Devil's Brood by Sharon Kay Penman Page B

surprised by his liaison with this biddable girl-woman. But she’d expected better of her cousin. A man worthy of Eleanor of Aquitaine ought not to be susceptible to fluttering lashes, flattery, and bedazzled adoration.
    Be that as it may, he had taken Rosamund to his bed, a pardonable sin. But he’d then grown careless and indiscreet, so much so that their trysts were soon an open secret. Heedless of Eleanor’s pride, he had installed Rosamund at Woodstock, a favorite royal manor. And soon afterward, Petronilla had decided—for reasons known only to her and the Devil—to tell Eleanor, then in the seventh month of a difficult pregnancy, of her husband’s public infidelity. Eleanor had reacted as anyone but Petronilla could have predicted. Although it was the dead of winter, she took ship for England and headed straight to Woodstock.
    Maud had not been witness to the meeting between her cousin’s queen and his concubine. All she knew of it came from Petronilla, who had confided in baffled frustration that nothing had happened. Encountering the girl on the snow-covered path to the spring, Eleanor had spoken only four words. How old are you? And when Rosamund, as yet unaware of her identity, had said she was nineteen, Eleanor had said nothing else. She had, Petronilla reported indignantly, just turned and walked away!
    Maud had understood Eleanor’s response even if Petronilla had not. A woman heavy with child was at her most vulnerable, clumsy, and awkward in a stranger’s body. It would be adding insult to injury for an aggrieved wife to discover that her husband was smitten with a girl young enough to be her own daughter. Eleanor had refused to remain at Woodstock, retreating to her palace at Oxford, and it was there that she’d gone into labor weeks before the baby was due. The birth had been a hard one, and they had not been sure either mother or child would survive it. But eventually Eleanor’s last son was born, a small, dark creature who could not have been more unlike her other infants, so sun-kissed and robust and golden. John had been fretful from the first, almost as if he sensed his entry into the world had been unwelcome, and when the exhausted Eleanor had shown no interest, Maud had been the one to instruct the chaplain to baptize him for the saint whose day it was, St John the Evangelist. Maud had understood that John was a living reminder to Eleanor of pain and humiliation and betrayal. She had hoped that in time a mother’s instincts would prevail over a wronged wife’s resentment. She was no longer sure that would ever happen.
    In the years since John’s birth, Eleanor and Henry’s marriage had suffered. On the surface, all seemed well. But the telltale signs were there for those in the know. Eleanor had begun to pass most of her time in Aquitaine, ostensibly to soothe the rebellious inclinations of her restive, recalcitrant barons. Henry’s liaison with Rosamund Clifford continued, although he’d taken care to be much more discreet after his Woodstock blunder. Their separations stretched out for months at a time; it was no longer a certainty that they’d hold their Christmas and Easter Courts together. Most troubling for Maud, Eleanor had kept her distance in the aftermath of Thomas Becket’s murder, offering no comfort to Henry at a time when he desperately needed it. It was no surprise, therefore, that there was much gossip and speculation about their possible estrangement.
    When she’d learned from Eleanor that they had never discussed Rosamund or Woodstock, Maud feared that they had crossed their Rubicon. From what little Eleanor had confided and from all she’d left unsaid, Maud had concluded that there had been a communication breakdown of monumental proportions. Eleanor, proudest of the proud, had waited for her husband to broach the subject of Rosamund, to offer her an apology for flaunting his mistress so openly. But Henry had utterly misread her silence, vastly relieved that she