Sharon Penman: The Queen Man

Henry, by the grace of God, Emperor of the Romans and ever august, to his beloved and special friend, Philip, the illustrious King of the French, health and sincere love and affection. Justin brought the parchment closer to his candle's shivering light, his eyes riveted upon the page. When he was done, he sat very still, stunned and chilled by what he'd just learned. God help him, what secret could be more dangerous than the one he now possessed? For he had the answer to the question being asked throughout Christendom. He knew what had befallen the missing English king.

~~

Queen Eleanor had held her Christmas court at Westminster, but she was currently in residence at the Tower, occupying the spacious second-floor quarters of its great keep. The first-floor chambers had been crowded all day with petitioners, vying with one another to persuade Peter of Blois, the queen's secretary-chancellor, that they deserved a brief audience. Peter was not easily impressed by tales of woe, and most petitioners would be turned away. One who steadfastly refused to go eventually attracted the attention of Claudine de Loudun, a young widow who was a distant kinswoman and attendant of the queen. She was curious enough to investigate and by the time she went back above-stairs, she had determined to thwart the imperious Peter's will.

The men in Eleanor's great hall were gathered in a circle near the hearth. Claudine was not surprised to find Sir Durand de Curzon holding court again, for he seemed to crave an audience as much as he did wine and women and good living. His current joke involved a highwayman, a nun, and a befuddled innkeeper, and reaped a harvest of hearty laughter. Lingering just long enough to hear the predictable punch line, Claudine crossed the hall and entered the queen's great chamber.

It was quieter than the hall, but even there the queen was rarely alone. Another of Eleanor's ladies was sorting through a coffer overflowing with bolts of silk and linen, a servant was tending to the hearth, and the queen's pampered greyhound was gnawing contentedly on a purloined cushion. Claudine didn't have the heart to deprive the dog of his booty and pretended not to see, hers the complicity that one rebel owed another.

Nearby, the queen's chaplain was discussing falconry with William Longsword, a bastard-born son of Eleanor's late husband. Claudine would usually have joined the conversation, for she loved hawking and both men were favorites of hers. She enjoyed teasing the courtly, debonair chaplain that he was far too handsome to be a priest, and Will, an affable, stocky redhead in his mid-thirties, was that rarity: a man of influence without enemies, so good hearted that even the most cynical could not doubt his sincerity. She flashed them a playful smile as she passed, but did not pause, for she was intent upon finding the queen.

The door at the south end of the chamber led to the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, but Claudine had no qualms about entering, for she knew Eleanor well enough to be sure that the queen was seeking solitude, not spiritual comfort. Pale January sun spilled into the chapel from so many windows that the stone walls and soaring pillars seemed to have been sculpted from ivory. To Claudine, the stark simplicity of this small Norman chapel was more beautiful than the grandest of God's cathedrals. Claudine's piety had strong aesthetic underpinnings; in that, she was very like her royal mistress.

As she expected, she did not find Eleanor in prayer. The queen was standing by one of the stained glass windows, gazing up at the cloud-dappled sky. Few people ever reached their biblical threescore years and ten, but Eleanor carried hers lightly. She was still willow-slim, her step sure and quick, her will as indomitable as ever. She was aging as she'd lived, in defiance of all the rules. The one foe she could not defeat, though, was death. She was no stranger to a mother's grieving; she'd buried four of her children so far. But none were so loved as Richard.

Eleanor turned from the window as the door opened. The white winter light robbed her face of color, deepening the sleepless shadows that lurked like bruises under her eyes. But she smiled at the sight of Claudine, a smile that belied her age and defied her cares. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Claudine. You have that cat-in-the-cream look again. What mischief have you in mind this time?"

"No mischief, madame, a good deed." Claudine added a "'truly" in mock earnest. "I have a favor to ask of you, my lady. Peter told me he means to tell the remaining petitioners that they must come back on the morrow. Ere he does, can you spare a few moments for one of them? He has been here since first light, and I do believe he is willing to wait till Judgment Day if he must."

"If his need is so urgent, why has Peter not admitted him?"

"I daresay because he balked at telling Peter why he seeks an audience with you." Claudine did not point out that there was no quicker way to vex Peter than to deny him pertinent information. She did not need to, for Eleanor had a comprehensive understanding of all in her service; she made sure of that.

"How lucky for this young man that you are willing to speak up for him," Eleanor said dryly. "He is young, is he not? And pleasing to the eye?"

Claudine grinned, quite unabashed at being caught out. "Indeed he is, my lady. Tall and well made, with hair darker than sin, smoke-color eyes, and a smile like the sunrise. He was no more forthcoming with me than he was with Peter, but his manners were good and he has a fine sword at his hip." This last bit of information was meant to assure Eleanor that the stranger was one of their own, not baseborn.

Eleanor's eyes held an amused glint. "Well, we can hardly turn away a man with such a fine sword, can we?"

"My sentiments exactly," Claudine said cheerfully, and headed for the door. Widowhood had proved to be unexpectedly liberating, expanding horizons far beyond the boundaries of her native Aquitaine. Among her many newfound liberties, she enjoyed the freedom to flirt and even to indulge in an occasional discreet dalliance. She supposed that eventually she'd wed again, but she was in no hurry. What husband could match what the Queen of England had to offer?

~~

Justin was as taut as a drawn bow. He dreaded the thought of another night as custodian of the queen's letter. Logic told him that none could know he had it, but there was nothing remotely logical about his predicament. His hopes had briefly flared up after his conversation with a young woman who claimed to be one of the queen's attendants. She was very pretty, with wide-set dark eyes and deep dimples, and she'd promised to see if she could get him admitted. She'd not returned, though, and now the queen's secretary had begun to usher people out.

Seeking a royal audience was not for the fainthearted, and most of the dismissed petitioners tried to argue or plead. Peter brushed aside their objections, and the knight assisting him was even more brusque. He was a big man, so fashionably dressed he might have been taken for a court fop, the sleeves of his tunic billowing out at the wrists, his leather shoes fastened at the ankles with gleaming bronze buckles, his dark-auburn hair brushed to his shoulders in burnished waves. But it would have been a great mistake to dismiss him as a mere coxcomb. He had the insolent bearing of a highborn lord and the swagger of a soldier, with blue-ice eyes and a wide, mobile mouth that seemed set in a sneer. Justin needed no second glance to recognize that this was a dangerous man, one he instinctively disliked and mistrusted.

He tensed as Peter now looked his way. He had no intention of going quietly, but neither did he expect to prevail; orphans are rarely optimists. The knight had just shoved a protesting merchant toward the door, ignoring the man's indignant claim of kinship to the city's mayor. Justin's turn would be next. But it was then that the queen's lady-in-waiting emerged from the stairwell.