They were strolling side by side, Maud’s arm linked in Hywel’s, and their laughter drifted back upon the breeze, bringing a fresh frown to Eleri’s face. Peryf had fallen in behind them, escorting Maud’s ladies-in-waiting, Clarice and Isolda, who’d hastily reappeared to attend her mistress. Eleri was keeping watch over the children, and Caswallon trailed after the others, digging in his sack for the last of the wafers.
Up ahead, a crowd had gathered and they were starting in that direction when Maud was intercepted by another woman. What drew Rhiannon’s attention was the contrast between their voices. While the stranger seemed delighted by the chance meeting, Maud showed little enthusiasm, sounding polite but wary. The woman was talking with considerable animation, arousing Rhiannon’s curiosity, for her demeanor bespoke an intimacy that Maud was not acknowledging. She was almost upon them when her husband’s name was unexpectedly thrust into the conversation.
“I am gladdened that you are so well, Lady Maud. Tell me . . . how is Ranulf ? How has he been faring?”
Rhiannon came to an abrupt halt. She knew suddenly, with a certainty that owed nothing to logic, that this was Annora Fitz Clement, the woman Ranulf had once loved to distraction. She felt the blood rushing to her face, and for a moment, all she could hear was the thudding of her own heart. And then Maud had slid an arm around her shoulders, saying warmly:
“Ranulf has been faring very well indeed, Annora. And here is the proof, a woman dearer to me than any sister could be, the Lady Rhiannon . . . Ranulf’s wife.”
The rest of the introductions passed in a blur for Rhiannon. Annora made the proper responses, saying that she’d heard Ranulf had wed a Welsh cousin, and offering her belated congratulations and well-wishes. But the liveliness had drained from her voice and the conversation soon trailed off into an awkward silence. Rhiannon did not doubt that she was being subjected to a critical scrutiny, and she felt a rush of rage, directed against Annora and the Almighty in equal measure, that she could not even look upon her rival’s face.
She hoped that she’d regained her poise, although she knew that betraying color still stained her cheeks. As uncomfortable as the encounter was, it would have been far worse if not for Maud. The other woman’s silent support was as bracing as the arm around her shoulders, and Maud made a conspicuous point of introducing Rhiannon’s children to Annora, while mentioning ever so casually that Ranulf was not expected back in Chester for several days. Annora soon found an excuse to withdraw, but her presence continued to be felt long after she’d vanished into the crowd. Rhiannon felt no surprise at that. She, above all others, needed no one to tell her of Annora’s ghostly tenacity, for had she not haunted the shadows of their marriage for fully ten years?
“Is that the one?” Eleri squeezed Rhiannon’s arm. “The woman Ranulf was so besotted with? I thought her quite plain. He could surely have done better for himself, dearest!”
“He did,” Maud said emphatically, “he did.” Lowering her voice for Rhiannon’s ear alone, she murmured, “I never cared much for Annora, always found her to be rather forgettable. In fact, she seems to be fading from memory even as we speak.”
Rhiannon’s smile was forced. “No,” she said, “I’ll keep nothing from Ranulf. What if he learned from others that we’d met this woman? How would I explain our silence?”
“As you wish, Rhiannon. It matters for naught, though. I’d wager Ranulf has spared nary a thought for Annora in years.”
Rhiannon said nothing, wishing she could be as sure of that as Maud. She yearned to ask if Annora was truly plain, or if that was merely a sister’s loyalty. But her pride kept her quiet, as did her common sense. What did it matter, after all, if Annora was no great beauty? Ranulf had still loved her, had risked his life and his immortal soul for that love.
They continued on, pausing to watch an acrobatic tumbling act. Judging from the hearty applause of the audience, the performance was a good one. Rhiannon smiled as Gilbert and Mallt cheered and clapped, but not even her children’s pleasure could banish Annora from her thoughts.
“Rhiannon?” Hywel’s breath was warm on her cheek. “How are you doing, darling?”
“I am well enough,” she insisted. “Why should I fear a memory?” Hywel knew that few temptations were as seductive as memories of lost youth and lost love. He suspected that Rhiannon did, too. “You’ve nothing to fear from any other woman, sweetheart. And if you ever get tired of that husband of yours, I’ll be camping outside your door in the blink of an eye!”
“You’re such a liar,” Rhiannon laughed. “I do not doubt that you are a good lover, but you are an even better friend.”
“You have it backward,” he said. “I am a good friend, an even better lover.” And his eyes shifted from Rhiannon to Maud, who spoke little Welsh, but who seemed to understand exactly what he was saying.
WINCHESTER WAS IN the grip of an oppressive August heat wave, and Petronilla was not surprised to find the castle gardens deserted. She was turning to go back into the great hall when she spied a recumbent figure sprawled on one of the turf benches. He had a cap pulled down over his face to shut out the sun’s glare, but she still recognized her half-brother. Moving swiftly along the graveled path, she bent over and shook his shoulder. “Jos!”
Joscelin opened his eyes, blinking up at her drowsily. “Petra? What is it?”
“I’ve been searching everywhere for Eleanor. Have you seen her?”
“Not since dinner this morning.” Yawning, he slid over to make room for her on the bench, an invitation she ignored. “Why are you seeking Eleanor? Is something amiss?”
“That is what I am trying to find out. I heard that an urgent letter arrived for her from Normandy.”
“So?” Joscelin yawned again. “Mayhap it is just a love letter from her husband, telling her how much he misses their bedsport.”
“Harry is not a man for writing love letters,” Petronilla said impatiently, and Joscelin gave her a quizzical look.
“Not to you, no. But since I see no reason why Eleanor would share hers with you, how do you know what he writes? Why are you always so ready to find fault with the man, Petra?”
“Why do you think? Because he neglects our sister shamefully!”
“For the Lord’s pity, woman, he gave her a crown!”
“And you truly think that is enough?”
“Mayhap not in one of your Courts of Love, but we dwell in the real world. And you’re not going to convince me that Eleanor, of all women, would prefer trinkets and roses and maudlin poems to a throne!”
“Jesú, men can be so dim-witted! Of course Eleanor enjoys being England’s queen. But she is Harry’s wife, too, and that wife has been sleeping alone for nigh on eight months now. If that is not neglect, what is? I can assure you that Raoul was never away from my bed for more than a fortnight!”
“Was that before or after he left his wife for you?” Joscelin jeered and she snatched up his cap, smacking him across the shoulders, only half in jest.
“Petra, I do not doubt that Raoul indulged your every whim. You were all of nineteen and he was nigh on fifty when he first seduced you . . . or was it the other way around?” Laughing, he ducked as she sought to pummel him again. “What else did he have to do but pamper and cosset his young bride? Whereas Harry rules the greatest empire since the days of Charlemagne. And if you think our Eleanor does not lust after that empire as much as she does Harry, then you’re dafter than a Michaelmas goose!”
Petronilla cast her gaze heavenward. “Why am I talking to you about this? You know as much about women as that poor milksop Eleanor married!”
“No one on God’s green earth could ever call Harry a ‘milksop,’ so I assume we have moved on and are now flaying the French king?”
“Of course I meant Louis,” Petronilla said, and called Louis a highly uncomplimentary name that cast serious doubts upon his manhood, much to Joscelin’s amusement.
“You have a very unforgiving nature, Petra. Do you judge all of us men so harshly, or just Eleanor’s husbands?”
But Petronilla had lost interest in bantering with her brother. “There you are, Eleanor,” she cried, hastening to intercept the woman just coming in the garden gate. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“So I heard.” Eleanor motioned for Joscelin to move over so she could sit down. “Harry wants me to return to Normandy straightaway.”
“You do not look very happy about it,” Joscelin said, wondering why women must make life so confoundedly complicated. “I thought you missed the man?”
“Of course I miss him, Jos. I’ll be glad to watch English shores recede into the distance, too. But Harry’s news was not good. The word out of Paris is that Louis’s queen is finally pregnant again.”
Petronilla and Joscelin were both startled. “Well,” Petronilla said at last, “how likely is it that he’ll sire a son? After three daughters, I’d say the odds are not in his favor.”
Joscelin almost reminded them that women were usually held responsible for the sex of a child, thought better of it in time. “I agree with Petra,” he commented instead. “With Louis’s luck, it is bound to be another lass.”
“I hope so,” Eleanor said, surprising even herself by the depth of her bitterness. “God Above, how I hope so!”
THE FRENCH KING’S PALACE was situated on an island in the middle of the River Seine, the Ile-de-la-Cité. When his future sons-in-law, the Counts of Champagne and Blois, arrived at the Cité and sought an audience, they were escorted toward the royal gardens at the far western tip of the island. This first Tuesday in October was as mild as midsummer, and the gardens were glowing with mellow golden sunlight under a sky the color of polished sapphire. Pear trees and cypress provided deep pockets of shade, hollyhock and gillyvor flamed along the fences, and butterflies danced on the breeze like drifting autumn leaves.
It was the most tranquil of settings, a private Eden tucked away in the very heart of Paris, but the French king was deriving no solace from his island haven, pacing nervously along the walkways, heedlessly trampling the acanthus borders underfoot. He was trailed by two bishops, his brother Philippe and Maurice de Sully, the new Bishop of Paris, while his chancellor, Hugh de Champfleury, was slouched in a trellised bower, an unread book open upon his lap. Even Louis’s dogs seemed affected by his anxiety, subdued and lethargic, not bothering to bark as Theobald and Henry of Blois entered the garden.
As distracted as he was, Louis still summoned up a wan smile at the sight of the young men; although they’d not yet wed his daughters, he’d already come to think of them as kinsmen. “I could not concentrate upon matters of state,” he confessed. “Even during Mass, my thoughts wandered from God’s Word to my wife’s lying-in chamber. Her pains began last night, and the midwives say the babe ought to be delivered by sun-down.”
Theobald and Henry already knew this; most of Paris knew by now that the queen was in labor. They hastened to assure Louis that Constance would soon present him with a fine, healthy son, telling him what he desperately needed to hear. Louis never thought to question their sincerity and was heartened by their apparent certitude. He had to believe that all would go well, for the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. What would befall France if he could not provide a male heir? And if he could not, what did that say about God’s Will? He had convinced himself that his marriage to Eleanor was cursed in the Almighty’s Eyes, as proven by her failure to give him any sons. But what if Constance failed, too, in a queen’s primary duty? What if the fault lay, not with his queens, but with him? The fear that God might be judging him so harshly, as a Christian, a man, and a monarch, was almost more than Louis could bear. How could the Lord have blessed Eleanor with four sons and still deny him an heir for France?
The afternoon trickled away with excruciating slowness. Twice the midwives sent word that all was progressing as it ought. Louis wandered back into the great hall, almost at once bolted outside to the gardens again. He let his brother talk him into a game of chess, but more often than not, he found himself staring blankly at the chessboard while Philippe fidgeted impatiently. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the River Seine turned from blue to amber, and the last of summer’s warmth faded into memory for another year. But Louis seemed oblivious to the dropping temperature. He was leaning against the stone wall, gazing out at the orchards and open fields of the left bank, when he heard a throat being cleared behind him. “My liege . . .”
He was suddenly, irrationally, afraid to turn around. For a moment, his hands clenched on the wall, his palms digging into the rough stone surface. And then he pivoted to face his confessor. The priest was haggard, his gaze downcast. “My lord king,” he said, very low, “God has given you a daughter.”
Louis closed his eyes, feeling a sorrow so intense it was akin to physical pain. How had he sinned, that the Almighty had forsaken him like this? Four daughters. He was in his fortieth year, and two wives had failed to give him sons. Two daughters he’d gotten from Eleanor in fifteen years of marriage, and then she’d borne the Angevin one son after another. Where was God’s Justice in that? Making a great effort, he said dully, “Thy Will be done.” Remembering, then, to ask, “And Constance?”
The priest flinched as if he’d taken a blow. “You must be strong, my liege,” he entreated. “You must remember the Almighty tests us in ways we cannot always comprehend. The queen is dead. The midwives . . . they say she began to bleed profusely when the afterbirth was expelled. They could not save her . . .”
“Constance is dead?” For a merciful moment, Louis was uncomprehending, and then he sagged against the wall as if his bones no longer had the strength to bear his weight. His confessor hovered helplessly at his side, and his brother Philippe halted several feet away, shocked speechless for once. It was the Bishop of Paris who took charge.