Eleanor sipped her wine as the dancers spun in a carol, remembering how difficult it had been to get Henry to dance, remembering Christmas Courts past, when their marriage had still been a source of pleasure to them both; four of their children had been conceived during the holiday revelries. Those memories were bittersweet, and she turned back to Richard. “I heard a remarkable story recently, that the chieftain of the Assassins sent Philippe a letter absolving you of blame in Conrad of Montferrat’s murder. Is that true, Richard?”
“Well, it is true that Philippe got such a letter.” Much to John’s annoyance, Richard lowered his voice so that only Eleanor could hear. “Even after I was exonerated at Heinrich’s court, Philippe continued to accuse me of the murder. I’ll admit it angered me, for not only was it a slur on my honor, it was an insult. As if I’d need to resort to hired killers if there was a man I wanted dead!”
Richard moved his chair closer to his mother’s seat before continuing. “Longchamp knew it vexed me that Philippe was still muddying the waters, so he suggested that the Old Man of the Mountain write and tell Philippe that I played no part in Conrad’s death.”
“Ah, I see. . . . I confess I was puzzled why a Saracen bandit would take the trouble to clear a Christian king.”
“You’re much more astute than Philippe, Maman. That was a question he’d never thought to ask. Of course, Longchamp composed such a convincing letter that I half believed it myself,” he said with a grin. “It seems to have convinced Philippe, for he has stopped accusing me of the murder. That makes me think the damned fool really thought I’d hired Assassins to murder Conrad. And I know who is to blame for that—his cousin. That bastard Beauvais probably told Philippe that I was found standing over Conrad’s body with a bloody knife.”
Richard’s amusement faded as soon as he mentioned the bishop’s name. Swallowing the rest of his wine, he got to his feet. “I’ve not yet danced with my wife, so I’d best remedy that.” He paused, though, before starting toward the steps. “At times I think I do not deserve absolution of my sins,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him, “for I cannot do as God demands and forgive my enemies. Even if it imperils my immortal soul, I can never forgive Heinrich, Philippe, and Beauvais.”
He did not wait for her response, stepped off the dais, and moved away in search of his queen. Eleanor stayed where she was, her expression so guarded that John could only speculate what had been said in that last, private exchange.
AFTER A CHRISTMAS MASS, the king’s family and guests were served a feast of wild boar, roast goose, and stewed capon, and then watched a play, The Mystery of Adam, which was performed out in the open in front of the church of Notre-Dame; it was extremely popular because it was done in French instead of Latin, and it attracted a large audience, who cheered the actors, their king, and his mother with equal enthusiasm. Darkness had enveloped Poitiers by the time they returned to the palace.
John was not enjoying himself, feeling like a tolerated trespasser rather than a welcomed guest. He was bored, too. The day’s festivities were drawing to an end and people were chatting amiably, waiting for the king to signal that it was time for them all to seek their beds. Until that happened, John could only roam the hall, eavesdropping at random.
Feminine laughter drawing his attention, he glanced toward the women gathered around Will Marshal’s young wife. To judge from their exclamations, he guessed Isabel had just confided she was with child again. Would that be her fourth? Or her fifth? Since her marriage, she seemed to be perpetually pregnant. No wonder Marshal watched over her like an old bull with one prize heifer. John’s gaze shifted from the radiant Isabel to his sister-in-law. Berengaria was smiling, and he wondered what it cost her to look so happy for a girl who’d given her husband two sons within their first two years of marriage. Whilst he was deeply thankful that she was not as fertile as Isabel, he surprised himself by feeling a glimmer of sympathy for her now. He knew what it was like to be judged and found wanting.
Nearby, his mother and his niece Richenza were engaged in an animated conversation, and he moved within hearing range. He thought he’d been unobtrusive, but Eleanor noticed him; he wondered sometimes if she slept with her eyes open so she’d not miss anything. “We were just talking about Otto, John, and the Scots king’s remarkable proposal.”
John had heard rumors about that. Apparently despairing that his wife would ever give him a son, King William had suggested to Richard that Otto wed his two-year-old daughter, Margaret, a marriage that would make him the heir to the Scots throne. “So the story is true, then?” John asked. “But I seem to remember my father proposing a marriage between William and Richenza about ten years ago and the Pope would not permit it because they were related within the forbidden degree. If the Church would not let Richenza wed William, why would it allow Otto to wed William’s daughter?”