When she said as much to her companion, the prioress flashed an impish smile. “Can you smuggle me into your horse litter, Madame? I’d dearly love to see Toulouse.”
Eleanor returned the smile, for she’d become quite fond of Aliza since taking up residence at Fontevrault Abbey. “There is something I would discuss with you. One of my granddaughters is coming to Fontevrault as a novice.”
The prioress already knew that; nunneries prided themselves upon attracting highborn young women, and Alix of Blois was a great catch. “I will be happy to keep an eye on her, Madame,” she promised, “and we will bend the rules a bit so that she can visit with you from time to time.”
Before Eleanor could respond, Dame Amaria appeared in the doorway. “A messenger has just ridden in from the king, Madame. He says he must speak with you straightaway.”
“Send him in, then,” Eleanor directed. The man ushered into the chamber soon afterward was one she knew and liked—one of Richard’s household knights—but her smile splintered at her first glimpse of his stricken face.
“Madame, your son . . .” He sank to one knee before her, holding out the letter with a hand that shook. “He has been grievously wounded, and he . . . he bids you come to him at Chalus.”
There were horrified gasps from the other women, but for Eleanor, there was no surprise, only an eerie sense of familiarity about this moment. It was as if she’d always known she would one day be standing here like this, listening to someone tell her that her son was dying. She swayed slightly and the prioress and Amaria moved quickly to offer support, but she shook their hands off. “Is there . . .” She swallowed convulsively. “Is there no hope?”
He did not know which was cruelest—to offer false hope or to strip away every last shred of hope. “He . . . he is in a bad way, my lady.”
Eleanor closed her eyes for a moment and then she raised her head, straightening the shoulders that felt too frail to bear this latest burden. “I will be ready to ride within the hour.”
ANDRé DID NOT BELIEVE Richard was dying. Despite the gravity of the message, he refused to accept it. On the hundred-mile ride between Chateauroux and Chalus, he thought of little else, convincing himself that his cousin would recover, as he always had in the past. But his faith in Richard’s powers of recuperation did not keep him from setting as fast a pace as possible. By changing horses, he managed to cover the distance in just two and a half days, a speed that royal couriers might well have envied, reaching Chalus before sunset on the first Friday in April.
Upon his arrival at the siege camp, he took heart from the air of calm; surely there would be panic and confusion if the king were really dying. But soldiers were going about their tasks as if nothing were amiss. The trebuchets were pounding away at the castle walls, sending up swirling dust and rubble with each strike, and some of Mercadier’s men were erecting a gallows. When André asked for Richard, he was told that the king had set up quarters in the village and he was soon following a sergeant through the gathering dusk. Richard had always been careless of protocol, priding himself in being accessible to any soldiers who needed to speak with him. Now men-at-arms were stationed at the door of a small stone house and André was told that he must be given permission to enter.
Waiting as one of the guards disappeared inside, André felt sweat begin to trickle down his spine, cold and clammy. When the door opened again, he found himself facing Richard’s cousin, and Morgan looked so heartsick that there was no need for words. Grasping André’s arm, he pulled the other man inside and, as their eyes met, he slowly shook his head.
Standing before the bedchamber, André was suddenly afraid to go any farther, dreading what he now knew he’d find behind that door. What struck him first was the stench, one he was all too familiar with: the battlefield stink of rotting flesh, putrid wounds, and approaching death. The chamber was dimly lit by oil lamps. Arne was slumped in a corner and gazed up at André, a man he knew well, without a hint of recognition. Guillain de l’Etang rose as André entered. So did the Abbot of Le Pin.
“He’s been sleeping, God be praised,” he said in a low voice. “That is the only respite he gets from the pain. . . .”