Devil's Brood (32 page)

When Nicholas bristled, Eleanor shook her head almost imperceptibly. “But I
am
the queen,” she said, “and you’d do well to remember that. One of my men has a wound in need of tending. I wish him to be seen by a doctor without delay.”

“Do you, indeed? Well…if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Turning, he gestured toward two of his men. “Take these prisoners down to the dungeon.” Adding “without delay,” with a mocking glance over his shoulder at Eleanor.

“I’d have thought you had better breeding than that, my lord. Only a churl would not know that men of Sir Nicholas’s rank are to be well treated until their ransoms can be arranged.”

“Ransom?” he echoed and laughed. “What a droll wit you have, Madame. But if you are so fretful about their well-being, mayhap you should join them in the dungeon so that you can look after them yourself.”

Eleanor caught her breath, quickly reached out to still Nicholas’s outraged protest. But it was easier to control Nicholas’s anger than her own temper, for she’d had little practice in biting back intemperate words. She opened her mouth to throw down a challenge that might well have gotten her incarcerated with her men. Before she could defy Maurice de Craon, though, Sir Hervé de Monbazon stepped between them.

“May we have a few words in private, my lord?” he asked smoothly, favoring Maurice with the same disarming smile that he’d turned upon Eleanor. Maurice did not seem pleased by his intervention, but after a brief hesitation, he nodded and followed the provost toward the stairwell in the east wall.

Eleanor gave Nicholas a critical scrutiny, her eyes flicking from his pallid face to his bloodstained chausses and boot. “Come with me,” she said, taking his arm and steering him toward the closest bench. “You, too,” she directed her other knights, Gérard and Guyon. Once the three men were seated, she glanced around the hall, finding what she sought when she noticed a plate of bread and cheese on a nearby trestle table. Bringing it back to them, she directed Nicholas to hold out his bound wrists and cut the rope with the bread knife, then did the same for Gérard and Guyon. She was watched all the while by the other men in the hall, but while some of them murmured among themselves, none attempted to stop her, and whenever she met an individual’s gaze, he quickly looked away.

When the door opened, she stiffened warily, as did her knights. But the man emerging from the stairwell was not Maurice de Craon. The new arrival was an elderly priest, who stared at Eleanor with round eyes and open mouth. Like the others in the hall, he seemed hesitant, but after an irresolute moment, he gripped his cane firmly and hobbled toward her.

“Madame, you are truly here! Do you remember me?”

Like Henry, Eleanor had been blessed with a remarkable memory, and like him, she’d taken pains to cultivate the talent; for a prince, that was a survival skill. Now, as she studied the priest, it stood her in good stead. “Father Lucas,” she said and smiled. “Of course I remember you. You were very helpful when that baby was found abandoned on the Loches Road.”

Pleased color rose in his cheeks. “It was my pleasure to serve you, my lady.”

“I need your help again, Father Lucas. This is Sir Nicholas de Chauvigny, a knight of my household. As you can see, he has a leg injury that ought to be cleaned and treated as soon as possible. Will you take care of that for me?”

He did not answer immediately, casting a revealing glance over his shoulder toward the stairwell. But then he straightened his shoulders and nodded emphatically. “Indeed, I will, Madame.”

While he’d turned away to summon a servant, Eleanor snatched up the bread and cheese and passed it to her men. “Hide this in your tunics,” she said. “I rather doubt that Maurice de Craon will prove to be a generous, open-handed host.”

The priest was soon back with a basin of water and a small jar of ointment. Nicholas was scandalized when Eleanor reached for the salve, and insisted that he could clean the wound by himself. Amused in spite of herself by his outraged sense of decorum, Eleanor turned the task over to Gérard. The priest’s unease was becoming more and more apparent, his gaze straying often to the stairwell.

“Madame…” Lowering his voice until it was barely audible, he said hurriedly, “I was praying in the chapel, must have dosed off, for I was awakened of a sudden by voices. It was Lord Maurice and Sir Hervé. I suppose they’d sought out the chapel for privacy. They were arguing about you, my lady. The lord thought you ought to be treated as a rebel, but the provost insisted it was wiser to treat you as a highborn hostage. Lord Maurice said he’d been with the king at Rouen when he learned of your…your betrayal. His words, Madame, not mine! He said the king was grievously hurt by your actions, that he would want you punished, not coddled. Sir Hervé said that they must not forget how unpredictable the king could be, as changeable as the winds. He advised Lord Maurice to tread carefully on such unsteady ground.”

His last words came in a rush, with another nervous look over his shoulder. “I do not know which of them will prevail, my lady. It will depend upon what they think the king wants done with you.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said softly. “That is the question, is it not?” One not even she could answer, as well as she knew her husband. Now that she was in his power, what would Harry do?

W
HEN MAURICE DE CRAON
led her toward the stairwell, Eleanor felt a surge of relief when they headed up, not down. So it was not to be the dungeon. For all her bravado, she did not want to be thrust into a damp, dark cell. When they reached the third floor, Maurice turned to the right, not the left, and a grim smile flickered across her lips. Maurice had deemed her unworthy of sleeping in the king’s bed; instead she was to be held in the smaller, more spartan guest chamber.

They’d been preceded by servants, who made haste to light an oil lamp and pulled back the bed hangings. Sir Hervé soon followed, accompanied by another servant carrying Eleanor’s coffer. The sight of it was a welcome one, for she wanted her own clothes; she’d not liked the way the men in the hall had stared at her legs and ankles. But then Maurice made a snide comment about her male garb, saying that he’d had her coffer brought up so she could change straightaway out of her unseemly attire, and she immediately considered wearing her knight’s garments until they hung on her in rags.

“Does my appearance disturb you, my lord? Alas, I am desolated by your disapproval,” she said, so sardonically that his mouth tightened and she could see the muscles clench along his jawline.

Striding to the door, he paused, giving her a look of appraisal that was neither friendly nor flattering. “It is true you do not have to answer to me,” he said coldly. “But you are answerable to the lord king, your husband.” Not waiting for her response, he closed the door with a finality that was almost as disquieting as his words had been.

A silence settled over the room. The servants quickly and self-consciously finished their tasks and fled, leaving Eleanor alone with the provost. He seemed to be debating whether to speak or not, at last said, almost apologetically, “Lord Maurice is plainspoken, but if he lacks the polished manners of a courtier, he is a good man for all that, my lady. I hope you will not hold his rudeness against him.”

Eleanor was no longer so put off by his silken civility, not after exposure to the Angevin baron’s overt hostility. “As it happens,” she said, “I understand Maurice better than you think I do, Sir Hervé. He recently wed Isabel of Meulan, and she is a first cousin of Robert Beaumont, the rebel Earl of Leicester.”

His engaging smile vanished. “You mean he feels the need to curry favor with the king now, to prove that his loyalty has not been infected by the Beaumont heresy? You are wrong, Madame. His outrage is bona fide and many share it.” He hesitated, as if to say more, instead bowed and made a discreet departure.

After a few moments, Eleanor inspected the room. It lacked the fireplace and private latrine of the king’s chamber, but as prisons go, it was not so bad. They’d not provided a brazier for heat, but winters in the Loire Valley were not severe and there seemed to be an adequate pile of blankets on the bed. She wandered aimlessly from the bed to the small shuttered window, back again, and then started when a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she said resolutely, determined to keep up a bold front, and a young man entered with a wooden tray. He set the tray upon the trestle table, sketched an awkward obeisance, and hastily backed toward the door. Once he was gone, Eleanor moved to the table, looking at her meal. The food was plain, nothing fancy, not the sort of dishes to grace the royal table, but it was plentiful. She’d not go hungry, and she did not know if that would be true for Nicholas and her knights. Although she’d not eaten for many hours, she could muster up no appetite. Picking up the wine cup, she took a tentative swallow, grimaced at the taste, and set it down.

She froze then, having caught the shuffle of footsteps in the stairwell, holding her breath as she waited for the door to open. It didn’t. The footsteps paused, and then she heard the click of a key being turned in the lock. It was not loud, but it seemed to echo in the silence until there was no other sound in her world but that metallic clink and the thudding of her heart. It was only then that the full reality of her plight hit home. Slumping down on the bed, she buried her face in her hands and gave way to despair.

W
HEN HAL’S LASHES FLICKERED,
Marguerite leaned over and kissed his cheek, brushing his skin as lightly as a butterfly’s wings. Opening his eyes, he smiled drowsily. “Is it dawn yet?”

“The sun has been up for hours. You are such a sluggard,” she chided fondly, “still in bed at this time of day…for shame.”

“There are two of us in this bed,” he pointed out. “So you must be a sluggard, too.”

“I could not get up,” she insisted. “You were sleeping on my hair!”

Propping himself up on his elbow, Hal saw that her long, blond tresses had indeed been caught under his arm. “Well…I can think of several good reasons to remain abed despite the hour.” Sliding his hand up from her waist, he cupped her breast. “Here is one. Ah, and here is another…”

Marguerite sighed with pleasure, but two could play that game. “I do believe you’re right,” she purred, reaching out to stroke his thigh. “I think I’ve found another one.”

Hal’s eyes half closed. “By God, you have,” he said and rolled over on top of her just as a loud pounding began. Swearing, he called for his squire. “Thierry, tell whoever it is to go away, tell them I’m sleeping, tell them I’m dead…”

Marguerite began to giggle until he stopped her laughter with his mouth. They were too absorbed in each other to pay any heed to the sounds beyond their bed: footsteps, an opening door, a murmur of voices, and then a smothered protest, “My lord, you cannot come in—” But they were rudely brought back to reality when the bed hangings were suddenly jerked open.

Marguerite gave a squeak and dived under the covers. Hal sat up, his temper flaring at the sight of his least-loved brother. “Hellfire and damnation! Get out of here, Richard!”

“He’s taken her!”

Some of Hal’s annoyance ebbed in the face of Richard’s agitation. “Who? What are you talking about?”

“Our mother! She has fallen into his hands, is being held prisoner in one of his Angevin strongholds.”

Hal blinked, staring at his brother in disbelief. That could not be true. The Lord God would never let that happen. He was suddenly sorry he’d quaffed so much wine the night before, for his thinking was muddled. “That cannot be right. You must have heard a rumor, gossip—”

“Use your head, Hal. Why else would I be in your bedchamber at such an hour? For the pleasure of your company?”

Hal found himself at a loss for words, and Marguerite re-emerged from the blankets, pulling them modestly up to her chin even as she put her arm around his shoulders. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. But you must not despair. My father will move heaven and earth to rescue her.”

Richard rolled his eyes, thinking that they were a well matched pair, both as simpleminded as sheep. Hal knew that Marguerite was only trying to comfort him. He did not have as much faith in her father, though, as he’d had before Verneuil. He was still confused, for he’d been torn from his wife’s arms into a waking nightmare without any warning. It was not fair. Men should have time to come to terms with such calamitous happenings.

His brother was waiting impatiently, and he threw the covers back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. But then he paused. “Richard…what can we do?”

It was a moment of odd role reversal, as if he were the younger brother, not the elder. Richard usually had answers for everything. But not this time. He hesitated, and Hal felt a chill, realizing that Richard did not know what to do any more than he did.

T
HEY’D GATHERED IN
the French king’s palace, were awaiting him in a private chamber overlooking the River Seine. Raoul de Faye had wandered restlessly to a window, and when he opened the shutters, he looked out upon a scene as bleak and cheerless as his mood. The city seemed painted in shades of grey, with looming storm clouds, a sky darkening with an early dusk, the river a dull, leaden color, its choppy surface pelted with icy rain drops. He’d let a blast of cold air into the room, and when the others began to complain, he closed the shutters and returned to his seat.

He was familiar with every man in the chamber, for they were all pillars of the French king’s court. Seated closest to the hearth was the elderly Maurice de Sully, Bishop of Paris. Beside him sat Louis’s younger brother, the Archbishop of Rheims, while the youngest of the brothers, the perpetually discontented Robert, Count of Dreux, was sprawled on a bench by himself. The king’s two sons-in-law, Henri, Count of Champagne, and Thibault, Count of Blois, were whispering together across the table, while their younger sibling, Étienne, Count of Sancerre, was slouched low in his seat, looking bored. Simon de Montfort, Count of Évreux, was amusing himself by flipping a coin in the air and trying to coax Raoul’s brother Hugh into wagering upon the outcome. Since de Montfort was known for his sharp dealings, Hugh was prudently refusing his blandishments. And sitting on a cushioned settle were Raoul’s three great-nephews, the ones most affected by the momentous news out of Poitou.

Raoul’s gaze focused thoughtfully upon them. Geoffrey’s face was unrevealing; he was strangely guarded for one so young, and Raoul realized that he never knew what Geoffrey was thinking. That was certainly not true with Hal, whose face served as a mirror to his soul. His dismay was evident to anyone with eyes to see. And Richard was smoldering, a fire that had burned down but not out. He kept casting aggrieved glances toward the door, as if willing Louis to make his appearance.

Louis finally swept into the room, flanked by his clerk and chaplain. Waving the others back to their seats as they rose, he stopped by Eleanor’s sons and squeezed Hal’s shoulder in an affectionate gesture of support. Taking a chair at the head of the table, he sighed audibly, like a man with too many burdens to bear, and then looked toward Raoul.

“This is indeed sorrowful tidings. What do we know for certes and what is just conjecture?”

“The queen’s constable sent a courier to me late last night. On the Friday before Advent, she left Poitiers, heading for Chartres and then Paris. She was waylaid near Loches and taken into custody by the king’s men. She was being escorted by one of her Poitevin barons, Porteclie de Mauzé, and what we know comes from him. He told Saldebreuil that they were ambushed in the forest, that they were taken by surprise and so greatly outnumbered that they could not resist. So he says.” Raoul’s mouth twitched in a mirthless smile that conveyed without words both his own skepticism and Saldebreuil’s.

Richard was more forthright. “I think his story stinks like three-day-old mackerel. He told Saldebreuil that my mother must have been betrayed and even suggested a few likely suspects. But in any hunt for the Judas, we’d do well to start with him. He lets his liege lady be taken without lifting a finger to stop it, and then he and all his men are set free to continue on their way? Does he take us for utter fools?”

“A great pity,” Louis said somberly. “May the Almighty keep her safe in her time of travail.”

“I am sure the Almighty will look after her, my lord king.” Raoul leaned forward, his eyes locking upon the French king’s face. “But prayers will not set her free. We need to make plans, to decide how best to accomplish that.”

Louis glanced around at his nobles, as if seeking a consensus. Finding what he sought on their faces, he looked at Raoul and slowly, sadly, shook his head. “Alas,” he said, “there is nothing we can do.”

Raoul felt no real surprise, just a surge of outrage. Richard and Hal shared it. The former sprang to his feet as the latter cried out incredulously, “What are you saying, that we leave her to rot in one of his dungeons?”

“I very much doubt that she is in a dungeon, lad. Your father is not a brute, is not likely to maltreat the mother of his children.”

Raoul was not impressed by Louis’s reassurances, saw that neither were his young kinsmen. But none of Eleanor’s allies were going to rescue her. Most men, even those who’d been bedazzled by her beauty, did not approve of her. He’d long known that to be true. He suspected that Eleanor knew it, too. She’d never cared, though, what others thought. She’d never had to…until now.

“I know this is not what you want to hear,” the Count of Champagne said quietly, and with enough sincere sympathy in his voice to still their protests. “I was sorely distressed to hear of her capture, for I know how it will grieve my wife. It is true she has not seen the queen since childhood, but she would never want to see her mother in such dire straits. Yet there truly is nothing we can do. We do not even know where she is being held. She could be at Loches, or have been moved to Chinon by now. She could even be on her way to England.”

Louis did not appreciate the reminder that his daughter Marie was also Eleanor’s flesh and blood, or the suggestion that she might feel some emotional attachment to her mother, for he’d done his best to obliterate Eleanor’s memories from Marie and Alix’s lives. He’d been willing to marry Marguerite to Eleanor’s son if that would make her Queen of England one day, but that was statecraft. This was personal, and it hurt to learn that Marie was still under Eleanor’s infernal spell. He welcomed Count Henri’s support, though, and he said quickly: “The count speaks true. I would like nothing more than to ride to your mother’s rescue, would that it were possible. It is not.”

Hal looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. “I cannot accept that,” he cried, “I cannot!” And then he turned, as they all did, to stare at his brother, for Richard was stalking toward the door.

He jerked it open, and then swung around when Louis called out his name sharply, demanding to know what he meant to do. “I mean,” he said, “to return to Poitiers and take command of the rebellion. There may be nothing you can do, my lord king,” and in his mouth, that respectful term of address sounded like the foulest of insults. “But I am going to win this war and free my mother.” And without waiting for the king’s response, much less his permission, he slammed out of the chamber.

Hal had started to rise, then slumped back on the settle. Geoffrey kept silent, watching them all with alert blue-grey eyes that gave away nothing. Color was staining Louis’s cheeks, but he made an effort to conceal his anger. “Lord save us from the foolishness of the very young,” he said, with what he hoped was a wry, indulgent smile, and the other men began to murmur their agreement. All but Raoul, who decided it was time to burn his bridges.

Getting to his feet without haste, he looked directly at the man once wed to his niece. “Manhood is not measured in years, my liege. Some reach it at an early age, whilst others…others never reach it at all.” And he turned then on his heel, followed after Richard without looking back.

E
LEANOR HAD PASSED
only two days at Loches before being taken to Chinon. There she was lodged in an upper chamber of the Tour du Moulin instead of the royal apartments along the south wall. Her gaolers had apparently decided that she was to be denied luxuries but not comfort until they heard otherwise from the king. Soon after her arrival at Chinon, Maurice de Craon had ridden away, presumably to consult with Henry about her fate. She half expected her husband to return with the Angevin baron, and was relieved when he did not. But she was soon on the move again, riding northwest under heavy guard. She refused to ask Maurice any questions, just as she refused to complain about the rapid pace and long hours in the saddle. From Chinon to Angers, the next day on to Laval, then north to the great fortress of Domfront where she’d given birth to her daughter and namesake, Leonora, twelve years earlier.

They were covering more than forty miles a day, which was a considerable distance for winter travel, and she suffered from blisters and saddle sores and cramped muscles, all of which she endured in stubborn silence. By now she thought she knew where they were heading: either to Falaise or to the port of Barfleur. The latter destination would mean that she was being taken to England, and if that were so, she could only cry aloud with Job, “Where is now my hope?” Falaise was preferable to England, but not by much. Chinon had been the repository of good memories, happier times, and it was less than forty miles from Poitiers. Falaise was deep in the heart of Normandy, a royal castle but also a royal prison, a fortress of war in a windswept, inhospitable land where she’d find few friends. Falaise, too, was not a place where hope could flourish.

From Domfront they headed northeast, and by dusk, they were within sight of the towering twin keeps of the ancient stronghold of Falaise, looking as if it had been carved from the steep cliffs that overshadowed the marshes and ravines of the River Ante. As thankful as she was to have reached the end of her journey, Eleanor could not suppress a shiver as she gazed up at those grim, foreboding walls.

A
T FALAISE,
she was once more treated with courtesy, not deference. She was being held in a small chamber in the keep, lit only by a single shuttered window, heated by a charcoal brazier. It was not suitable accommodations for the Queen of England, but she suspected it was preferable to the lodgings of the other royal prisoner, the hapless Earl of Chester. She was neither hungry nor cold. She was isolated, though, cut off from the normal rhythms and routines of castle life, her only contacts with the servants who brought her meals and tidied up her room. Never before had she been deprived of women attendants to assist her in dressing and to keep her company. She missed her dogs, missed her books, missed the music that had echoed throughout the halls of her Poitiers palace. She was left alone with her own thoughts, and they were not pleasant ones.

At Loches and Chinon, she had retreated behind her court mask, showing her gaolers the queen, never the woman. Aloof and remote, she’d dared them to breach the invisible wall she’d erected around herself, clothed in pride as men rode off to war in chain mail. But at Falaise, she changed her tactics, for now that the shock of her seizure was wearing off, she realized that her self-imposed solitude was not serving her interests.