Time and Chance

  “How does Harry fare?”

  “Better. His fever broke three days ago.” Sitting down heavily upon the settle, Eleanor groped for a pillow to put behind her back. “It was good of you to come, Petra.”

  “Of course I came. Your letter made it sound as if you might be a widow at any moment!”

  “If I’d listened to those fool doctors, I’d have been picking out my mourning garb.” Eleanor shook her head impatiently. “I told them that unless Harry could rule in absentia, he’d never agree to die.”

  “You say his fever has broken?”

  “Yes, on Friday, and he’s begun complaining about the food and the doctors and the heat, a sure sign that he is on the mend. Although he did give us a scare yesterday. A courier arrived with word of Becket’s latest outrage whilst I was lying down, and those dolts let the man in to see Harry. He started shouting like a madman, insisted upon getting out of bed, and collapsed in the floor rushes like a sack of flour since he is still as weak as a newborn.”

  “What has Becket done now?”

  Eleanor grimaced. “On Whitsunday, he celebrated Mass at Vezelay and pronounced sentences of anathema and excommunication upon seven of Harry’s lords, including his justiciar, Richard de Lucy. He also condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon and freed the English bishops from their oaths to obey them. And he even threatened to excommunicate Harry himself and lay all England under interdict.”

  Petronilla sighed; she was thoroughly bored by this endless squabbling between Becket and her brother-in-law. “What happens now?”

  “Harry means to order the English bishops to appeal to the Pope against these censures.”

  A wisp of hair had escaped Eleanor’s wimple and was tickling her cheek; she tucked it away and leaned back against the settle, closing her eyes. Petronilla was not surprised that she looked fatigued; she’d wager every soul in Chinon was careworn from catering to Harry’s sickbed whims. “You ought to be flushed in this heat, not as white as chalk,” she said critically, reaching over to feel Eleanor’s forehead as the door opened and a servant entered with a flagon of wine, two cups, and a plateful of fresh-baked wafers. “Set it by me,” Petronilla directed and filled the cups. The wine was a strong red Gascon and she savored every swallow. “You’d not believe the swill I was served on the road. Here, Eleanor, have one of the cheese wafers.”

  Eleanor shook her head, recoiling when Petronilla tried to pass her a wafer. “Just the smell of it is enough to make my gorge rise.”

  “Are you ailing?” Petronilla gave her sister a speculative look. “You’ve never been one for queasiness, except . . . Good Lord, Eleanor, has Harry gotten you with child again?”

  “Well, I surely hope it is Harry’s,” Eleanor said tartly. She was obviously irked by her sister’s disapproving tone, but Petronilla doubted that she’d welcomed this pregnancy with heartfelt joy. What woman of forty and four years would?

  “I know you’ve enjoyed confounding those who claimed you’d ever be a barren queen, but even so . . . What are you and Harry doing, going for a baker’s dozen? When is this one due?”

  “In January. It happened whilst we were at Angers for Eastertide.” Petronilla scowled, thinking it a pity that Harry had not stayed longer in England. No wonder Eleanor looked so wan. If the fates had been less kind, she’d have found herself a pregnant widow, bequeathed each and every one of Harry’s enemies, struggling to hold together a far-flung empire for a son who was all of eleven years. She held her tongue for once, though, and glancing at her sister’s taut profile, she could only hope that this eighth pregnancy would be an easy one and, God Willing, the last.

  NO SOONER had Henry risen from his sickbed than he was in the saddle. Conan, Duke of Upper Brittany, was viewed by the Bretons as an Angevin puppet, and a rebellion had recently flared up, ignited by a disaffected baron, Ralph de Fougères. By June 28, Henry’s army was at Fougères. It was said to be impervious to assault, but it fell to Henry on July 14. He then pushed on into Brittany, where he deposed the inept Conan, betrothed his young son Geoffrey to Conan’s daughter and heiress, Constance, and took possession of the duchy in his son’s name.

  AUTUMN THAT YEAR painted the countryside in vivid shades of scarlet, saffron, and russet, and the days were clear and crisp under harvest skies. But Henry had little time to enjoy the splendors of the season. Even his passion for the hunt went unsatisfied as he passed the days in a whirlwind of councils with allies and enemies alike—the Count of Flanders; Theobald, Count of Blois; the perpetually discontented Poitevin lords; the new King of Scotland; a papal envoy; and Matthew of Boulogne, scandalously wed to King Stephen’s daughter Mary, former abbess of Romsey Abbey.

  By November 20, he was back at Chinon Castle, and it was here that he received his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and his uncle Rainald, Earl of Cornwall, bearing news of yet another Welsh setback. Owain Gwynedd had taken advantage of Henry’s absence from England to capture and destroy Basingwerk Castle. Under the command of the Earls of Leicester and Essex, men were dispatched to rebuild it, but they’d been forced to retreat back across the border in disarray.

  CHINON’S GREAT HALL was crowded, for Henry’s own retainers were augmented by the new arrivals from England and a sizable contingent of Poitevin lords, squirming under the king’s watchful eye. After a time, Rainald took refuge in a window seat alcove, where he made himself as comfortable as his aching muscles would allow, occasionally intercepting a passing wine-bearer or nodding with forced joviality if he happened to spot a familiar face. The night was mild and the hearth fires well tended; Rainald was soon dozing, his chin resting on his chest, fingers loosening around the stem of a tilting wine cup. But when another hand reached over to steady the goblet, he jerked upright, blinking blearily until his tired brain processed the information that the wine thief was his nephew.

  Henry was grinning. “I think you’d rally on your very deathbed if someone waved a flagon under your nose.” Sitting down in the window seat, he waved aside the inevitable flock of hangers-on, indicating he wanted some semiprivacy with his uncle. As they reluctantly retreated, he handed Rainald back his wine cup. “Feeling your age, Uncle?”

  Rainald’s answering grin was swallowed up in a huge yawn. “Aye, lad, I am, and why not? When you reach the advanced age of fifty and six, too, you’ll find that even your vast stores of energy will be well nigh empty.” He was not surprised by Henry’s amused disbelief. Still in his high noon at thirty-three, how could he envision a twilight waning?

  “These old bones are getting too brittle for journeys like this,” Rainald complained good-naturedly. “Lord knows why de Lucy was in such haste to find you, what with all our news being so bleak!” He glanced toward the center hearth, where the justiciar was chatting amiably with several bishops and the Earl of Salisbury, Henry’s military commander in Aquitaine. “At least Becket’s curse has gone astray,” he said, pointing out the obvious: that none were obeying the Church’s dictate to shun the excommunicate justiciar as one of God’s castaways.

  The mere mention of Thomas Becket’s name was enough to sour Henry’s mood. “Have you heard the latest about our archbishop in exile?” he asked, the words dripping with sarcasm. “Becket left his refuge with the Cistercians of Pontigny, is now under the protection of that fool on the French throne. Louis even dispatched a three-hundred-man escort to welcome Becket into his new roost, the abbey of St Columba, outside Sens.”

  “It is difficult to understand how a man of God can stir up so much of the Devil’s mischief.” Seeing that his commiseration had chafed rather than soothed, Rainald marveled how easy it was to misspeak if Thomas Becket was the topic of conversation, and hastily sought to change the subject. “How does Eleanor these days? Is she still at Angers?”

  “No, she joined me at Rouen last month and tarried to visit with my mother for another fortnight. As loath as she is to admit it, this pregnancy has not been an easy one. She tires easily and her nerves are so often on the raw that the babe she ca
rries must be a hellraiser, for certes!”

  “And Maude? Is she still ailing?” Rainald asked, and gnawed his lower lip when his nephew gave him a terse confirmation. Maude had never lacked for enemies, but the most insidious one was proving to be her own body, nurturing a foe that stole her breath, sapped her strength, and alarmed her loved ones. Her spirit still burned with a blue-white flame—Rainald had heard how wroth she’d been when Henry captured a messenger of Becket’s and put him to the knife to reveal his secrets—but few doubted that her mortal days were finite enough to count. Fumbling to cast out the shadow that had so suddenly fallen between them, Rainald brightened, remembering a choice bit of gossip he’d picked up in Wales.

  “Guess who Owain Gwynedd is locking horns with nowadays? None other than Thomas Becket!”

  Henry’s interest was immediate. “How so?”

  “Well . . . the see of Bangor has been vacant for nigh on five years now,” Rainald began, and Henry was hard put to conceal his impatience, knowing his uncle could spin a tale out till the cows came home. “But of course you know that,” Rainald conceded, seeing those grey eyes narrow tellingly. “Owain wanted the position filled and he rashly wrote to Becket at Pontigny, asking if, during Becket’s exile, another prelate might consecrate Bangor’s bishop. Obviously, he did not consult Ranulf beforehand, for he’d have warned Owain that Becket’s vanity would never allow him to delegate even a scrap of authority. Becket sent a curt refusal, ordering that no election be held. But Owain is a man for getting his own way, too, and he arranged for his candidate to be elected and then sent him off to Ireland to be consecrated.”

  He’d hoped that Henry might be amused by this flouting of Becket’s will; instead he scowled. “Ere war broke out, Owain approached me about filling the vacancy at Bangor with a man of his choosing, a monk of Bardsey. I refused, for I knew what he was about, trying to subvert English control over the diocese. So he thought to checkmate me with Becket, did he?”

  “Well, it did not work,” Rainald reminded him mildly, putting aside the heretical thought that his nephew was no less jealous of his own prerogatives than Becket. “He may have his man at Bangor, but the Church will not recognize him. Moreover, he has made an enemy of Becket, who is suddenly showing great interest in Owain’s marriage to the Lady Cristyn, warning Owain that if the rumors of their kinship be true, she is no lawful wife and must be put aside.”

  Henry’s eyes glittered. “I wish Owain better luck than my brother Will had,” he said, and Rainald realized that he had stepped into yet another snare. If truth be told, it was impossible to talk about Thomas Becket without blundering into one quagmire after another.

  He began to speak at random about any subject that came to mind—the sudden death of the Earl of Essex last month at Chester, after their rout by the Welsh; Richard de Lucy’s professed intent to take the cross and go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land—knowing that there was a need to exorcise more than one ghost. It had been clumsy of him to make mention of Ranulf, sprinkling salt into an unhealed wound. He knew his nephew wanted to ask if he’d heard from Ranulf. He knew, too, that he would not ask. They were a pair, Harry and Ranulf, stubbornly keeping silent whilst their estrangement festered, each one unwilling to admit his own pain. Upon his return to England, he would write to his niece, he decided. If anyone could make peace between these two balky mules, surely it was Maud.

  Richard de Lucy was approaching and Rainald welcomed him heartily; let de Lucy be the one to blunder into pitfalls for a while. Not that he would; de Lucy was the perfect royal servant, with diplomatic skills worthy of a Pope and loyalty that would put a dog to shame. When Henry informed him now that he must postpone his pilgrimage, instead journey to Rome to appeal Becket’s latest excommunications, the justiciar didn’t even blink, agreed so smoothly that Rainald had not a clue as to what he truly thought. Camouflaging another yawn, he watched as a courier was ushered across the hall toward them, and made ready to ask his nephew’s permission to retire for the evening.

  But before he could, the messenger thrust a letter from Henry’s mother into his hands. Henry swiftly broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and held it up toward the wall sconce above his head. Rainald squirmed on the seat, trying to ease his aching back. His eyelids had begun to droop again when his nephew drew a sudden, sibilant breath.

  Rainald’s first fear was for Maude. “Is the news bad?”

  Henry shook his head. “No . . . just unexpected. My mother says that Eleanor has left Rouen and rumor has it that she took ship at Barfleur for England.”

  Rainald gaped, for that made no sense at all. Why would a woman brave a November Channel crossing whilst great with child? “Why would she do that? Did you not say that you were holding your Christmas court at Poitiers this year, to please her?”

  Henry was frowning over the parchment again. Richard de Lucy was his usual inscrutable self, but Rainald was too puzzled for tact. “Surely Maude must be wrong. Why would Eleanor take it into her head of a sudden to go to England, now of all times?”

  Henry glanced up sharply, then shrugged. “I have no idea, Uncle,” he said, “none at all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  November 1166

  English Channel

  PETRONILLA SAT UP with a jerk, her heart racing. No night should have been as dark as this, and the cold was so damp and penetrating that it seemed to have seeped into her very bones. She was astonished that she’d fallen asleep, for although she’d been blessed with a strong stomach and rarely suffered from the seasickness that afflicted so many others, she loathed sea travel as much as any mortal could, feared it even more. Each time she set foot on a rolling, wet deck, she remembered the sinking of the White Ship. When it had struck a reef in Barfleur Harbor on a November night much like this one, more than three hundred souls had gone to God or the Devil, many of them highborn.

  Their canvas tent was cramped and dank, the women huddled together for warmth. Gradually Petronilla could make out their hunched figures in the shadows. Few were sleeping and, as Petronilla sat up, one of her sister’s ladies moaned and retched weakly into a bucket. A stench filled the air and Petronilla wrinkled her nose; the tent was already befouled with the acrid smell of sweat and fear and vomit, stronger even than the pungent salt-brine tang of the sea.

  “Aunt Petra . . .” A slender form swaddled in blankets stirred at Petronilla’s elbow and she patted the child’s shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Tilda. When you awaken, we’ll be in sight of Southampton.” God Willing. Her niece burrowed deeper into her nest of covers and, with the resilience of the very young, soon slept again. Petronilla did not understand what had possessed her sister to allow the girl to accompany them. Granted, Tilda would be departing in the coming year for her new life in Germany as the bride of Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, and she’d pleaded poignantly with Eleanor that they not be apart till then. Petronilla still thought the girl’s presence was a mistake. But her sister had ignored her arguments, and Petronilla knew from past experience that when Eleanor got the bit between her teeth, the only thing to do was to get out of the way.

  A martyr on the cross of sisterly rivalry, Petronilla sighed and made herself as comfortable as she could on her pallet. Sleep would not come back, though. She was preternaturally aware of every night noise: the relentless creaking and groaning of the ship as it sank down into a trough, then fought its way to the crest of the next wave, the rhythmic slapping sound of waves against the hull, the flapping of the sail as the wind picked up, Tilda’s soft snoring, an occasional moan from one or another of the seasick women, muffled curses from unseen sailors. When she could endure the tossing and turning no longer, Petronilla slid away from Tilda and rose to her feet.

  As she ducked under the tent flap, the ship pitched suddenly and she staggered, would have fallen if not for the boatswain, who steadied her with a helpful hand on her elbow. The smile that accompanied his chivalry was too familiar for Petronilla’s liking. He backed away when she s
cowled, and as she lurched across the deck, she thought she heard him chuckle. Glaring over her shoulder, she almost stumbled into the tiller, but the helmsman had observed the by-play with the boatswain and he left her to fend for herself. Keeping her balance with difficulty, she caught the gunwale for support, damning all ships and sailors to eternal hellfire.

  Filling her lungs with the icy Channel air, Petronilla waited until she’d gotten her equilibrium back and then started cautiously along the deck in search of her sister. She found Eleanor standing alone near the bow. She did not turn her head as Petronilla approached, and they stood in silence for a time while Petronilla tried to think of some way to narrow the distance between them.

  “That bobbing light to starboard . . . is that our other ship?” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she winced at the fatuous nature of her query; of course that was their ship! But conversation with Eleanor these days was like venturing into perilous terrain; she seemed to make one misstep after another. “You ought not to tarry out on the deck like this, Eleanor. This cold is not good for either you or the babe.”

  The corner of Eleanor’s mouth tightened noticeably, but she made no other response, keeping her eyes upon the surging black barrier of water that stretched toward the horizon. Conceding defeat, Petronilla retreated into a brooding silence. When she’d told Eleanor of the rumors she’d heard—the salacious, gleeful gossip about Henry and Rosamund Clifford—it had never occurred to her that her sister would act so impulsively, so unpredictably, so recklessly. But Eleanor had the right to know that her husband was lusting after Clifford’s daughter. She needed to know that he’d even dared to bring Rosamund to Woodstock’s royal manor. Surely she’d want to know that she was in danger of becoming a laughingstock? Watching as her sister gazed toward the night-cloaked alien shores of England, Petronilla sought to convince herself that it would all work out for the best. She’d begun to shiver, though, and it was not entirely due to the stinging winter wind.