THE SOLAR WAS FILLING with shadows, save for a subdued spill of light cast by floating wicks in oil lamps and a brazier of glowing coals that did little to ease the chill of the chamber. William Marshal felt the cold more as he aged; he was in his forty-seventh year now, his youth long gone. He drew his mantle tighter, taking another swallow of wine as he watched his queen and the Earl of Leicester. They’d been talking for hours—or rather the earl was talking and the queen was listening. Will himself listened with half an ear, having heard Leicester’s stories already. Eleanor was rapt, though, for he was telling her of Richard’s time in the Holy Land, sharing with her the man a mother could not know—the battle commander, the soldier, the Lionheart. Will thought it only natural that Eleanor would be curious. But as he observed how engrossed she was in Leicester’s words, it occurred to him that she was storing up memories of her son, memories to hold fast if he did not return from his German captivity. And he found that to be unutterably sad.
Will’s destiny had long ago entwined with that of the Angevin House. He’d loved Hal, his knightly pupil, and it had broken his heart to see all that bright promise tarnished, to see what Hal became. He’d respected Hal’s father, staying loyal to Henry until his death at Chinon Castle. He thought his own future died with the old king, for when they’d fled from Richard and the French king at Le Mans, he had publicly shamed Richard, unhorsing him to cover Henry’s escape, and Richard was not a man to forgive a humiliation like that. Yet Richard had forgiven him, saying dryly that it was not in his interest to discourage loyalty to the king. Then Richard had given him the wife Henry had only promised, Isabel de Clare. Isabel was an earl’s daughter, a king’s granddaughter, and a great heiress. Even now, after more than three years of marriage, Will still marveled at his luck, for she’d brought him more than vast estates in England, South Wales, Normandy, and Ireland; she’d brought him a happiness he’d never known. Each time she smiled at him, each time he gazed upon the two sons she’d given him, he felt grateful to the man who’d made it possible, the man who was now held in a German prison.
But his deepest loyalties had always been to the queen. The younger son of a minor baron, he’d first met Eleanor and Henry while in the service of his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury. They’d been escorting the queen along the Poitiers Road when they’d been ambushed by the de Lusignans, a notorious clan of malcontents whose meat and drink was rebellion. They’d managed to gain Eleanor time to escape, but at a high price: Will’s uncle was slain and Will taken prisoner. A penniless knight, he’d thought himself doomed—until the queen paid his ransom and took him into her household, setting him onto the path that would lead to Isabel de Clare. There was nothing he would not do for this woman. Her pain was his, her anger his, and her resolve to rescue her son his, too.
Leicester had at last exhausted his repertoire of crusader stories. Rising, he refilled their wine cups. “Do you think we’ll hear soon about the French king’s pact with your son, Madame?”
“I am sure of it. Archbishop Gautier boasts that he has an exceptionally skillful spy at the French court, and indeed he does,” Eleanor said, and then her lips curved in a slight smile. “But I have an even better one.”
Leaning back in her chair, she smiled again, warmly this time. “My son has been well served by the men who accompanied him to the Holy Land. I would ask one more thing of you, my lord earl. It is difficult to take the measure of a man without meeting him. I regret that I was denied the opportunity to meet the French king, for he sailed from Messina on the very day of my arrival. I would have thought he’d be curious to see the woman who’d been wed to his father,” she said wryly, “but apparently not. So you have the advantage of me, Lord Robert.” Her hazel eyes met his blue ones. “Tell me about Philippe Capet.”
He’d been expecting such a question and had given it some thought. “Well . . . he has not yet reached thirty, but I think he was born old. He never gambles or curses. He is bored by hunting and disapproves of tournaments. He has no interest in music and you’ll find no troubadours at the French court. I am not sure he is as craven as your son thinks, but he does have a nervous disposition and frets constantly over his health. He goes nowhere without bodyguards and he is the only man I’ve ever known who dislikes horses. He is quick to anger and whilst he may forgive, he never forgets. He is prideful, convinced that it is his divine destiny to restore the French court to greatness. And he is very cunning. We would forget that at our cost, Madame.”
She knew his use of “we” was an attempt at tact; it was Richard he meant. Her son had a lamentable tendency to hold his enemies too cheaply. “What does he look like?”
“Not as tall as King Richard, not as short as Count John. Not so handsome that he’d be remembered if he were not a king, but for certes, not ugly. He has a ruddy complexion, the high color of those with hot tempers, and he used to have a full head of thick, unruly brown hair.”
“‘Used to have’?”
Leicester grinned. “When your son and Philippe sickened with Arnaldia during the siege of Acre, they both lost their hair; the doctors thought it was due to the high fever. Most of those stricken grew their hair back within a few months. King Richard did. But I’ve been told that Philippe did not, that he is now partially bald.” He grinned again. “I have no doubt, Madame, that he blames your son for that, too. If he stubs a toe, if he awakens with a bellyache, if his horse throws a shoe, he blames King Richard.”