The stone walls of the chapel had been recently whitewashed and in the soft candlelight, they glowed like polished ivory. During the daylight hours, the sun turned the stained-glass windowpanes into resplendent jewels; now they gave off a muted shimmer, an occasional flicker of emerald or ruby or royal purple. The scent of incense hung in the air; Eleanor found it a comforting aroma, reminding her of the rich spices of Sicily and Poitou. Prayer cushions were scattered about on the gleaming tile floor, but her aging bones needed more cosseting and she’d had a wooden bench installed along the east wall. She sat down upon it now, easing an embroidered pillow into place against the small of her back. One of her greyhounds had followed her into the oratory, but she hadn’t the heart to banish the beast. If the Almighty watched over even the sparrow, why should He not watch over dogs, too?
She’d not come to pray on this rainy January night; she’d already sent more prayers winging their way to the Almighty’s ear than there were stars in the skies. “Ah, Harry,” she said softly, “do they weep in Purgatory? Do they mourn their loved ones who’ve come to grief? I do not believe he is dead. I think I’d know if that were so. Surely I’d feel it?”
Yet would she? She’d had no premonitions for Hal or Geoffrey or her daughter Tilda, just the shock of hearing that she must bury yet another child. But she understood Richard as she’d not always understood his brothers. Theirs was a bond that went beyond blood. They shared so much—a deep, abiding loyalty to the duchy he’d expected to rule, a love of music and pageantry and distant, exotic places; risk-taking, too, although she’d learned to temper that urge with a dose of caution as she’d aged. She saw in Richard the best of her House, worthy heir to that long line of Dukes of Aquitaine, tracing their descent to the mighty Charlemagne. She saw in him, too, bittersweet flashes of his father, the young, dashing duke who’d seemed destined for greatness from their first meeting on a hot August day in Louis’s Paris palace. No, if Richard were dead, she’d know.
But where was he? What had happened? Each passing day put his kingship more in peril, for if men believed that he’d not be coming back, they’d have no choice but to turn to John. She’d always thought she’d fight tooth and nail for the survival of their dynasty, but could she support John if he claimed the crown over his brother’s dead body? She’d never fully forgiven him for betraying Harry on his deathbed. How could she forgive him now for betraying Richard, too? Suddenly she felt bone-weary, felt each and every one of her sixty-eight years. “What if we never know what befell him, Harry?” she whispered. “If his ship was caught in a storm at sea . . .”
“Madame?” Dame Amaria stood in the doorway, her anxiety conveyed in the stiffness of her posture and the slight quiver in her voice. “The Lord of Chateauroux is here, asking to see you. He apologizes for the lateness of the hour, but he says it is urgent.”
Eleanor froze. André de Chauvigny was blood-kin, for his mother was her maternal aunt. He was far more than Richard’s cousin, though; he was her son’s closest friend, so close they could finish each other’s sentences and communicate volumes with the exchange of a single glance, theirs the bond that Richard had lacked with his own brothers. But André had never set foot on English soil, joking that it had bad weather, worse wine, and virtuous women, all of which were good reasons to stay away. Yet now he’d braved a dangerous January crossing of the turbulent channel called the Narrow Sea. What had he heard? “Of course I will see him, Amaria.” She still sat there on the bench for a few moments more, sensing that her world was about to change in ways she dreaded to contemplate.
By the time she emerged from the chapel, André had already been admitted to her bedchamber. He was soaking wet, his mantle sodden and travel-stained, his boots caked with mud, his disheveled state offering further evidence that his need to see her was indeed urgent. But Eleanor saw only his haggard, grief-stricken face.
“No, not Richard. . . .” That uneven, faltering voice sounded so unfamiliar she did not even recognize it as her own. The room suddenly seemed to tilt, her treacherous body betraying her as her God had done. She’d never fainted, had always prided herself on her calm response in a crisis. Now, though, she felt alarmingly light-headed, her knees threatening to give way. But André and Amaria were already there, hastily guiding her toward the closest seat.
As she collapsed into the chair, André flung himself onto his knees at her feet, grasping her hand in his two icy ones. “No, Madame, no! He is not dead!”
Her eyes intently searched his upturned face. “You swear it is so?”
“Upon the life of my own son. I’ll not lie to you. It is bad, as bad as it could be. But he still lives.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, looking so aged and frail that he found himself wondering how much of the truth he dared to tell her. But when she spoke, it was in the voice of the queen, not the anguished mother. “Tell me,” she commanded. “Tell me all you know.”
“Richard was captured several days before Christmas by the Duke of Austria’s men, in a village near Vienna. Leopold put him under arrest and he is to be handed over to that hellspawn Heinrich, if it has not already happened.”