out a scornful laugh. “If that was a safe conduct he just gave you, I shall teach a horse to climb trees. You do not turn your back on the King of France, my lord. You come here by his leave, and you do not depart his hall without it. Come here again and await his word.”
The packed audience stood open-mouthed, silent, rapt. Petronilla was warm with pride; she cast a quick glance up at Eleanor, and then turned to watch Anjou suffer. She heard Louis whisper, “Eleanor,” chiding, and again, querulous, “Eleanor.” Thierry Galeran leaped nimbly up onto the dais and pulled on his sleeve, drawing him away. Off to the side, Bernard stood rigid, his gaunt face like a terrible mask, his gaze moving back and forth from Eleanor to Anjou. The Count of Anjou set himself, as if he would never stir again.
“By God, I’ll do nothing at the word of a mere woman!”
But his head turned and he looked at the door and the knights standing there; more of Louis’s men were gathering around de Rançun, and the way was well blocked. Anjou swung forward again, his face fretful with indecision.
His son suddenly strode forward, impatient. He spoke into Anjou’s ear, and the father straightened, his face red as a cock’s comb, and nodded. Henry FitzEmpress walked calmly up before the King of France and bowed, not very deeply.
“My lord King. I ask your leave to go.”
“I give you leave,” Louis said, blinking. “All of you.”
Henry wheeled and marched toward the doors. In the sudden silence the clinking of his spurs sounded loud as bells. Eleanor gathered her skirts in her hands and sat down again on her stool. Petronilla gave her another quick look and saw her watching the young lord; as he went by his father and the other Angevins, they turned around and followed him. At the doors, the wall of knights quietly broke up and moved out of their way.
“Well,” Eleanor said, “that was certainly very interesting.”
Bernard stepped heavily toward the dais, his eyes hooded, his jaw gripped in a frown. He spoke in a voice aimed just at her. “How shameful your name, Lady, in the dirty mouth of an Angevin.”
Eleanor said, unguardedly, “I never heard him say my name.”
Bernard dropped his voice softer yet. “The name of harlot, then.” He turned and walked away.
Petronilla gave a start and went stiff with fury; she could sense Eleanor’s rage, but Eleanor said nothing. Her head turned, though, her eyes narrow, as she watched the tall storklike abbot walk out, without anybody’s leave; but he was a saint and could go where he pleased. Several of his monks followed him.
Petronilla’s spirits plunged. She lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap. Bernard’s absolute clarity daunted her. Everything was simple to him: God, or not. He made her feel messy, scattered, indirect, and compromised. The very definition of female. She turned and looked at the front door, where the Angevins had left. The hall was all stirring, competing voices rose like the rattling of dry reeds.
Eleanor said, under her breath, “What a muddle.”
Louis was talking to her; he said, “You should leave such things to me, my dear, but I admire you nonetheless.” He leaned forward, looking down at the moaning chatelain in his chains on the floor. “Somebody loose this poor fellow.”
Petronilla looked away from them both. It was indeed a muddle. Nothing was as it was supposed to be—the weakness of the King left a hole in the center, which Eleanor and Thierry Galeran and Bernard de Clairvaux fought to fill in an endless indecisive sparring match. Most of the crowd had moved up much closer now, and several people were pushing forward, shouting to the King, trying to reach him with their pleas and complaints. Thierry went out to garner the most worthy of them, or, more likely, the ones with the biggest bribes. Petronilla began to long to be somewhere else. She put her fingertips together, her head down.
Beside her, suddenly, Eleanor spoke to
The packed audience stood open-mouthed, silent, rapt. Petronilla was warm with pride; she cast a quick glance up at Eleanor, and then turned to watch Anjou suffer. She heard Louis whisper, “Eleanor,” chiding, and again, querulous, “Eleanor.” Thierry Galeran leaped nimbly up onto the dais and pulled on his sleeve, drawing him away. Off to the side, Bernard stood rigid, his gaunt face like a terrible mask, his gaze moving back and forth from Eleanor to Anjou. The Count of Anjou set himself, as if he would never stir again.
“By God, I’ll do nothing at the word of a mere woman!”
But his head turned and he looked at the door and the knights standing there; more of Louis’s men were gathering around de Rançun, and the way was well blocked. Anjou swung forward again, his face fretful with indecision.
His son suddenly strode forward, impatient. He spoke into Anjou’s ear, and the father straightened, his face red as a cock’s comb, and nodded. Henry FitzEmpress walked calmly up before the King of France and bowed, not very deeply.
“My lord King. I ask your leave to go.”
“I give you leave,” Louis said, blinking. “All of you.”
Henry wheeled and marched toward the doors. In the sudden silence the clinking of his spurs sounded loud as bells. Eleanor gathered her skirts in her hands and sat down again on her stool. Petronilla gave her another quick look and saw her watching the young lord; as he went by his father and the other Angevins, they turned around and followed him. At the doors, the wall of knights quietly broke up and moved out of their way.
“Well,” Eleanor said, “that was certainly very interesting.”
Bernard stepped heavily toward the dais, his eyes hooded, his jaw gripped in a frown. He spoke in a voice aimed just at her. “How shameful your name, Lady, in the dirty mouth of an Angevin.”
Eleanor said, unguardedly, “I never heard him say my name.”
Bernard dropped his voice softer yet. “The name of harlot, then.” He turned and walked away.
Petronilla gave a start and went stiff with fury; she could sense Eleanor’s rage, but Eleanor said nothing. Her head turned, though, her eyes narrow, as she watched the tall storklike abbot walk out, without anybody’s leave; but he was a saint and could go where he pleased. Several of his monks followed him.
Petronilla’s spirits plunged. She lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap. Bernard’s absolute clarity daunted her. Everything was simple to him: God, or not. He made her feel messy, scattered, indirect, and compromised. The very definition of female. She turned and looked at the front door, where the Angevins had left. The hall was all stirring, competing voices rose like the rattling of dry reeds.
Eleanor said, under her breath, “What a muddle.”
Louis was talking to her; he said, “You should leave such things to me, my dear, but I admire you nonetheless.” He leaned forward, looking down at the moaning chatelain in his chains on the floor. “Somebody loose this poor fellow.”
Petronilla looked away from them both. It was indeed a muddle. Nothing was as it was supposed to be—the weakness of the King left a hole in the center, which Eleanor and Thierry Galeran and Bernard de Clairvaux fought to fill in an endless indecisive sparring match. Most of the crowd had moved up much closer now, and several people were pushing forward, shouting to the King, trying to reach him with their pleas and complaints. Thierry went out to garner the most worthy of them, or, more likely, the ones with the biggest bribes. Petronilla began to long to be somewhere else. She put her fingertips together, her head down.
Beside her, suddenly, Eleanor spoke to
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