Theobald and his brother watched as the other men ushered their grieving king from the gardens. They had been vastly relieved to hear that Constance had given Louis another girl, for if Louis did not beget a son, any man wed to one of his daughters might be able to assert a claim on her behalf. But the French queen’s unexpected death changed the equation dramatically. As their eyes met, Theobald said softly, “Are you thinking what I am?”
“Adela?”
Theobald nodded. “Adela,” he said, and they both smiled.
TORRENTS OF RAIN had turned Rouen’s narrow streets into impassable quagmires, and those who lived close to the river were becoming increasingly fearful of flooding. The beleaguered citizens had begun to feel as if they were under siege and they could only hope that the storm would die away as the day did. As night fell, though, the winds intensified, rattling shutters and tearing thatch and shingles from roofs, chasing sleep from all but the boldest households.
Torches and rushlights flared in the castle, keeping the dark at bay. Entering the nursery to bid her children good night, Eleanor was puzzled to find it still brightly lit. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, she understood. What nurse would dare argue with an empress?
Maude was seated on a bench by the hearth, manipulating a puppet at her eldest grandson’s urging. She looked so uncomfortable that Eleanor had to conceal a smile. Her duties as queen often severely restricted her role as mother, but when she could find time for her children, she was quite willing to play with them, to her mother-in-law’s bafflement. She still remembered Maude’s startled expression the day she’d come upon them in the gardens, chasing dragonflies. Games like hoodman blind and hot cockles and hunt-the-fox were alien activities to the dignified, aloof empress. Even with her own sons, she’d always maintained a certain reserve, and it was a great tribute to both Hal’s charm and his persistence that he’d been able to coax Maude into this impromptu puppet show.
Eleanor wasn’t surprised by her son’s success, for Hal had a sunny nature, an impish smile, and a cheerful determination to get his own way at all costs. It was a pity, though, that he was the only one of Maude’s grandchildren to warm toward her. Even if she’d found it easier to unbend with them, the fact that she saw them so seldom made it difficult to establish any true intimacy. Both little Tilda, Maude’s namesake, and Geoffrey were intimidated by this somber, austere stranger, and were sullen and shy in her presence. Three-year-old Richard did not share their unease; his utter fearlessness was a source of both alarm and pride for his parents. But he had no liking for Maude’s lectures on decorum and discipline and, to judge by the mutinous pout on his face now, he and his grandmother had clashed again.
As Eleanor entered the chamber, Maude hastily put the puppet aside. The children swarmed around their mother with joyful squeals. Because they were infrequent, her visits to the nursery were always occasions of excitement. Her embraces were scented with perfume, and a perch upon her silk-clad lap was a jealously guarded privilege. Without even being aware of their knowledge, her children knew that she was beautiful and glamorous and not like other mothers. They knew that their father was someone of importance, too. He had a booming laugh, a hoarse voice, and was always surrounded by noise and confusion and fawning attention. Like a great gusting wind, he swept all before him, and his children were usually left wide-eyed and awed in his wake.
It took a while to get the children calmed down, and a while longer to convince them that bedtime was inevitable and nonnegotiable. Only Hal, in his sixth year, was given a reprieve. But he was unable to resist teasing Richard about his good fortune, and the younger boy kicked him in the shins, setting off such a squabble that Eleanor and Maude left the nurses to deal with it and made an unobtrusive departure.
Entering the solar, they settled themselves before the hearth with wine and wafers, and Eleanor then showed her mother-in-law the letter she’d just gotten from Bishop Laurentius, who was working with her to replace Poitiers’s cathedral of St Pierre with a splendid new structure. Watching as Maude enthusiastically studied the proposed plans, Eleanor smiled to herself, remembering how sure people had been that she’d never get along with Henry’s mother.
To widespread disappointment and universal astonishment, though, they had established a cordial relationship from the first. Maude the mother may have had qualms about her son’s controversial bride, but Maude the empress had readily appreciated Aquitaine’s worth as a stepping-stone to the English throne. It helped, too, that Eleanor had so swiftly dispelled any fears that she would be a barren queen, unable to bear sons as her enemies had often alleged. Eleanor had a theory of her own: that Maude had recognized a kindred soul, for they both were strong-willed women in a world ruled by men, loath to allow others to dictate their destinies. Nor did it hurt that they so rarely lived under the same roof. Acknowledging both the truth and the wry humor of that observation of her husband’s, Eleanor laughed softly.
Maude glanced up quizzically from the bishop’s letter. “I’m glad to see you are in better spirits. I detected some tension between you and Henry at supper tonight?” Her voice rose questioningly, but she would leave it to Eleanor to satisfy her curiosity or not, too proud to meddle overtly in her son’s marriage.
“That must have been when I was tempted to pour my wine into his lap,” Eleanor said dryly. She well knew that in any serious clash of wills, Maude would back her son utterly and unconditionally, whether he was in the right or not. But her mother-in-law could still sympathize with minor marital woes, for she’d been a wife, too, and so Eleanor felt free to voice her complaints, one woman to another.
“Ever since we got word of the French queen’s death, Harry has been impossible to live with. He has been like a bear with a thorn in his paw, lashing out at anyone who gets within reach, and my patience is well nigh gone.”
“That Angevin temper is his father’s legacy,” Maude said regretfully. “Will seems to have been spared it, but Geoffrey had his share, too. I do understand Henry’s disquiet, though. It was troubling enough to learn that the French queen had gotten pregnant, having to worry that she might give Louis a son. But now . . .” Shaking her head, she said, “In some ways, this was the worst possible outcome.”
“I know,” Eleanor agreed morosely. “If Constance had birthed a son, we were prepared to make another marriage offer, between the lad and our daughter. But how do we stop Louis from making a disastrous marriage of his own now that he’s free to wed again?”
Maude nodded, her brows puckering in anxious thought. “I suppose the most dangerous alliance would be with the House of Blois, for they bear Henry a grudge more bitter than gall. Give them half a chance and they might even try to resurrect Stephen’s hollow claim to the English crown. But there are other alarming prospects, too. I would not like to see Louis look for a bride amongst the kinswomen of the Count of Toulouse—”
“Jesú forfend!” Eleanor said sharply, and took a deep swallow of wine, for the very thought left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Before she could express herself further upon the unpalatable subject of Raymond de St Gilles, the door banged open and her husband strode into the solar, trailed by Thomas Becket.
One look at Henry’s face and Eleanor half-rose from her seat. “Harry? What is wrong?”
“You will not believe the news out of Paris. Louis has found himself a bride already.”
Eleanor was startled. “So soon? Who?”
“Adela, the fifteen-year-old sister of the Counts of Blois and Champagne,” Henry said grimly.
Eleanor caught her breath, while Maude let hers out slowly. For a moment, neither woman spoke. Eleanor rallied first, seeking to find a few sparks of comfort midst the ashes. “Well, at least we have time to consider our options whilst Louis mourns for Constance. Mayhap by then we’ll have thought of a way to thwart the marriage—”
“Not bloody likely. He plans to wed the girl straightaway.”
“God in Heaven!” Maude was genuinely shocked. “His wif
e has been dead less than a fortnight. Where is his sense of decorum and decency?”
“Buried with Constance, it would seem,” Becket said acidly; like Maude, he was deeply offended by such a blatant breach of the proprieties. “It is a sad commentary upon our times when a man of such reputed piety goes right from his wife’s funeral to a young bride’s bed.”
“Lust is not the motivation for this marriage,” Eleanor said impatiently. “I doubt that even Cleopatra could kindle Louis’s ardor. No, the forces behind this union are far more sinister. Louis has always been one for doing what is proper, what is expected of him. It would never have occurred to him of his own volition to wed again with such unseemly haste. Harry and I have long suspected that he was listening more and more to the House of Blois. What more conclusive proof do we need?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Henry said. “And if Theobald and his brother could coax Louis into going against his own nature like this, Christ only knows what they’ll prod him into doing next. Disavowing the marriage plans of our children, God rot them!”
The scenario he suggested seemed all too plausible to the others. Seeing upon their faces confirmation of his own fears, Henry cursed again, using words he rarely uttered in his mother’s hearing. “I will not let those misbegotten, treacherous whoresons cheat me out of the Vexin,” he vowed. “I swear by all that’s holy that I will not!”
Stalking the solar as if it were a cage, he paced back and forth while they watched. For Eleanor, there was always something mesmerizing about her husband’s bursts of frenetic, creative energy. She often teased him that she could actually hear the wheels turning as his brain accelerated, but she was genuinely fascinated by his ability to cut through excess flesh to the bone. He’d halted abruptly, staring into the hearth’s smoldering flames with such a glazed intensity that she knew he was mentally miles away at the French court. When he finally turned around, it was with a smile that put her in mind of cats and stolen cream.
“What have you come up with, Harry?”
“I think,” he said, “that Louis is right. There is much to be said, after all, for the holy state of matrimony.”
Eleanor blinked, then began to laugh. “Louis will have an apoplectic seizure,” she predicted gleefully. “But can you be sure of the Templars?”
“What do you think?” he said, with such utter assurance that she laughed again, never loving him more than at that moment. Only the presence of his mother and chancellor kept her from showing him just how much, then and there.
Maude and Becket had not been as quick to comprehend as Eleanor. They spoke now in unison, in the aggrieved tones of people who feel shut out and do not like it in the least. “What are you going to do?”
Henry’s smile was full of mischief, faintly flavored with malice. “I am going,” he said, “to invite you to a wedding.”
ON ALL SOULS’ DAY, the second of November in God’s Year 1160, a solemn church ceremony joined in wedlock Henry and Eleanor’s eldest son and the daughter of the French king. Because of the extreme youth of the bride and groom, a papal dispensation was required. But it so happened that there were two papal legates then at the English king’s court, and they graciously agreed to waive any objections to the union. Louis was not invited to the wedding. Henry explained when asked that they’d assumed Louis was too busy preparing for his own nuptials to attend.
Afterward, there was an elaborate wedding feast in the great hall of Rouen’s castle. Fresh, sweet-smelling rushes had been put down upon the floor, the walls were adorned with richly woven hangings, the trestle tables draped in white linen, set with silver saltcellars and gilded cups and flagons and even knives, for while dinner guests were usually expected to provide their own cutlery, no expense had been spared to make this a memorable meal.
Regrettably, the Church calendar had not cooperated, for All Souls’ Day fell on a Wednesday that year, and Wednesday was traditionally a fast day to remind Christians of another infamous Wednesday, when Judas had accepted blood money for his promise to betray the Son of God. Denied the meat that was the fare of choice, the royal cooks labored long and hard to create a fish menu that would still satisfy the highborn guests. The meal consisted of three courses, each containing three or four dishes, and it soon became apparent that the cooks had done themselves proud, both in the quality and variety of the cuisine: baked lampreys; gingered carp; jel lied pike in aspic; a spiced salmon pie baked with figs, raisins, and dates; almond rice; cucumber soup; apple and parsnip fritters; and a dish valued all the more for its rarity, sea-swine or porpoise pudding.
Each course concluded with a sugared subtlety sculpted to resemble swans or unicorns, and the servers were kept busy refilling cups with claret and hippocras and a sweet, heavy wine from Cyprus. Minstrels sang and provided music with harp and lute. The fortunate guests agreed happily amongst themselves that this was a meal to savor, one worthy of the tables of the king’s chancellor.
Since the little bride was not yet three, it had been wisely decided to excuse her from the revelries, although Hal had been given a seat upon the dais. So far he was acquitting himself well, seduced into good behavior by the sheer novelty of it all and aware, too, that his mother was keeping a sharp eye upon him. The candles turning his bright hair into a crown of gold, he watched his seat-mate, Cardinal William of Pavia, and modeled his manners after the papal legate’s. His proud parents beamed at him fondly, but Eleanor prudently concluded that it would be best to send him off to bed before he got tired and cranky and began to act more like a rambunctious five-year-old than a young king in the making.
Hal wasn’t the only one on his best behavior. Festivities like this usually bored Henry beyond endurance, for he never liked sitting still for long; even during Mass, he was likely to start squirming on his prayer cushion and whispering to his companions if the priest’s sermon was not mercifully brief. Since he had no particular interest in what he ate or drank, he could not see the purpose in lingering over a meal, which was why he was so willing to let Thomas Becket wine and dine guests on his behalf. But this was his son’s wedding day, after all, and he wanted it to be a pleasant memory for Hal. And if murmurings of the feast’s splendor were to echo all the way to Paris, so much the better.
Reaching for his wine cup, he took a sip, then put it aside. He preferred his wine watered-down, but since he was sharing a cup with Eleanor, he’d deferred to her taste for the products of her Gascony vineyards. The other guests were seated on cushioned benches, but those privileged few upon the dais had the luxury of oaken chairs and Henry leaned back now in his, his gaze sweeping the table.
His mother was chatting amiably with the papal legates, Becket slicing bread for Petronilla, Eleanor beckoning discreetly to Hal’s nurse, the Bishop of Lisieux sharing a joke with the Archbishop of Rouen. At the far end of the table were two knights whose presence had stirred speculation and envy among the other guests. A seat upon the dais was a highly coveted honor, and there were many in the hall who felt themselves to be more deserving than Robert de Pirou and Tostes de St Omer. They were eating heartily of the dessert just set before them, a delectable concoction of cream of almonds and pears floating in heavy syrup, taking care not to get stains upon the white tunics and blood-red crosses of the Templars.
Leaning over, Eleanor laid her hand on Henry’s arm. “The Templars seem to be enjoying themselves,” she said softly. “I assume that they had no misgivings about yielding up the castles of the Vexin to you, then?”
“They were quite reasonable,” Henry said blandly. “And why not? They were to hold the castles only until Louis’s daughter wed our son. And as two papal legates can attest, that condition has now been met.”
Eleanor’s fingers slid along his wrist, began to caress his palm. “I think you could outwit the Devil himself on a good day,” she murmured and laughed when he reminded her that the Counts of Anjou were alleged to trace their descent from the Devil’s daughter.
“My father liked to tell that story,
” he said, grinning. “Mayhap we ought to name our next daughter after her? How would you fancy adding a Melusine to our brood, love?”
“Only if you agree to name our next son Lucifer,” she parried and Henry laughed loudly enough to turn heads in their direction. Despite his chaplain’s gentle chiding to thank the Almighty for his manifold blessings, he tended to take God’s Favor for granted. But as he looked now into Eleanor’s shining eyes, he felt a sudden surge of gratitude for all that was his: an empire that stretched from the Scottish borders to the Mediterranean Sea, the most legendary queen since Helen of Troy, sons to found the greatest dynasty Christendom had ever known.
Lifting Eleanor’s hand to his mouth, he kissed her fingers, one by one, and then raised his voice for silence. “I would have us drink,” he said, “to the health and happiness of my beloved son, England’s next king.”
WHEN LOUIS LEARNED of the wedding in Rouen, he was furious. He could not do much to punish Henry and Eleanor, but he struck back at the Templars, expelling their Order from Paris. Theobald of Blois then convinced him that this was not enough and they began to fortify Theobald’s castle at Chaumont-sur-Loire, casting an eye toward Henry’s lands in Touraine.
This was a mistake. Not bothering to summon the knights of Anjou, Henry hired mercenaries instead and swooped down upon Chaumont. Theobald had boasted that the fortress was impregnable, but Henry took it in just three days, sending shudders of alarm reverberating as far as the walls of Paris.