His confidence had begun to erode as soon as he reached Lisieux, for he’d received no warm welcome from his host, Archdeacon John de Alen?on, Richard’s former vice-chancellor. The archdeacon had greeted him with cold civility, and after escorting him to the manor’s solar on an upper floor, he’d angered John by commenting that he need not feel nervous, saying, “The king will be kinder to you than you would have been to him.”
Now John could do nothing but wait and try to keep his imagination—always too active for his own good—from running away with him. A sudden uproar outside sent him flying to the window. Cautiously he opened the shutters, gazing down into the courtyard at the turmoil that always heralded a royal arrival. Retreating from the window, he medicated his nerves with some of the archdeacon’s wine, all the while staring at the door.
When it finally did open, he tensed in spite of himself. His mother paused in the doorway. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were amber ice in which he could read the reflection of his every sin, could read accusation and indictment, but no hint of absolution.
“Mother,” he said, his pride compelling him to meet that daunting gaze without flinching.
Eleanor let the door close behind her, but stayed where she was. This was harder than she’d expected it would be. How well did she truly know him, this stranger, her son? He’d been just seven when she’d been imprisoned, twenty-three when she’d finally regained her freedom. He’d always been Harry’s, never hers. She’d not expected to feel this sadness, this sense of loss. But when she reminded herself of what he had done—a betrayal that only God could forgive—she felt rage begin to kindle, and that she did not want, either.
“Well,” she said, “at least you had the courage to come.”
John bought some time by pouring wine into another cup, relieved that his hand was so steady. Carrying it across the chamber, he held it out, saying, “I hope you’ll not throw this in my face, for it would be a waste of good wine. You know why I am here, Mother. I need you to speak for me. You’re the one person Richard would be likely to heed.”
“I daresay you are right, John. But if I do that for you, there is something I want in return.”
John’s mouth was dry and he took a sip from the wine when she made no attempt to reach for the cup. “What is that?” he asked warily. “What do you want from me?”
“The truth. When I stopped you from leaving England for the French court two years ago, I thought we’d reached an understanding. I told you then that my first loyalty was to Richard, would always be to him. But if Richard did not sire a son, I wanted you as his heir, not Arthur, and I promised I would do what I could to make it happen. Why was that not enough for you, John?”
He did not hesitate, for he was clever enough to understand that what he’d done was indefensible. There was no way to whitewash his conniving with the French king, to deny that had they succeeded, Richard would have been entombed in some Godforsaken French dungeon, praying for death. It could not be rationalized or explained away as an aberration. All he had to offer was the truth, however brutal it was.
“For what it’s worth, I fully meant to hold to our understanding.”
“Why did you not, then?”
“Because Richard’s capture unbalanced the equation. I truly did not believe he’d ever come back, ever regain his freedom, not with the enemies he’s made. The crown was suddenly there for the taking and so I put in my bid.”
Eleanor bit her lip. She’d asked for honesty and she’d gotten it—utterly without shame, conscience, or contrition. How had she and Harry failed so badly? Why had they been unable to foster any brotherly feelings between their sons?
Her prolonged silence was beginning to seem ominous to John. “Well?” he said, when he could endure it no longer. “Will you intercede with Richard on my behalf?”
She gave him a look he could not interpret. “I already have.”
John’s relief was intense, but ephemeral. So this whole scene had been yet another of her damnable games. Why could she not have told him that at the outset? “Thank you,” he said, and even to his ears, it did not sound convincing.
It did not sound convincing to Eleanor, either, but she was not seeking gratitude. She knew how little gratitude meant in their world. “It will help,” she said, very dryly, “if you try to seem somewhat contrite. But do not waste your breath telling Richard how very sorry you are. He well knows that you are only sorry you failed.”
Suddenly impatient to have this over and done with, she turned toward the door, glancing over her shoulder when he did not follow. “Richard is below in the great hall. Now would be as good a time as any.”