The Secret Eleanor Read Free Page A

aimed at Bernard and the Count. Then Petronilla felt her sister give a violent start, and she glanced at Eleanor beside her.
    Surprised, she saw that her sister wasn’t even heeding Bernard. Her gaze was aimed past Bernard, her eyes wide and bright and hot. Petronilla turned her head to follow her line of sight, and at the end of it found one of Anjou’s sons.
    The older one, the restless one, now stood stock-still, his helmet at his side. He was not heeding Bernard any more than Eleanor was. It was the sight of her that had stopped his pacing, and she who transfixed him now. He was staring back at her with such a look on his face that Petronilla caught her breath. Her gaze returned to Eleanor, who was still gazing into his eyes, and her sister smiled, as if in the whole world no one else existed save her and him.
    Petronilla reached up and gripped Eleanor’s arm, trying to draw her out of this; she thought everybody there must see what she saw in her sister’s face. Eleanor abruptly twitched her gaze away from the young Angevin and glanced down at Petronilla, but with a vague look that meant she saw her not. Then her eyes sharpened, and she smiled at Petronilla, not the same way, and reached down and took her hand and squeezed it.
    Anjou was now snarling some retort at Bernard. His voice was strident with sudden doubt. Behind him the son had begun to pace back and forth again, as if he could not bear to be still. He was not tall, but square-shouldered and barrel-chested, redheaded, with a short pale curly beard. Petronilla realized this was Henry FitzEmpress, the son who owed Louis homage for Normandy. Young in years, but not a boy. He roused a little tingle of interest in her, like a powerful animal close by. Then she thought of Ralph, and felt guilty.
    She wondered why she still kept faith with Ralph, who had broken faith with her. She lowered her head, morose. On the stool beside her, Eleanor’s face was flushed, and she was smiling as if she could not stop.
    “You can rant all you want to your milksop French,” Anjou said to Bernard. “I’m made of stronger mettle than that, you’ll find. God gave me Anjou, and He gave you only words.” But he nudged the pitiful chained man with his foot, rolling him over. “You can have this. I’m done with it.” Turning on his heel, he strode out toward the door, and his men fell in behind him, Henry was now only a broad back in a short red Angevin cloak, walking away.
    Petronilla lifted her head, startled, and glanced at Eleanor again. Her sister had stopped smiling. She sat rigid on the chair, her gaze aimed furiously at the departing men. Beside her Louis was slumped on his throne, mute and passive. Bernard still stood before them, his eyes now closed, his head bowed, his lips moving. Nobody was doing anything about this. Then Eleanor shot straight up onto her feet.
    Her voice pealed out as loud and sharp as a war trumpet, cutting across a rising hum of voices. “Count of Anjou, stop where you are! We did not give you leave to go.”
    The murmuring crowd fell abruptly silent; everybody turned toward Eleanor. In the sudden, crackling stillness, the Count spun around, red-faced, and glared at her. “What is this? Who do you think you are to command me, you harlot?”
    Around the hall people gasped, and feet shuffled and scraped on the floor, and everybody seemed to move forward a little, their eyes bright with attention. On the dais, Eleanor stood above them all, and she smiled coolly, gazing steadily at the Count. “Fine righteous piffle, indeed, from one with bastards in half the villages of Anjou. Guards, to the doors!”
    On the far side of the hall, a few men moved quickly together across the yawning double doors; among them, Petronilla saw, was Joffre de Rançun, her sister’s captain, who now planted himself square in the way out, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Anjou turned to fix his blazing look on Eleanor.
    “I have a safe conduct!”
    Eleanor pealed