windsor castle october 1172 i sat alone in blessed silence. i was supposed to be at prayer, but unlike alais, i had no god to pray to. i had just heard from my spy network that henry had word from the pope. his holiness was cautious, nothing like the man who had set me free from louis. this pope would wait, and bide his time, to see which way the wind blew, before he moved against me. the pope no doubt knew, as i did, that though henry had sworn to go on crusade, he would never stir from his own borders to begin a foreign war, especially a war of someone else’s devising. it served no purpose but to waste money, and henry had the business of the kingdom to consume him; that, and keeping his sons at bay. richard was another matter altogether. i knew it was the secret wish of his heart to go on crusade for the church, to raise the banner of christ once more over the city of jerusalem. no doubt the pope had heard this, too. from all accounts, his spy network was almost as good as mine. so his holiness would not move against me, or my son. all i needed to do was bide my time, and wait for henry to tire of her. i crossed my solar to my window, where the breeze and sun touched my face. it was almost winter, but still i kept my windows unshuttered. i loved the feel of the wind, and kept them open as long as i could, mewed up as i was in my husband’s keep. i could not go far, either in hunting or in merriment. i had to keep my eye always on henry, to see what move he might make next. i did not think on alais. i missed her as i missed nothing and no one else, but i kept my mind from her, except when she was before me. like the pope, i would bide my time there as well. before long, an opportunity would present itself, and i would bring her back to me. richard barged in without knocking, the only man alive who would have dared. he crossed the room to me, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild. for one horrible moment, i thought something might have happened to henry, or to alais. i was wrong. “mother, he will discard her.” “richard.” i raised one hand, and amaria drew the door closed behind my son. she raised an eyebrow, and i shook my head at her, telling her that there was nothing truly to worry about, reminding her that richard was emotional, especially where alais was concerned. his news had to do with alais, the only subject that could upset him during those dark days. “richard, what ails you?” “alais, mother. she is bearing the king’s bastard, and he will toss her aside as he has all the others. what will she do then? who will protect her, when i cannot?” i waited, but the old jealousy did not rise as it once would have done. “hear me, richard. when henry casts alais aside, as indeed he must, i will care for her.” “she will be disgraced before all of europe. her life will be over.” i smiled. my son was strong and brave, but naive, as all men are. the loss of reputation did not ruin a woman unless she had no one else to succor her. alais would always have me. “richard, do not trouble yourself over this. there is nothing you or anyone can do to help her. she has chosen this path, and she will walk it to the end. but know this: when he casts her off, i will take her in. i will give her shelter.” “and her child?” the words were like bile in my throat, sharp and foul, but i meant them. “and her child.” richard knelt to me and pressed his lips to my hand. he felt things so deeply; he always had, even as a child. i saw how much he still loved her, how much he would always love her, as he knelt there at my feet. “richard, enough of this. come and sit with me. keep me company. i grow lonely without you near.” he rose at once, and crossed the room, my hand in his. he seated me in the best chair, and arranged the cushions behind my back. he kissed my forehead as if in blessing, before he sat beside me. “wine, mother?” “please. thank you, richard.” he poured a glass of anjou wine for me, and i drank it, though i was not thirsty. i watched him, my beautiful golden boy, and cursed alais for hurting him as no woman ever had, as no woman ever would again. i swallowed my bile, and smiled at him. “what brings alais’ plight to your mind, richard? have you been praying for her again?” “yes, mother. but i also went to see her.” i raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. “she said something vile about you, about ...” he flushed, not willing to repeat the phrase that was on all the court’s lips. my dried-up womb, indeed. “yes, richard, she spoke foolishly.” “she spoke against you,” he said. “richard, things are said at such times that are not meant. no doubt alais forgot in a moment of pique that every word she says is open to the speculation of others. the court cares for what a queen has to say, as they do not a princess of france.” “she is not queen,” richard said, his face darkening. “nor will she be. but the court does not know that. they must be cautious, and play both sides, until one comes out a clear winner.” “it is despicable.” “it is politics, my son. you would do well to heed it.” “i would rather be run through on the battlefield than force myself to such womanish tricks.” i laughed out loud at that. he forgot that i was a woman, too. “i’m sorry ...” i raised one hand, still laughing. “no, richard, you do me honor. i know in your world to be thought womanish is a weakness. but women have deviousness, and ways that men do not, to see to it that their will is done.” “yes, mother.” “do not trouble yourself, richard. leave the politics to me.” his face was still dark, his blue eyes shadowed. “mother, she is sorry that she hurt you.” i felt my breath catch in my throat, as if he brought me news of a lover, and not of a young girl. “is she?” i kept my voice from trembling, but i held my breath as i waited for his answer. “yes. she is sorry for what she said.” i pressed his hand, and forced myself to smile. “don’t think on the princess anymore, richard.” he kissed my cheek, and rose to his feet. he had been too long indoors already “i love you, mother.” he left me, and my women came in, bringing fruit and fresh wine, smiling at me as if i had not fallen into disgrace with the king, as if no usurper sought my throne. “send for bertrand,” i told amaria. ”let us have some music and be merry, while we may” she obeyed me, and my women laughed and clapped, for they loved to look at my troubadour, at his shapely thighs and calves, his broad shoulders and muscled arms, which more than one of them had felt around them in the dark. as for myself, i wanted only peace. music was the only way to get that during that dark, benighted time, when i had nothing and no one but richard. i sat alone that night after the meal in the great hall. alais had gone to bed early, for pregnancy made her tired. i sent rose water to her rooms, and a snifter of brandy to help her sleep. she sent no reply i sat before the fire, my hair trailing down my back. it was still bronze, but silver had begun to make its inroads, the march of time across my forehead, and into the glossy depths of my hair. i was growing old. so be it. i was not dead yet. richard had gone off with his lover, margaret. though they saw little of each other now, margaret was to leave court on the morrow. her father had heard of her disgrace and had asked me to arrange her marriage. i had done so with little difficulty, for i had settled some money on her, and had chosen for her an older man. sir ralph of nottingham was happy to overlook the fact that margaret had once been a favorite of my son’s. no doubt richard and margaret wished to have some lovers’ talk, about old times that would not come again. richard was not quite sixteen years old. it amused me that he thought he had old times to speak of. the fire was burning well, and the charcoals gave off their feeble heat. i was not one for melancholy, but for some reason that night my regrets lingered with me, all the losses of my long life, and precursors of all the losses yet to come. i was musing to myself, deep in self-pity, when there was a scratching at my door. when i called, henry answered, and came in. i did not stand and greet him, so surprised was i to see him, there in my rooms, alone. i watched him as he came to me, moving like the lion he so often made me think of, the predator that i had matched my wits against for so many years, the man i had loved. “henry, you are welcome.” when i moved to stand, finally remembering the protocol that should govern us even when we were alone, henry gestured to me to sit, drawing another chair close to me, and to the fire. “eleanor.” he sat, staring into the fire, and i did the same. for that moment, it was as if we had both slipped into old age, with lust and fire behind us. as if we watched and waited for death together, as i once thought we might. henry reached over and took my hand in his. in his strong grip, my hand looked feeble and old. my rings gleamed in the lamplight, and my fingers tapered in elegance into his palm. time was what it was, and had left me as it left me. i would not be ashamed. as if he could see these thoughts behind my eyes, henry smiled at me. his smile was full of grudging admiration as his looks always were, now that we were enemies. but that night we sat together, a moment of detente in the middle of a war. neither of us knew yet which of us would win, but sitting alone, the court banished from our presence, we saw for the first time what both of us had lost already “eleanor, i am sorry it has come to this” i did not answer right away. i knew, even then, that nothing would change between us. “you have only to raise one hand, and this war would end, henry you know that.” the gray eyes i had loved for half my life did not leave mine. “but you will not,” i said. “no,” he answered. “i will not.” he did not release my hand, even then. still we sat together in peaceful silence, the firelight flickering across our faces, and over the silvered bronze of my hair. “your hair shines like electrum in this light, eleanor. i had forgotten.” i felt my tears rise then, for all that we had once been to one another, for what we would never be to each other again. i knew, even as my sorrow rose, that my pain was part of our love, just as the joy once had been. even now, at the end, i would not have had it any different. “ah, henry, soon you will be singing me love songs” he laughed, as i had meant him to, and my tears receded. “and would you have me fetch you barley cakes, and apple butter made with my own hands?” henry barked once more with laughter, but i heard the seriousness under that. “dear god, eleanor, stop it. you are a queen.” “and so i shall remain, until my days pass from this earth. you know that, do you not?” henry met my eyes, his temper dormant. that night i might have said anything to him, and he would have loved me just the same. “i know that you will try” i inclined my head. my hand still lay in his. “you are a queen, eleanor, and not because i made you one.” “i am surprised you know it,” i said. “ah, eleanor, i have always known it. i knew it the moment i met you. the day i met you, i knew that if i could make you mine, the world would be at my feet, the throne of england mine for the taking.” “i knew it, too.” we sat once more in silence, both taken back to that magic time, when all the obstacles that stood in our way were as nothing: my husband, henry’s mother, the war he fought for his inheritance. when we stood together, looking at each other in the light of my husband’s court, he had known, as i had, that together we could do anything. “i love you,” henry said. “i know that, too.” as he stood, even then, he was reluctant to let go of my hand. in the end, i took it from him, to remind him that he had made his choice already we walked a path of his own devising. we could not now turn back. but at my door, henry did turn back. he saw me, sitting where he had left me, my green gown drawn around my shoulders against the evening chill. he saw my hair, shining like bronze in the firelight, the silver strands heightening its beauty, the light soft on my face. “henry,” i said. “why did you come?” “i missed you, eleanor. i am not myself when you are not with me.” he left me then, and closed the door. my women did not come in to wish me a good night. though i had no god to thank, i was grateful, for there were tears on my cheeks. i did not want to shed them in front of another. not even him.