The Secret Eleanor (45 page)

He said, “I’m going with you. I won’t let you face her alone.” He turned to the Barb and slung the stirrup over the seat so he could reach the girth to tighten it. This little echo of what she had done pleased her, affirming her somehow. She looked down at his belt, and for the first time marked that the small sheath behind his sword was empty. A chill passed through her. She looked away, toward the river, wondering what she might find in Poitiers.

The rumors ran in the streets, up the hill, in the stairways of the palace. The voices buzzed in the courtyards, in the kitchens, excited, eager. In Poitiers, the woman in the Green Tower heard it at once.

Somewhere on the road between Beaugency and Blois, the Duchess of Aquitaine had disappeared. When Count Theobald’s trap closed in Blois, it caught only her servants. She had been seen somewhere near the Creuse but lost again. Nobody knew where she was now.

In the Green Tower, the woman in the great bed lay alone, and slept, and she dreamed, over and over, that de Rançun with the silver dagger came in through the door, and plunged the blade into her heart.

Just as the sun went down they came to the village, where they got meat and cheese and bread, and slept the night under a haymow. She rolled herself in her cloak, which was still damp in places; although she heaped up the hay to lie on, the ground was hard. De Rançun stripped off his mail and his sword, lay beside her, and spread his cloak over them both. She put her head on her arm. In the dark she saw only his shape.

“What are you thinking of?”

He said, “All my life, I’ve done everything to serve her, and now I have to do something else. I’ve got my own lands. My brothers have been mishandling them long enough. But it seems strange.”

She began to cry, exhausted. “I can’t believe—I can’t believe—”

He murmured to her and drew her into his arms, kissed her, let her cry. He smelled like horses and hay and sweat. He did this, she thought, perversely, unwilling to be happy, because of Eleanor, still, in defiance rather than obedience, but still. Her head rested on his shoulder; his fingertips grazed her face. He said her name.

She said, “I’m not Eleanor, you know.”

“That’s why I love you,” he said.

She was afraid to believe this. She was falling asleep, safe in his arms, and for a moment, too drowsy to resist, she yielded, and knew she was beloved.

By noon the next day they reached the high road, busy with travelers on their own journeys. No one looked at them much, although she noticed a couple of men eyeing her horse. They passed some pilgrims singing on their way south, and a train of wagons full of goods. On the side of the road, beggars in rags cried out for alms, their hands cupped, as if they caught invisible rain.

Late in the afternoon they were riding up over the bridge into Poitiers. The gate stood wide open, letting through farmers driving their wagons, traders and their packs and donkeys, merchants and local people, palmers with their staffs and belled hats, nameless wanderers. No one marked two more ragged travelers on foot with weary ungroomed horses. They had nothing to pay a toll for and went on into the city.

Petronilla went along looking all around her. The city’s white walls and red roofs, its lively smells and noises closed around her in a welcoming embrace. All the flowers were beginning to bloom. She rode through a heavy aroma of roses, the air almost edible. The narrow cobbled streets, crowded with shops, loud with people all speaking Occitan, even the steep familiar hillside gladdened her heart. It seemed warmer here. The light breeze smelled of fresh green leaves. Little brown birds flew around the eaves of the tiled roofs, like mice going in and out a wall. In an upper-story window a woman sat singing, and on the street just below a man stood singing along with her. She had been here before, but it was all different now. She was free now, to choose what life she wanted. She just didn’t know what that was.

De Rançun rode beside her. Both of their horses were tired, and without having to talk they dismounted to walk in the sloping street, a horse on either side. She wanted to reach for his hand. A moment later he took hold of hers.

At the top of the hill they came to the palace. In the great dark mass of the main gate, the ordinary door was open, and de Rançun led the way inside. The porter came up and saw him, turned, and recognized her at once.

Or he recognized who she was supposed to be. He dropped to his knees, his hands clasped. “God be thanked,” he said. “God be praised for your deliverance, Your Grace.”

He was half drunk, like most porters, and he bumped his head up and down, his eyes blinking wide with bleary recognition. In the courtyard, de Rançun called sharply for grooms for the horses. He gave her a meaningful look, and she went ahead of him into the Maubergeon.

She climbed the front steps and in the door to the Green Tower at a quick walk. On the stair she began to run. He was behind her, close enough, but letting her lead him. At the door into the uppermost room, the sentry was leaning on the window looking out, and did not even turn around until they were past him. She burst into the chamber beyond.

The sun was going down and the red gilded light spilled in through the windows, so the whole room glowed. She looked quickly around, saw no cradle, saw Marie-Jeanne staring at her open-mouthed and round-eyed by the wardrobe, and then, by the bed, Eleanor, standing alone.

Her sister turned, and they faced each other. Petronilla gave a low cry, trembling; she swayed on her feet, but she held her ground, her head back.

“He could not do it,” Eleanor said. The words shook. She came forward into the middle of the room. “Bernard was right. Everybody I have ever trusted has betrayed me.” Her cheeks were pale, with a fierce red blush on each cheekbone, and there was a giddy thread of relief in her voice.

Petronilla was hot with anger; she could hold back no more. “You tried to murder me!” She took two steps forward and swung her open hand full at Eleanor’s face.

Her sister gasped, and dodged her, raising her arms between them for a shield, and Petronilla struck her with the other hand. Eleanor caught hold of her coif and a hank of the hair underneath and pulled, and Petronilla shoved her. For a moment they struggled together, pushing and wrenching at each other, entangled. Then Petronilla struck Eleanor full in the face with her palm.

Eleanor sat down hard on the floor, taking a long strip of Petronilla’s coif with her. Petronilla stepped back, her blood singing, her head high.

She said, “You deserve that, Eleanor, for turning on me, after all I did for you. You deserve worse.”

Panting, Eleanor said, “I knew he wouldn’t do it.” She got to her feet and went unsteadily over by the table. She wiped her face with her hand. Her gaze went to de Rançun, standing in the doorway, his face intensely not smiling.

“I knew you could not do it. I knew you loved her more than me. You betrayed me, even you—I never want to see your face again.”

He turned on his heel and left. Eleanor turned her harsh look on Petronilla.

“As for you, sister.” Eleanor’s eyes burned. “What will you do now? Weren’t you plotting, all along, to take my place?” She snatched up a paper from the table. “Here is the proposal to Henry, all signed, who does not know the difference! Isn’t that what you want? To be Duchess, send for him, and rule with him? And do what with me then?”

Petronilla gave a startled laugh; at once she remembered praying for her sister’s life in the church at Limoges, for fear she would be trapped as Duchess.

Eleanor said, “Now might you do it—get me out of the way—seize a blade, and run me through—will you?” She stiffened herself, her eyes blazing.

Petronilla shook her head. “That’s what you would do, Eleanor.” She nodded at the paper with her hand. “Go on, then. Marry your little King. Rule the world, if you want. But I am Petronilla again, now, and I am so glad of that; I never want to be anyone else.” She stepped back, her hands at her sides, and her head back, and her eyes aimed at Eleanor. “I have seen that love does, also, and I will choose love over power. You began this; you bear it.”

Her sister’s lips parted. Under the pallor of her skin the blush rose in a ruddy wave. Petronilla turned toward the door; she thought,
I could still catch him. If he waited.

“Stand,” Eleanor said. “Stop—Petra—stay right where you are. You can’t go.”

“I’ll do as I please,” Petronilla said. She faced her sister again. “I’m free now, too, after this. Everything’s changed, as he said. You broke faith with me. And I know who I am and what I want.”

She went out the door and swiftly down the long steps. The sun had gone down. The pavement outside was dark, all but empty, a few ragged folk by the hall door, waiting for alms. He was not there. She went to the gate and looked into the city. Surely he would be waiting for her. Her heart pounded, uneven; she wondered if she had mistaken him. It was true, it was Eleanor, always, he obeyed. She went out into Poitiers and went around the streets until the moon rose, but she could not find de Rançun.

She had nowhere to go except back to the Maubergeon. No one stopped her. No one seemed to notice her, much. She went to her old room in the tower. It was empty, as she had left it: the hearth cold, the stool in the middle of the room, the bed tossed as she had gotten up those weeks before, the wardrobe door ajar. The window was wide open and the cold air swept in. She went into the room and stood there, strange in her own mind, wondering what she was to do now.

She wondered where he had gone. Back to Taillebourg, his family’s great castle on the Charente. She remembered waking that morning, wrapped in his arms, to a moment of perfect happiness, and thinking,
This is all I ever get
.

She went and sat on the bed, weary. After a little while, there was a knock on the door.

She opened it to find a short, squat young woman, a village girl, standing there with something in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. The woman bobbed a little bow. Petronilla frowned at her, puzzled, and then looked at the blanket.

A low cry escaped her. A wash of warmth flooded her. She lifted the little bundle out of the little woman’s arms, and with one hand spread apart the blanket. Inside layers of wool the baby’s face was a perfect flower, pink, with tiny lips, and closed eyes like curves of gleaming shell.

Then the dark blue eyes opened, and their shining look wrung her to the heels.

“Yes,” she said, breathless. “Yes.” She turned to the wet nurse. “Come in. I will keep it with me.” She lowered her head and kissed the baby’s forehead. “This is mine, now.”

She laid the baby on the bed, and opened the blanket, and then unwound the swaddling bands; the wet nurse murmured something, and Petronilla gave her a sharp look and the girl smiled apologetically and was quiet. Petronilla turned back to the baby.

It was a boy, with a square chest, great red balls, a little hooded hose. She crowed at this; a son, at last. He was big, a strapping boy, his broad shoulders lightly fuzzed with hair, and long legs, a wide forehead, a strong jaw. She laughed to see him; she was in love at once. She thought, I took him for my own, back at the beginning, in Paris. I won him, in this ordeal. This is my prize.