Nor had his edgy, irascible mood been improved any by the presence of Eleanor’s uncle, Raoul de Faye. The younger brother of Eleanor’s late mother, Raoul was about ten years older than Eleanor, with a handsome head of silver hair, snapping dark eyes, and a cultivated air of jaded world liness that Henry had encountered all too often in Aquitaine. There was an obvious fondness between uncle and niece, and Eleanor seemed to respect his political judgment. Henry thought that was unfortunate, for he most definitely did not. Raoul was no admirer of his, either, and the tension between the two men sputtered and flared even on so somber an occasion as this. Eleanor’s constable, Saldebreuil de Sanzay, was seated at the high table, too, as well as a number of other familiar faces, all vassals of Eleanor’s, including a few whose loyalties he considered suspect. Eleanor appeared to be doing exactly what he’d asked of her-mending fences with the volatile Poitevin barons, soothing ruffled feathers, healing bruised pride as only a woman could. So why was he not better pleased with her efforts?
Henry was so caught up in these brooding thoughts that he did not hear the Bishop of Poitiers’s query and had to ask the cleric to repeat the question, one which only reminded him of the many reasons he had to be wroth with the meddling King of France. For all that people talked of Louis’s piety as if he were almost saintly, Henry did not consider shiftiness to be a virtue.
“Yes, my lord bishop, you heard right,” he said tersely. “The Count of Angouleme has sought refuge in Paris. The French king is getting into the habit of making rebels and malcontents welcome at his court.” And although he was speaking ostensibly of the fugitive count, he was actually thinking of Thomas Becket, Canterbury’s exiled archbishop.
The rest of the meal passed without incident, aside from an embarrassing mishap by Henry and Eleanor’s son Geoffrey, who tripped and lurched into one of the trestle tables, overturning wine cups into laps and splattering gravy over the fine clothes of several unhappy guests. Geoffrey flushed to his hairline with humiliation, and Henry felt pity stir, remembering a similar accident from his own boyhood, this one involving a dropped soup tureen. Even the offspring of the highborn were taught by doing, and boys were expected to wait upon tables in the great hall as part of their lessons in courtesy and etiquette. Geoffrey had learned little this day but mortification, though, and as Henry’s eyes met Eleanor’s, they shared a brief moment of parental solicitude.
Leaning closer so her voice would carry to Henry’s ear alone, she murmured, “I know what Scriptures say about pride going before a fall, but must it be out in the full glare of public scrutiny? At least Richard sought to cheer him up; you did notice that? Too much of the time they are squabbling like bad-tempered badgers. It is heartening to see that they can close ranks when need be.”
Henry wasn’t as sure of what he’d seen as Eleanor. There had been a brief exchange of words between the boys, as she said, and he supposed Richard could have been offering sympathy. But if so, Geoffrey was an utter ingrate, for he’d responded with a look of loathing. He kept his suspicions to himself, for he had nothing to go on except sour memories of his rivalry with his own brother. Remembering, too, his father’s feuding with his uncle Helie, he said softly, “The House of Anjou could give Cain and Abel lessons in brotherly strife. Let’s hope our lads take after your side of the family.”
Reaching across the tablecloth, he clasped her hand in his. “Are you truly sure you are all right, Eleanor? This I can promise you, that Guy and Geoffrey de Lusignan will come to look upon death as their deliverance.”
What was most chilling about his statement was that it was said so matter-of-factly. Eleanor did not doubt that he meant to wreak a terrible vengeance upon the de Lusignans, and the thought of their suffering did ease some of her rage and grief over the deaths of her men. She merely nodded, though, for her throat was suddenly too tight for speech. It hurt more than she could endure, this sudden glimpse of what had once been hers and was forever lost. Discussing their children and their mutual mortal enemies, she could not help remembering a time when they’d been in perfect harmony, allies as well as consorts, hungering after empires and dynasties and each other, their aspirations and ambitions as entwined as oak and ivy, impossible to separate one from the other without destroying both.
William Marshal’s sleep was shallow and fretful, the grim realities of his captivity clawing insistently at his dreams, seeking admittance to his last refuge. When he turned over, pain lanced through his leg, jarring him to full wakefulness. He lay very still, willing the throbbing to stop. The air was musty, and with each breath, he inhaled the familiar, foul odors of straw and sweat and urine and manure. He remembered where he was now, chained in another stable in an unknown castle, with his only certainty that the morrow would bring fresh indignities, more miseries.
So far he hadn’t been ill treated; the de Lusignans wanted him alive in hopes of making a profit. They were desperate for money, reduced to banditry by their failed rebellion, and had carried off all of the captured knights, save those near death. Guy and Geoffrey de Lusignan had been almost as enraged by the Earl of Salisbury’s death as they were by the queen’s escape. Will was a knight, too, and therefore he might be worth ransoming. Will had done his best to foster that belief, stressing his kinship to Earl Patrick at every opportunity. He did not expect his uncle’s widow to barter for his freedom, though. Why should she deplete her dower on his behalf? She barely knew him. The bulk of Salisbury’s estates would pass with his title to his eldest son and he was even less likely to ransom a needy young cousin. And unlike the other men seized, Will could never have afforded to ransom himself.
But there was no other way for Will to buy time. The de Lusignans had split up their men and prisoners into small groups and Will’s captors could not read or write. Nor could he, and it had taken them a few days to find someone they trusted enough to write to Countess Ela. By Will’s reckoning, it would take several weeks to get the countess’s refusal or counteroffer. At that point, he planned to assure them that his eldest brother would pay the ransom.
Lucky for him that his father was two years dead, for Will could not see him parting with so much as an English farthing to rescue an expendable younger son. He’d made that abundantly clear at the siege of Newbury. His brother John would at least make a token offer; their mother would see to that. But John was always short of money and could not be expected to sell family lands for his sake. The game must still be played out, though, for the alternative was an unmarked woodland grave with none to mourn or pray for the salvation of his soul.
Will was by nature an optimist, and at first he’d held fast to hope. All he had to do was avoid antagonizing his guards needlessly and wait for his injury to heal. Once he was strong enough, surely he could find an opportunity to escape. But after a week in captivity, he was no longer so confident. While he’d not been abused, neither had his wound been tended. He had done the best he could, fashioning a bandage by ripping off the legs of his braies and using the cord to fasten it. He’d even been able to find a flicker of humor in his predicament, for his cordless, torn braies kept sliding down to his hips every time he stood up.