She hoped that she’d regained her poise, although she knew that betraying color still stained her cheeks. As uncomfortable as the encounter was, it would have been far worse if not for Maud. The other woman’s silent support was as bracing as the arm around her shoulders, and Maud made a conspicuous point of introducing Rhiannon’s children to Annora, while mentioning ever so casually that Ranulf was not expected back in Chester for several days. Annora soon found an excuse to withdraw, but her presence continued to be felt long after she’d vanished into the crowd. Rhiannon felt no surprise at that. She, above all others, needed no one to tell her of Annora’s ghostly tenacity, for had she not haunted the shadows of their marriage for fully ten years?
“Is that the one?” Eleri squeezed Rhiannon’s arm. “The woman Ranulf was so besotted with? I thought her quite plain. He could surely have done better for himself, dearest!”
“He did,” Maud said emphatically, “he did.” Lowering her voice for Rhiannon’s ear alone, she murmured, “I never cared much for Annora, always found her to be rather forgettable. In fact, she seems to be fading from memory even as we speak.”
Rhiannon’s smile was forced. “No,” she said, “I’ll keep nothing from Ranulf. What if he learned from others that we’d met this woman? How would I explain our silence?”
“As you wish, Rhiannon. It matters for naught, though. I’d wager Ranulf has spared nary a thought for Annora in years.”
Rhiannon said nothing, wishing she could be as sure of that as Maud. She yearned to ask if Annora was truly plain, or if that was merely a sister’s loyalty. But her pride kept her quiet, as did her common sense. What did it matter, after all, if Annora was no great beauty? Ranulf had still loved her, had risked his life and his immortal soul for that love.
They continued on, pausing to watch an acrobatic tumbling act. Judging from the hearty applause of the audience, the performance was a good one. Rhiannon smiled as Gilbert and Mallt cheered and clapped, but not even her children’s pleasure could banish Annora from her thoughts.
“Rhiannon?” Hywel’s breath was warm on her cheek. “How are you doing, darling?”
“I am well enough,” she insisted. “Why should I fear a memory?” Hywel knew that few temptations were as seductive as memories of lost youth and lost love. He suspected that Rhiannon did, too. “You’ve nothing to fear from any other woman, sweetheart. And if you ever get tired of that husband of yours, I’ll be camping outside your door in the blink of an eye!”
“You’re such a liar,” Rhiannon laughed. “I do not doubt that you are a good lover, but you are an even better friend.”
“You have it backward,” he said. “I am a good friend, an even better lover.” And his eyes shifted from Rhiannon to Maud, who spoke little Welsh, but who seemed to understand exactly what he was saying.
Winchester was in the grip of an oppressive August heat wave, and Petronilla was not surprised to find the castle gardens deserted. She was turning to go back into the great hall when she spied a recumbent figure sprawled on one of the turf benches. He had a cap pulled down over his face to shut out the sun’s glare, but she still recognized her half-brother. Moving swiftly along the graveled path, she bent over and shook his shoulder. “Jos!”
Joscelin opened his eyes, blinking up at her drowsily. “Petra? What is it?”
“I’ve been searching everywhere for Eleanor. Have you seen her?”
“Not since dinner this morning.” Yawning, he slid over to make room for her on the bench, an invitation she ignored. “Why are you seeking Eleanor? Is something amiss?”
“That is what I am trying to find out. I heard that an urgent letter arrived for her from Normandy.”
“So?” Joscelin yawned again. “Mayhap it is just a love letter from her husband, telling her how much he misses their bedsport.”
“Harry is not a man for writing love letters,” Petronilla said impatiently, and Joscelin gave her a quizzical look.
“Not to you, no. But since I see no reason why Eleanor would share hers with you, how do you know what he writes? Why are you always so ready to find fault with the man, Petra?”
“Why do you think? Because he neglects our sister shamefully!”
“For the Lord’s pity, woman, he gave her a crown!”
“And you truly think that is enough?”
“Mayhap not in one of your Courts of Love, but we dwell in the real world. And you’re not going to convince me that Eleanor, of all women, would prefer trinkets and roses and maudlin poems to a throne!”
“Jesu, men can be so dim-witted! Of course Eleanor enjoys being England’s queen. But she is Harry’s wife, too, and that wife has been sleeping alone for nigh on eight months now. If that is not neglect, what is? I can assure you that Raoul was never away from my bed for more than a fortnight!”
“Was that before or after he left his wife for you?” Joscelin jeered and she snatched up his cap, smacking him across the shoulders, only half in jest.
“Petra, I do not doubt that Raoul indulged your every whim. You were all of nineteen and he was nigh on fifty when he first seduced you… or was it the other way around?” Laughing, he ducked as she sought to pummel him again. “What else did he have to do but pamper and cosset his young bride? Whereas Harry rules the greatest empire since the days of Charlemagne. And if you think our Eleanor does not lust after that empire as much as she does Harry, then you’re dafter than a Michaelmas goose!”
Petronilla cast her gaze heavenward. “Why am I talking to you about this? You know as much about women as that poor milksop Eleanor married!”
“No one on God’s green earth could ever call Harry a ‘milksop,’ so I assume we have moved on and are now flaying the French king?”
“Of course I meant Louis,” Petronilla said, and called Louis a highly uncomplimentary name that cast serious doubts upon his manhood, much to Joscelin’s amusement.
“You have a very unforgiving nature, Petra. Do you judge all of us men so harshly, or just Eleanor’s husbands?”
But Petronilla had lost interest in bantering with her brother. “There you are, Eleanor,” she cried, hastening to intercept the woman just coming in the garden gate. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“So I heard.” Eleanor motioned for Joscelin to move over so she could sit down. “Harry wants me to return to Normandy straightaway.”
“You do not look very happy about it,” Joscelin said, wondering why women must make life so confoundedly complicated. “I thought you missed the man?”
“Of course I miss him, Jos. I’ll be glad to watch English shores recede into the distance, too. But Harry’s news was not good. The word out of Paris is that Louis’s queen is finally pregnant again.”
Petronilla and Joscelin were both startled. “Well,” Petronilla said at last, “how likely is it that he’ll sire a son? After three daughters, I’d say the odds are not in his favor.”
Joscelin almost reminded them that women were usually held responsible for the sex of a child, thought better of it in time. “I agree with Petra,” he commented instead. “With Louis’s luck, it is bound to be another lass.”
“I hope so,” Eleanor said, surprising even herself by the depth of her bitterness. “God Above, how I hope so!”
The French King’s palace was situated on an island in the middle of the River Seine, the Ile-de-la-Cite. When his future sons-in-law, the Counts of Champagne and Blois, arrived at the Cite and sought an audience, they were escorted toward the royal gardens at the far western tip of the island. This first Tuesday in October was as mild as midsummer, and the gardens were glowing with mellow golden sunlight under a sky the color of polished sapphire. Pear trees and cypress provided deep pockets of shade, hollyhock and gillyvor flamed along the fences, and butterflies danced on the breeze like drifting autumn leaves.