quartan fever, contracted during one of his campaigns in the Limousin. And more men were killed by the noxious diseases and hellish heat of the Holy Land than by Saracen swords.
Or was it memories of last summer? So much had happened, so fast. On the day her husband had drawn his last, tortured breath, she’d been a royal captive. By nightfall, she was the most powerful woman in Christendom, the one person who had the complete trust of England’s new king. The news of Maud’s death had reached her soon after Richard’s coronation; it had taken longer for word of Tilda’s death to come from Germany. But there’d been little time to mourn, for in those early weeks of Richard’s kingship, they’d been riding the whirlwind.
The more she thought about her flagging spirits, the more it made sense to her. She was grieving for the dead and fearing for the living, for the son who’d always been closest to her heart. And because she was a political being to the very marrow of her bones, she feared, too, for her duchy and their kingdom should evil befall Richard in the Holy Land. She’d have given a great deal if only she could have convinced him to abandon his quest, or at least delay it until he was firmly established upon his throne. But she knew that was a hope as easily extinguished as a candle’s flame. Richard would gladly sacrifice his life, if in so doing he could free Jerusalem from the infidels.
Eleanor leaned against the altar. “Ah, Harry,” she said softly, “if only Richard shared your sense of practicality. You were satisfied to be a king, not the savior of Christendom.”
“Madame.”
Eleanor spun around, her cheeks burning. She wasn’t easily flustered, but being caught talking to her dead husband was embarrassing. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the intruder. Constance of Brittany was once her daughter by marriage, but Eleanor regarded her now without warmth. “Lady Constance,” she said coolly as the younger woman dropped a rather perfunctory curtsy.
“My lady queen, may I speak with you?” Taking Eleanor’s consent for granted, Constance approached the altar. “I have come to ask a favor,” she said, although there was nothing of the supplicant in either her voice or her posture; Constance had learned at an early age to use pride as a shield. “It is my hope that you will speak with the king on my behalf. He claimed the custody of my daughter last autumn and sent her off to England despite the agreement I’d struck with his lord father. King Henry promised that he’d permit me to keep Aenor with me if I agreed to wed the Earl of Chester. I held to my side of the bargain, but now my daughter is gone and I’ve not seen her in nigh on six months. Where is the fairness in that?”
“Your deal was with Henry, not Richard. Does it truly surprise you that Richard regards you with suspicion? How many times did you ally yourself with his enemies? How many times did Geoffrey lead a Breton army into Aquitaine?”
“I’ve sought only to protect Brittany, to safeguard my duchy. I would think that you of all women would understand that, for Aquitaine has been the lodestar of your life. You even sacrificed your marriage for it. So how can you judge me?”
“I am not judging you for your devotion to your duchy,” Eleanor said icily. “I am faulting you for your inability to learn from your mistakes. You have never made a secret of your antipathy—”
“Are you saying I had no reason for resentment? Have you forgotten that Henry forced my father to abdicate and sent him into exile? I was five years old when I was torn from the only home I’d ever known and betrothed to his son. Yes, I bore him a grudge. I was not a saint.”
“Or a good wife to my son!”
Constance gasped, for she’d not seen that coming. “I do not know what you mean, Madame.”
“I mean that you did all you could to estrange Geoffrey from his family. Again and again you urged him to make war upon Richard, and then you convinced him to disavow his father and ally himself with our greatest enemy, the French king.”
“That is not true! I never encouraged Geoffrey to do that. It was his decision to seek out Philippe in Paris.”
Eleanor did not bother to hide her disbelief. “I am not saying you bear all the blame. Geoffrey