The Secret Eleanor (22 page)

“Nothing, my lady, save that I would convey the message.” Claire bobbed up and down in a little bow, her head down.

“He did not ask about us?”

“He did, my lady, but I didn’t tell him anything. I promised my lady the Queen I would not.”

Petronilla drew herself closer under her cloak. She felt the attentions of the eunuch like the snufflings of a questing hound. Thierry would not leave them alone; the combat with him was not yet over. Yet she thought there was an opportunity in this, somewhere. She made herself consider the whole matter, not just her fear, Eleanor, the baby, but everything. She said, “We are leaving Fontevraud; there will be no way to speak to him here.”

“No, my lady, I think not.” Claire’s voice quivered with surprise. “You mean to agree? To meet with him? I thought—”

“Hmmm,” Petronilla said. “Don’t think, Claire, you will be the safer for it.”

Claire dipped downward in another abbreviated bow, but this time she kept her eyes steady on Petronilla’s face. “Yes, my lady.”

“If—when he approaches you again, though, say—” Petronilla let her mind run on ahead of them, down the road toward the next stop. “Say we shall meet him. In Chatellerault. We will be in the castle, there, in the tower called Saint Catherine, by the gate—we can meet privily, as he says.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Yes, my lady.” Her face flickered with an intense curiosity. “You won’t ask the Queen first?”

“You’re thinking again,” Petronilla said mildly. “Remember what I said about that.”

“Yes, my lady. I shall obey you in all things.”

“Good.” Petronilla did not believe this. Claire seemed very devious to her. Her mind was leaping ahead, toward the little town Chatellerault, and the castle there. “Tell him . . . tell him to come to the chapel. In the early morning, the first day we are there, after Mass. Bid him come to the confessional. Nobody will be there; we can send away the priest if necessary. He should go into the confessional and wait.”

This pleased her at once, a good plan; if Eleanor did not agree, then Thierry would sit all morning in the confines of the confessional, in the cold, like a fool. If Eleanor did agree, the little booth would be dark, with the screen between them, so he would see nothing. She smiled at the girl before her. “If you do as you say, all will be well between us, Claire.”

“Then you aren’t—angry? About Thomas?”

“No, only concerned for you.” Petronilla gave her a little, condescending laugh. “You must not give him what he wants, girl. Or he won’t want you anymore. Such is the way with men like that, who pluck girls like flowers, sniff them once, and cast them down dying.” As she said this, she thought suddenly of Ralph, seeing him in a different way.

Claire swallowed. “I won’t. Thank you, my lady.”

“Keep faith with me,” Petronilla said. She took the girl’s hand in hers and held tight. “All will go well if you keep faith. You have my leave.”

The girl went swiftly off. Petronilla folded her arms together, thinking of this—of what Thierry might want. Eleanor would know, maybe, or have some interesting guess.

But she didn’t want to tell Eleanor, not right away. She wanted to think about this awhile, keep it to herself, and sort it out. She began to think she might meet him herself, without Eleanor knowing about it. At least she could find out what he wanted. She hugged her arms around herself, pleased.

Claire busied herself packing up the Queen’s gowns for the next move, but her heart began to burn against Petronilla. The Queen’s sister only wanted Thomas for herself; that was why she had advised her so.

Whenever the chance came, she went looking for him, but the monastery was so large, and she was so busy, she could not find him. In the evening he came to the Queen’s room and played for them all; then she flushed hot just from his presence, found a place in among the other women where he could see her, and waited for him to recognize her.

He played half the night. She got lost in his music. She wished she could sing like that, play like that. She was ready with a smile for him when the moment came, when he looked at her, and remembered, and smiled at her.

But he never turned his eyes to her, never seemed to see that she was there. Petronilla had been right, after all.

The King left Fontevraud early in the morning, with his baggage and the train of his servants and courtiers. Eleanor waited awhile, to keep from encountering him, as it always took a while anyway to get a large group out of the cramped streets and gates. Finally at mid-morning, she and Petronilla rode out of the monastery, while in the gateyard behind them de Rançun struggled the rest of their following into order, a great tangle of wagons banging together, people screaming, and drovers shouting and cracking their whips. Slightly ahead of this confusion, the two sisters rode up through the village toward the highway. The day was raw and blustery, and Eleanor was fussing with her cloak, paying little heed, when suddenly in the cramped street strange horses surged up all around them.

Petronilla gave a short, high-pitched yell of warning; Eleanor flung her head up, the hood of her cloak sliding back. Geoffrey of Anjou, his face red and his eyes shining with purpose, was riding in close beside her, with several of his men on his heels.

“My gracious Queen and Duchess,” he said. He wore a mail coat under his cloak; a helmet hung at his saddlebows. “I am off to war!”

Eleanor said, “To it, then, I’ve heard it’s fine exercise.” She reined the gray Barb down; the horse was eager and pranced sideways, tossing his head at her grip. His hooves clattered impatiently on the cobblestones.

The Angevin boy craned toward her, his head bare, his wild fair hair a windblown mass of curls. “Give me a favor, I beg you—let me fight in your name! Then none can defeat me!”

Eleanor pressed her horse away from him, crowding into Petronilla, who waited behind her on her smaller, tamer mare, her eyes keen above her veil. “Go on, sir, I will give you nothing. Fight for yourself.” Then abruptly de Rançun was pushing in between them on his big black horse, one arm out, thrusting Anjou away.

“Get back, baby-hair! You heard her!”

In the tight space, the Barb spun around, bouncing up half in a rear, his long silvery mane flying. Eleanor lost her balance. One foot came out of the stirrup; hanging out over the stony street, she scrambled desperately to keep her saddle. Her sister wheeled her mare closer. Anjou was shouting, de Rançun’s voice roaring louder and closer; through the corner of her eye she saw Anjou lash out with his fist at de Rançun, and then the Poitevin knight struck back so hard he knocked the boy off his horse.

The gray Barb heaved under Eleanor, trying to throw her off, and Petronilla reined up alongside her. Eleanor reached out and gripped her sister and held herself steady, wrestling with the Barb’s reins. She stabbed the stirrup with her foot and squirmed awkwardly back into the deep of the saddle and had him mastered again.

“Get away from her! You heard the Queen refuse you!” Anjou had landed in the road; de Rançun was reining his horse hard after him, forcing the boy to scramble away on all fours from the hooves. Neither of them had seen Eleanor nearly fall. She straightened, panting. Her body felt suddenly enormous, off-center, precarious. Petronilla’s hand gripped her elbow, and Eleanor turned and gave her a quick smile, which her sister did not answer; above the white linen of her veil, Petronilla’s green eyes were dark and wide with fear. She drew back away and looked around at the men. Eleanor pulled her disarranged cloak around her again. De Rançun had driven Anjou ten paces off down the lane, the two of them volleying insults at each other. Eleanor turned the Barb and rode away from them both, up onto the highway where it ran across the slope.

Petronilla kept pace with her. Behind them, shouts rose, and the clatter of hooves. The wheels thundered on the cobblestones and a drover’s whip snapped, the wagons coming through, so that she saw Anjou now across a widening landscape of baggage and wheels. Out in the open road, she turned the Barb in a close circle, making him behave. In spite of the cold, there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and she wiped it off on a fold of her cloak. Petronilla was watching her; she pulled her veil down, her face taut.

“Are you all right?”

“Damn him,” Eleanor said. She glared off down the lane, where Anjou had disappeared into the general traffic of wagons and riders and dust. De Rançun rode up toward them, leftover temper dark on his face, and she waved him on past to lead them. She followed, Petronilla at her side.

The whole train was pulling out onto the high road, the wagons loud and bulky, raising dust. Two more knights jogged past her to join de Rançun; one carried her banner on its staff. She was holding the Barb too tight, and he tossed his head, and she let the reins slide through her fingers.

“Send for the lute player,” she said. “Let’s hear some music.” She felt unsteady still, and she looked straight ahead, her head swimming.

Petronilla turned, waved at a page, and faced her again. “That was a near thing,” she said, low. “You must be more careful.”

“It was that stupid boy,” she said. She was feeling better now, and the world had stopped circling slowly around her. Her voice was rough. “I hope he takes a sword between the teeth.” They were riding downhill, toward the river, and the cold wind met them. She pulled up the hood of her cloak. “Where is that lute player?”

Petronilla veered off; for a few steps Eleanor rode alone, trying to settle herself into the saddle, aware now how clumsy her body was becoming.
Too much,
she thought.
Too much is happening, too much I can’t control.
Petronilla jogged up beside her again, alone, folded primly sideways on the saddle like a doll.

“Where’s the lute player?” Eleanor cried. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Her sister turned toward her, expressionless. “He’s gone—he left this morning, apparently, maybe with the King.”

“Ah,” Eleanor cried, “everybody is against me!” Her eyes burned with a sudden, furious rush of tears, the ultimate humiliation. She clamped her mouth shut, struggling to master herself, plodding on down the road toward the next unforeseeable mess.

They followed the road south. Even so late in the season, they came on pilgrims trudging back up the road from Compostela: ragged people in their broad-brimmed hats, jingling with bells, their faces lean with fatigue. Along the road now and then lay a broken scallop-edged shell. Eleanor thought she would go to Compostela someday, not for the sake of the saint and his absolution of sin, but because her father had died there.

The absolution seemed to her like a cheat. You sinned or you didn’t, and the main restraint, she thought, was fear, not virtue. Therefore, as the master from the Studium had implied, it wasn’t even really virtue not to sin. She thought of Bernard and his curses. They went by an empty pilgrims’ refuge, a broken-in lean-to in the middle of a field of blackened firepits.

She would give money to build new refuges and repair the old ones. Those people who wanted the pilgrimage should have it. Petronilla rode along just behind her, deep in some talk with de Rançun; behind them, the waiting women were singing, as they had taken to doing often lately. She heard Claire’s voice, pleasingly round, above all the others.

A few days later, as they were approaching Chatellerault, de Rançun rode up beside Eleanor and said, “I have some news of Henry d’Anjou, if you would hear it, Your Grace.”

In his bald and formal tone, she recognized that this annoyed him; he still disliked Henry. She smiled at him to soften his mood. “Thank you, my old friend. Is it about his absurd little brother’s so-called war?”

“Aye, that,” he said. His square, sun-browned face was still stern, but when she caught his eye, he could not help but smile at her, and she pleased herself that she had soothed him. He said, “You know how the old Count left the younger brother some castles in the south. And Henry came down after and drove him out of Chinon and Loudon.”