There were no overt signs of animosity, of course; Queen Eleanor would never be that obvious. But Will knew she’d been displeased by her husband’s decision not to name her as regent in his absence, instead placing her under the protection of his deputy, Salisbury. Will thought the king could hardly have done otherwise. Even though he’d quelled the January revolt with a heavy hand, some of the rebels remained on the loose. Will had heard so many stories about Henry Fitz Empress’s willful queen that he was unsurprised by Eleanor’s lack of feminine timidity. This was the same woman, after all, who’d coaxed the French king into taking her on crusade.
The king had departed Poitiers three days earlier for Pacy in Normandy, where he was to discuss peace terms with Louis. Will hoped he would not soon return, for he was thoroughly enjoying this time in the queen’s service and was in no hurry to see it end. One of the more observant knights had begun joking that he was smitten with the queen, warning him that King Henry might tolerate lovesick minstrels trailing after his lady, since that was the custom of the Courts of Love so popular with highborn women, but he’d take a much dimmer view of lovesick knights.
Will had deflected the gibes with his usual good humor, knowing it was actually much more complicated than that. He did not approve of Queen Eleanor. How could he, for she’d defied virtually every tenet of those conventions meant to govern female behavior. And yet he could not deny that she cast a potent spell.
He’d never imagined he could harbor lustful thoughts about a woman old enough to be his mother, but he did. For all that he knew the queen’s youth was long gone, he thought she was still one of the most desirable women he’d ever laid eyes upon. Her enemies whispered that she must practice the Black Arts to keep the years at bay. Will suspected her continuing beauty had more to do with the fact that God had been so generous with His gifts than with a Devil’s pact. Common sense told him, too, that a queen was bound to age more gracefully than a potter’s widow, for she had the best that their world could offer.
Not that he entertained any delusions about acting upon his wayward yearnings. He was far too practical and far too honorable. If he’d have gone to his grave before revealing the name of Magali, his Poitiers bedmate, he was not one to fantasize about seducing his queen. But he could admire her from a respectful distance, as he was doing this morning in Poitiers’s great hall. She was fashionably attired in a gown of forest green, her face framed by a veil and wimple whiter than snow, laughing at something her son was saying. Will had not noticed Richard’s approach until then. The boy straightened up and backed away, displaying his courtly manners. As he did, his gaze happened to wander toward Will, and he grinned suddenly, almost conspiratorially. It occurred to Will that he now had a friend in the royal household, and he grinned back at the boy.
Eleanor tilted her face toward the sky, luxuriating in the warmth of the spring sun on her skin. The very air of Poitou had a different tang. English air was like inhaling fog. Misted mornings and drizzle and the pungent scent of the sea-that was what she’d most remember about the realm Harry’s father had called “that godforsaken isle.” The damp winters in Paris had saturated its air in moisture, too. Amazing that she’d survived so many years of exile without succumbing to consumption. Even the colors seemed brighter now that she was back in her own lands. She could taste nature’s bounty on the wind, hear the rhythm of life in the rustling of newly budding trees.
They were only a few miles from Lusignan by now and she hesitated when Salisbury proposed that they stop for a time, as her instinct was to push ahead. But as she glanced around at her traveling companions, she changed her mind. Renee was no horsewoman and she was casting wistful looks at the whispering grass and beckoning roadside shade. Several of Salisbury’s knights had the pinched pallor of men badly hungover. While neither Louis nor Henry was much of a drinker, Eleanor could not say the same for the men of her own family and this was an expression quite familiar to her. Even young Marshal was nodding sleepily in the saddle. Her resentment of Salisbury notwithstanding, she did not want to oppose his every suggestion from sheer contrariness, and she nodded her assent.
Three of the men at once sprawled in the grass, arms shielding their eyes. Renee set about unpacking a wicker basket, and soon had two young knights eager to be of assistance. Salisbury was seeking to ease a cramp in his leg, complaining jokingly to his nephew about his “elderly, aching bones.” Will was nodding sympathetically, but Eleanor knew he could not begin to comprehend the ailments of age. When she’d been one and twenty, she couldn’t have, either.
Jordan, her trusted clerk, was nursing a swollen ankle, but he’d insisted upon accompanying her. Now he limped toward her, proffering a flagon and cups from Renee’s basket. She let him pour for them both, then found a convenient tree stump to sit upon, spreading her skirts carefully to avoid splinters. She was more restless than usual today, for she’d slept poorly the night before, troubled by fragmented, dark dreams she could not recall upon awakening.
Will Marshal was looking after the horses, leading Eleanor’s mare over to graze in a patch of sweet spring grass. Eleanor watched him approvingly; he was never one to shirk duties or responsibilities. She knew full well that he was in the early stage of infatuation, but she felt sure he’d get through it without embarrassing either one of them. There was a faint satisfaction, too, in knowing this young knight did not think her charms had aged or her appeal withered. Because of his vulnerability, though, she’d taken care not to flirt with him. Her life was complicated enough without adding the hint of scandal. She stared down into the dark amber liquid in her cup, an ugly, unbidden thought surging to the surface: that Harry might like it if she gave him an excuse to pack her off to a nunnery in disgrace, for then he could bring his concubine to court, flaunt her for all the world to see.
“Madame…” Will had ventured closer, not sure whether he should intrude upon thoughts that did not seem very pleasant. She glanced up, blinking in the mellow sunlight as she banished her ghosts and her grievances, and then smiled.
“May I fetch you something else to drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the cup which had tilted and was spilling onto the ground at her feet.
“No, I am not thirsty. I thank you for the offer, though.” Will was one of the few men in their party who was wearing his hauberk; Salisbury and most of the others had shed their chain-mail as the sun rose higher in the sky, loading them onto one of the packhorses. Studying Will now, Eleanor asked, “Are you not hot in that armor? I never did understand how men could abide hauberks in the heat of the Holy Land.”
“They wore tabards over their hauberks to shield them from the worst of the sun.” No sooner had Will spoken than he cursed himself for a clumsy fool. Here he was, instructing the queen about crusading warfare when she’d been there to see it for herself, which was more than he could say. He would have loved to discuss her experiences with her, to hear her firsthand account of the disastrous Second Crusade, but a queen could not be prompted or, worse, interrogated. “These are not the most comfortable garments,” he admitted. “But I’ve gotten used to the weight by now and-”
He cut himself off so abruptly and oddly that Eleanor frowned. “Will? Is something amiss?”
“No… probably not.” He was still staring intently toward the horizon even as he gave her a sheepish smile. “It was just that I thought I saw something in that grove of trees up ahead, like the flash of sunlight hitting a hauberk or sword…” He shifted to get another look, and then drew an audible breath.
“Uncle!” Whirling, he shouted to Salisbury, “Men-at-arms in those woods!”
Salisbury trusted Will’s judgment enough to take the warning as gospel. Scrambling to his feet, he headed for the packhorse holding their armor. Eleanor had responded just as swiftly, and she had reason now to be thankful for Will Marshal’s coolness under fire. She was reaching for her mare’s reins when he shook his head.