“Philip wants a foothold in Brittany,” Henry had said, quivering with anger and the need for action. “He dares to claim young Arthur as his ward. It wouldn’t surprise me if Constance had something to do with that. Ever since the brat was born, she’s not stopped making mischief.”

That was true. It had all begun with the naming of the baby. Henry wanted Geoffrey’s heir to be called after himself, but Constance and her Breton counselors insisted on baptizing him Arthur, in honor of the legendary hero-king who once ruled Brittany—and as a gesture to demonstrate that duchy’s desire to be free of Angevin rule. Henry had been hurt—and angered.

“I have never liked or trusted Constance,” Eleanor had warned, and he roundly agreed.

“I shall find her a new husband,” he’d declared, “one who will keep her in check.” And he had done just that: the Earl of Chester was one of his most loyal vassals, and Constance, her protests ignored, was speedily pushed into his open arms.

Then there had been the contentious matter of Alys. Again and again Philip had tried to force Henry’s hand and have her wed to Richard. When Henry had stalled, Philip had threatened to take back the Vexin and Berry and break the betrothal, demanding that Alys be returned to Paris. Then Henry had cheerily suggested that Alys be married to John instead—and at that point Philip saw red. Indeed, that proved the final straw and provoked him into raising an army and marching into Berry with the intention of seizing it—which was when Richard had deserted his father and gone over to the enemy.

Reports of what happened next had troubled Eleanor deeply, and her concerns still bedeviled her, even now in the dark reaches of the hours before dawn. Duke Richard had ridden to Paris, and there he had been so honored by Philip that they ate at the same table and shared the same dishes every day; and at night, the bed did not separate them. Those were the very words the King’s spy had written. The bed did not separate them.

Eleanor had never until now doubted her son’s sexual inclinations. Those terrible revelations of savagery and rapine in Aquitaine were enough to confirm that Richard had inherited the lust of his race. She knew that there had been women in his life, for he had acknowledged two bastard sons; her unknown grandchildren were called Philip and Fulk, Fulk being one of the favored names of the old Counts of Anjou. She grimly guessed whom Philip was named for. Of course, she would not have expected Richard to confide details of his amours to his mother, but now she realized that she had never heard any of his mistresses mentioned by name, which she had always taken to mean that they were casual encounters of the kind in which his father indulged. She realized too that Richard had never shown the slightest affection for Alys, or any inclination to wed her—but there was nothing odd about that: many men were reluctant to marry the brides chosen for them. It was what Alys represented that mattered to Richard. That was completely understandable.

But then Henry had shown her the confidential report revealing that Richard was sharing a bed with Philip. He himself had not commented; she alone had been a little disturbed by it. But what nonsense! she told herself; Richard and Philip were like brothers, by all accounts, and many brothers shared the same bed. Yet that wording was disturbing, almost as if some sinister meaning had been intended. Her imagination began to run amok. She could not bear to think of Richard preferring the love of his own sex, enduring a barren life, being cast out from and despised by the normal run of men, and risking the scandalized censure of the Church, or even charges of heresy for having offended against the natural order of God’s creation. She would not be able to bear it. He was her favorite son, her cherished one, and she wanted to see him happily settled in marriage with a brood of thriving children at his knee.

By day, she could dismiss her fears; by night, they came to torment her. She told herself she was being silly, irrational, and womanish. But the anxiety would not leave her. She dared not confide her concerns to Henry; she remembered how he had reacted to the implied suggestion that he and Becket had been lovers, all those years ago, and could imagine him exploding with wrath, and either venting that wrath on Richard or herself, or bringing the whole matter out into the open and making things infinitely worse. So she kept quiet, nursing her worries and letting them fester. Soon she was alert for any snippet of gossip that would confirm or demolish her fears. It was exhausting, wearing herself into the ground like this.

“I’m worried about what’s going on between Richard and Philip,” Henry abruptly said one day, seeming to confirm Eleanor’s worst terrors. She drew in her breath sharply, then waited in agony to see what he would say.

“I’m alarmed at what they might be plotting,” he went on, to her massive relief. “These reports of this great friendship between them concern me greatly. I want to know what lies behind it.”

So do I, she thought desperately. So do I!

“Philip thinks to sow discord between me and my sons, and thus weaken my power.”

Is that all you think it is? Eleanor wanted to ask. But Henry’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“An uprising in Aquitaine might be what is needed to divert Richard—and perhaps one in Toulouse. What say you, Eleanor? I believe I might orchestrate these risings to drag Richard away from Philip.”

“Yes!” she said, a shade too enthusiastically. “Yes, indeed!”

Henry had not noticed her vehemence. He was far too preoccupied with plotting strategies. “Then, with Richard out of the way, I’ll meet with Philip and agree to a truce. The Pope is urging a new crusade, so I’ve the perfect pretext. We can’t have the rulers of Christendom squabbling among themselves while the Turks are occupying Jerusalem.” Eleanor winced, wishing he would not be so flippant when the Holy Places were under threat; she, like most people, had been horrified to hear news of the fall of the Holy City, and applauded the Pope’s initiative. It made the quarrels among Henry, Richard, and Philip seem so petty. She had been thrilled to hear that Richard had taken the Cross, and prayed that it would divert him from plotting hostilities against his father.

But despite the truce and the plans for a crusade, the war dragged spitefully on, and Henry had again grown fearful that Richard would attempt to enlist his mother to his cause. Thus it was that Eleanor found herself commanded back to Sarum, to live once more in miserable captivity. The only difference was that she was now assigned a more spacious suite of chambers on a lower floor, which were not so open to the violent assaults of the ever-blowing winds; and she was served in more suitable state, although her damsels had been dismissed and she was once again attended only by Amaria—faithful Amaria, now grown stiff in her joints and exceedingly stout, but as plain-spoken and commonsensical as ever.

Eleanor’s heart was heavy, therefore, and her mood resentful when Henry arrived, limping pronouncedly, on a wet July day. But she was shocked out of her ill will by the change in him, a change that a mere year and a half had wrought. He had aged dreadfully and become grossly corpulent, and he seemed to be in some pain and physical distress, which was evident from the taut unease with which he carried himself.

“I came to bid you farewell, my lady,” he told her, after kissing her hand briefly on greeting. “I am bound for France, to make an attack on the French and trounce that cub Philip once and for all.”

Fear gripped her. “But what of Richard? You will not take up arms against him too?” she cried. “That would be terrible.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Once, you did not think so,” he reminded her. He could never forget her treachery. “Yet calm yourself. Richard and Philip have quarreled.”