for she’d never have chosen Alys as a confidante. But there was no calling them back, and Alys responded with such sympathy and indignation that Constance told her how Richard’s men had swooped down upon Brittany and carried Aenor off to England within a fortnight of his coronation. “They have been keeping her at Winchester,” she concluded bleakly, “and I have no idea when I’ll be able to see her again. . . .”