Jack Whyte - Standard of Honor

“Whatever is in your mind. You have a witless, gaping look about you, so spit out your thoughts and we will talk about them.”

Henry gestured mildly with one hand. “Merely surprise, my lady. I hear or see no bitterness or hatred in you when you speak of her.”

A brittle smile quirked one corner of Eleanor’s mouth. “Nor should you, for I harbor none against her. Did you not hear me when I said she has been used and abused her whole life? I have bitterness aplenty in me, Henry, make no mistake in that, but none of it is wasted on Alaïs.”

“But … she stole your husband.”

“Stole? Stole Henry Plantagenet?” Her smile spread wider but grew no warmer. “Bethink yourself, my lord St. Clair, and remember the man of whom we speak. There never was a woman born who could steal Henry Plantagenet or bend him to her will for longer than it took for him to mount her, and I include myself in that. Henry was a taker in all things carnal. He saw, he desired, he took. Oh, I was his match for many years, but as soon as my looks began to change and I began to age, he looked elsewhere. And the old goat was lusty till the day he died.

“No, Alaïs Capet did not steal my husband. Far from it. She was but one of a long line of vessels for his convenience, used and discarded when the next in line stepped forth to catch his eye. But Henry kept Alaïs closer than all the rest, because of the Vexin. Had he discarded her, it would have cost him the Vexin or, at very least, a long and brutal war to keep it. And in the end, he lost it anyway, before he died. But Alaïs was no thief. And besides, by the time Henry first set hands on her, he had already put me away. I had been locked up for years by then, because he said he couldn’t trust me to run free without fomenting plots against him with my sons. He was right, too. I can see that now. But hate Alaïs? Might as well hate the north wind for bringing down the snow as blame that child for what befell her.

“But her misfortune forced Richard’s hand to what he did, once he was named as Henry’s heir. He could hardly take Alaïs as his queen when all the world knows she spent most of her betrothal period sleeping with his father. The Church in England was scandalized and made no bones about it. They howled anathema at the very idea of such a marriage, and forbade Richard to proceed with it, under pain of excommunication. And so Richard’s hand was forced. He sent her home to her brother, Philip, as was only to be expected.”

“To be expected, perhaps, my lady, but hardly to be welcomed by her family. King Philip must have been beside himself when he learned of it.”

“Nonsense. The only thing Philip might have been beside was his bedmate of whatever day it was when the tidings reached him. Philip cares nothing for Alaïs, Henry. He never did, from the day she was born. Women have no place at all in his affections. All he cared about was regaining the Vexin, and now that he has it safe, he will use his wronged sister as a weapon against Richard for whatever advantage he can gain. That is the total of his regard for her—she is a tool for negotiations.”

“That is … inconceivable.” His voice had fallen on the last word, hushed with disbelief, but Eleanor negated his awe with a tightly controlled flick of one finger.

“Nonsense, far from it. It might be unnatural, but then, Philip Capet can hardly be called a template for Nature’s perfection.”

“Aye, I suppose that is true. But what of you, my lady? Have you been to Paris?”

“God’s throat, no! I have been in Rouen, about my own affairs, and now I am traveling home, for the first time in far too many years. I shall stay there for a while, I think, at least until Richard has been crowned in England.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but will you not go to England to witness your son’s coronation?”

She gave him a wintry little smile. “Absolutely not. Richard is more than capable of having himself crowned, and the last thing I need is to be there to witness it. That will all proceed perfectly well and naturally, and in the meantime I will take myself southward, across the Pyrenees to Navarre.” She saw the incomprehension in his eyes and added, “To Navarre , Henry … the kingdom in northern Iberia. There to find a queen for England.”

“A queen , my lady?”

She laughed outright. “Aye, a queen. My son is to be King of England and he needs a queen. England needs a queen. And I have found one in Navarre. In truth, Richard himself found her, three years ago. He met her at her father’s court and wrote to me about her then. Her name is Berengaria, daughter of King Sancho, and now that Richard is no longer betrothed, I intend to generate a marriage. Sancho should prove to be a staunch ally in this coming war, accustomed as he is to fighting off the Moors who threaten him down there in his Iberian wilderness, and I feel confident he can be persuaded to dower his daughter amply for her role as queen consort. And be assured, Richard and England will make good use of whatever he provides for their Holy War.”

“Berengaria. That is a beautiful name. But King Sancho? I have heard, it seems to me, of a Prince Sancho …”

Eleanor’s eyes sought his, narrowing intently, but she detected no awareness of her son’s rumored misconduct with the young Prince of Navarre. “The Prince is Berengaria’s brother. When his father dies, he will become the seventh king of that name. For now, he is a nonentity, but I have great hopes for his sister. I have not met her yet, but by all accounts, including my son’s own, she is a gentle, biddable creature … perhaps not greatly beautiful as we envision beauty, but regal nonetheless. So, if I can arrange the match, I will bring her to Richard before he leaves for Outremer.”

The carriage slowed and came to a swaying halt as she spoke, and a babble of voices sprang up outside, with orders and instructions being shouted on all sides. Eleanor listened for a moment, then began to gather up the few belongings scattered on either side of her as St. Clair pulled aside the curtains and peered out into the gathering dusk.

“We have arrived, obviously.”

The words had barely left her mouth when de Neuville rode up and bent forward in his saddle. “A few moments more, my lady, and you will be able to alight. Everything appears to be prepared, and by the smell of things, the cooks have done well. Rest you there for a few more moments, if you will, until your carriage can pull forward safely to your tent. A hundred paces, even less, and you will be there.” He glanced at St. Clair. “Sir Henry, I have your mount secure. My groom will care for it tonight with my own.” He saluted Eleanor and swung his horse away, and the Duchess smiled at St. Clair.

“Well, old friend, our visit is at an end—the most enjoyable part of it, at least—for when that door opens next, I must go back to being Eleanor of Aquitaine, with all the nonsense that attends upon being a Duchess restored to her holdings.” She reached across spontaneously and gripped him by the wrist. “It has been so wonderful to see you, Henry, and to spend this time with you. Men of your stamp are few and far between in my life nowadays. May God, if He is up there at all, bless you and your son in your future adventures, and may He forgive me for these next words. Put not your faith in princes. I know not who first said that, but he had the truth upon him when he did. Be careful of my son. I love him despite all he is in many ways, but I warn you as an old and trusted friend: do all you can for him but be you not too trusting, for he is governed by factors you cannot control, and guided by lights you would never wish to see or understand.” She drew her head back, her eyes narrowing, her fingers still gripping his wrist tightly. “I tell you that out of love, Henry— a woman’s love for an admirable man overcoming a mother’s love for a wayward son—but if you ever say a word of it to anyone, I shall deny I said it and wreak official retribution on you in return. You hear me?”