Time and Chance (49 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IN THEIR THIRTEEN YEARS OF MARRIAGE, Henry and Eleanor had often been apart, but they always spent Christmas together. Only war had separated them and only once. But now they were separated by more than miles. Eleanor did not understand why her husband was still in England. Nor did she approve. She had acted as his regent during his disastrous invasion of Wales, and that had been no easy task, for Thomas Becket’s defiance was a contagion, infecting the always contentious barons of Poitou, Anjou, and Maine. Small rebellions had been breaking out like brushfires all over Henry’s vast domains, fanned by agents of the French Crown and the House of Blois. Henry was needed on the Continent, where his enemies were plotting against him, where he had an infant daughter he’d yet to see and a wife who’d been sleeping alone for the past six months. Perplexed and aggrieved by his continuing absence, Eleanor finally voiced to intimates the question that was being asked by others, too, and with increasing frequency: What was keeping the king in England?

JUST AS SHE had not allowed pregnancy and childbirth to distract her from her duties as regent, Eleanor was determined to hold a Christmas Court as spectacular as any she and Henry had hosted in the past. God’s Year 1165 had not been a good one for Henry Fitz Empress—a humiliating defeat in Wales, the birth of a son to the French king, continuing discord with the exiled archbishop, Thomas Becket, echoes of rebellion on the bleak winter winds. But Eleanor had always been one for nailing her flag to the mast so it could not be struck down. She spared no expense and her guests would be marveling at the splendor of the royal revelries for months to come.

The great castle of Angers was hung with evergreen, holly, laurel, yew, and mistletoe. To enthusiastic cheers of “Wassail!” the Yule candle was lit and then the Yule log, carefully stacked so it might burn for the following twelve days. The Eve of Christmas was a fast day, but the Christmas Day feast was lavish enough to blot out all memories of Advent abstinence: a roasted boar’s head, refeathered peacocks, oysters, venison, and the delicacy known as a “glazed pilgrim,” a large pike which was boiled at the head, fried in the middle, and roasted at the tail. The entertainment was no less impressive than the menu: music by the finest minstrels in all of Aquitaine, dancing, a fire juggler, and then the presentation of the Play of the Three Shepherds. As bells pealed to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child, Eleanor’s Christmas Day revelry came to a successful conclusion, and if her spirits had been dampened by her husband’s absence, she alone knew it.

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES traditionally ended on Twelfth Night. The January sky was canopied by clouds, and the evidence of an earlier snowfall still glazed the ground of the castle’s inner bailey. Colors of crimson and sun-gold glowed in the wavering torchlight, for most of the guests had not bothered to cover their fine clothes with mantles or cloaks. Warmed by wine and vanity, they’d trooped outdoors in good humor for the wassailing of the trees, only to discover that hippocras and the frothy cider drink called lamb’s wool were poor protection against a biting wind and air so icy it hurt to breathe.

Hurriedly, the revelers crowded into the garden, twelve of them forming a circle around the largest of the fruit trees. “Hail to thee, old apple tree,” they chanted hoarsely. “From every bough, give us apples enow.” The rest of the rhyme was all but drowned out by the chattering of teeth and the stamping of frigid feet. Cups were hastily lifted and muffled cries of “Wassail” filled the garden. There was more to the ceremony, but the guests were already hastening back toward the great hall. Pouring the remainder of their cider onto the exposed gnarled roots of the apple tree, the twelve wassailers scrambled to catch up with their retreating audience. Soon the garden was empty of all save a lone woman who’d had the foresight to wrap herself in a mantle lined with fox fur and a youth whose arm she had linked in hers.

The young Earl of Chester was sensibly garbed, too, enveloped in a green wool mantle that billowed like a sail with each swirl of the wind. He showed neither impatience to return to the hall nor curiosity why his mother should have chosen to linger in the dark, deserted garden, and it was that very apathy that Maud found so perplexing. Hugh’s abrupt arrival at Angers had taken her by surprise, for she had expected him to remain in England with their cousin the king. Whatever had possessed the lad to make a needless winter journey like this? So far he’d been as sparing with his answers as he was with his smiles, thwarting her maternal solicitude with shrugs and silence. Watching him as he brooded amongst the wassailers, as somber as if he were attending a wake, Maud had at last lost all patience.

“Are you going to tell me what is troubling you, Hugh, or must I guess?” He glanced at her sideways, with another of those vexing shrugs, and Maud’s frustration spilled over into the sort of blunt speaking that her more conventional son deplored. What sort of sins would he be most likely to commit? Gambling debts? Nay, he was too cautious to enjoy wagering. “Have you gotten some girl with child?”

“No!” Hugh flushed, looking much younger at that moment than his eighteen years, and Maud almost smiled. So it was a lass, after all. Reminding herself how vulnerable first love could be, she said, not unkindly, “There is no crime in being smitten by a pretty face. Nor is there any great harm in sowing a few wild oats, provided that the girl is not already spoken for . . .” Her son’s face twitched, and she said, more sharply, “Hugh, no good can come of lusting after a married woman. Even if she is only a villein, it is not wise, for—”

“Rosamund is no villein,” he snapped, sounding offended. “She is well bred and gently born. Nor is she married.”

“Rosamund who?” she asked, so unobtrusively that Hugh found himself mumbling her surname before he could think better of it.

Maud regarded him thoughtfully; clearly this was more serious than she’d realized. Was he enamored enough to want to marry the girl? Clifford’s daughter would make most men a perfectly acceptable wife, but the Earl of Chester could aim much higher. What of the negotiations to wed him to the young daughter of the Count of Evreux? “Hugh, I hope you’ve done nothing rash. You’ve made no promises to this girl, have you?”

He shook his head mutely, and she sighed with relief. But then he added in a burst of miserable candor, “I would have, but she’ll have none of me.”

Maud’s temper ignited. That self-serving malcontent, Clifford, dared to refuse her son? What better husband could he crave for his daughter than Hugh of Chester, cousin to the king? Forgetting for the moment her own opposition to a Clifford-Chester match, she said indignantly, “Some hawks fly high these days, need to get their wings clipped for certes!” Hugh did not seem much comforted by that, and she patted his arm con solingly. “Ah, lad, I do understand. This is the first lass you’ve set your heart upon, and I know it is hurtful. But—”

“No, you do not understand!” Hugh’s despair was so naked that his mother fell silent, for such an emotional outburst was quite unlike him. “Hurtful, you say? You do not know the half of it! What choice did she have, a girl convent-reared and all too trusting? But I could do nothing, had to watch as he took her to his bed, with her lout of a father cheering him on!”

Maud stared at him. “What in God’s Name are you talking about? Who took Rosamund Clifford into his bed?”

“Who do you think?” Hugh’s mouth twisted. “The king!”

“Harry . . . and Rosamund Clifford?” She sighed again, this time sadly. Poor Hugh, no wonder he was so distraught. “Well, that is unfortunate, but it might turn out better for the girl than you think. If she was indeed a virgin, Harry will surely be generous enough to compensate for the loss of her maidenhead, and there are men who’d take a perverse pride in having a woman bedded by the king.”

“You still do not understand! This is more than a grope in the dark or a quick tumble between the sheets. He is besotted with her, keeps her as close as he can. Where do you think he is now? At Woodstock—with her!”

Maud’s breath hissed between her teeth. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were still alone. So that was why Harry had lingered so long in England! Jesú, but men were such fools. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else, Hugh?” When he shook his head, she reached out and gripped his arm. “See that you do not.”

Hugh looked annoyed. “What do you fear, Mother, that I’d blurt it out to the queen? I have more sense than that. But my silence will matter for naught. Sooner or later, she’ll hear about her husband and Rosamund.”

“Yes,” she agreed grimly, “she will. But it will not be from you.”

 

 

 

MELIORA HAD not ventured far, only to an apothecary’s shop on Calpe Street, but the rain started again before she could return to the shelter of Winchester’s great castle. It was a stinging, cold rain, interspersed with sleet, for although the calendar had marked the first week of March, England was still in winter’s frigid grip. But Meliora was not one to be daunted by bad weather; pulling up her mantle hood, she continued on her way. Several boisterous young men came sprinting toward her, laughing and cursing as they sought to outrun the rain to the closest alehouse. A woman passing by made haste to cross the street, but Meliora didn’t give the rowdy youths a second glance. Now in her fifties, she still had the bold spirit that had led her to leave her native Cornwall in search of adventure and more opportunities than any Cornish village could offer.

Twice married, twice widowed—the first marriage for fun, the second for security—she had three grown children, and a dower sufficient to keep her in a comfortable old age. But for all that her flaming red hair was now greyed, her waist thickened, and her step slowed by a touch of the joint-evil, her thirst for the unknown had not been slaked. And so when the king asked her to attend the Lady Rosamund Clifford, Meliora had accepted with alacrity.

Hearing sudden footsteps thudding behind her, she spun around, her grip tightening on the walking stick that would make a useful weapon. But the man bearing down upon her was no cutpurse, far too well dressed for that. As he drew nearer, she recognized him as the castellan’s second-in-command, and readily accepted his offer to escort her back to the castle. With ostentatious gallantry, he insisted upon carrying her apothecary’s sack and she relinquished it with a droll smile, knowing full well that the days were long past when young men vied for her favors. His chivalry was motivated by curiosity for certes; she’d wager the entire garrison was gossiping about the girl who’d accompanied the king to Winchester.

Meliora was not averse to gossip and answered readily enough, amused by the youth’s clumsy attempts at nonchalance. She confirmed that she and her lady would be leaving for Woodstock on the morrow, weather permitting, now that the king had continued on to Southampton. No, she did not know when the king would be returning to England. Yes, she and her lady would be needing an escort, but she believed the King’s Grace had arranged that with the castellan ere his departure yesterday. She was so agreeable, so affable that it was only later that he’d realize just how little she’d actually told him.

The castle’s postern gate was open for there was still a trickle of sodden daylight remaining. Thanking her escort with just a trace of perceptible irony, Meliora crossed the bridge and waded through the mud, heading for the square tower in the northeast angle of the inner bailey that Henry had occupied for his brief domicile in Winchester.

Meliora knew that Henry had deliberately chosen to eschew the king’s chambers and the royal bed he’d shared with Eleanor. She wondered if Rosamund did. She had a genuine liking for the king. They’d met several years ago during one of his frequent stays at Woodstock, Meliora’s home for the past two decades. She enjoyed his sly humor and cavalier disregard for protocol, admired his sharp-edged intelligence, and was impressed by the generosity of the offer he’d made to her, for she knew he was not a spendthrift by nature. She’d jumped at the chance to enter his world, shrewdly sure she knew what he wanted—a shepherd to watch over his little lamb for as long as his infatuation with the girl lasted—and after four months in the king’s service, she had yet to repent of her impulsive acceptance.