there, no matter anymore of his.
She rubbed her hand over her nose. There was a hard painful lump on her chest. Her mind was blank with fear. Dark was coming. After a while she trudged away down the island, to the last refuge of the sick and homeless, to the Hotel-Dieu, where the hopeless and unwanted went to die.
Six
Henry had never even dreamed before of having Aquitaine. Duke of Normandy, someday Count of Anjou, yes, and he had been pushing his claim to the crown of England since he was nine, but until now Aquitaine had not entered his mind.
Everything he had ever heard of the place flooded back to him: the old cities, the beautiful women, the wine and the troubadours. Hard to rule, they said. But rich.
He wondered if she could break the marriage vow. He did not see how that would happen. Yet now that the notion had been ignited in him, he burned to have Aquitaine. He began to scheme to carry her off somehow. His father would make problems for that, to say nothing of the King.
After he left the house where they had met, he went around the city for a while. He had heard of the Studium, on the Left Bank of the river, and he walked up and down the rows of ramshackle halls, then went into a tavern full of men in the black hooded gowns of priests, drinking and talking in Latin and grabbing at the women. He listened to them, but said nothing, knowing better than to risk his churchboy Latin against their quick and merciless tongues.
At nightfall he went back to his father’s house, in the village of Saint Germaine, west of the Studium. In the courtyard Robert de Courcy was waiting for him, and another of his knights, Reynard.
“My lord, the Count’s been sending for you constantly.”
“It’s a big city,” Henry said. “There’s a lot to look at. Where is everybody?” Most of the knights they had brought to Paris with them were his father’s household guards. Some of his own men, like these, had come along, too, but he saw none of the others.
“My lord.” Reynard was shorter than Robert and stood straighter as a consequence. “They will be back, I promise.”
“You promise,” Henry said sharply. “Where the hell are they?”
“They will be back. I have sentries on all night.”
“Good. I don’t trust this place.” Henry went up the step past him and into the hall, Robert on his heels.
The hall was stuffy and smelled bad. One end was full of lumber. Around the other end the servants had arranged a hasty elegance for his father, an arras, a table covered in silk and some chairs. His father stood before the table, facing three or four men who bowed and nodded continually, their hats dragging the ground. Men from the city. Anjou’s spies in the city. Henry went around to the end of the table, as if he were not listening, and busied himself shrugging off his cloak.
His brother Geoffrey sat on the far side of the table, his back to the huge brazier warming the room, a cup of wine in his hand. The light of the fire shone behind them, so that to Henry he was only a dark lump.
One of the Parisian men said, “The King was so sick he could not eat, ’tis said.”
Another voice cut in. “Not so sick. Any time the King of France falls sick, he takes a fear of dying, because he has no heir.”
Father of sons, Anjou grunted, amused at that, and the other men obediently laughed. Henry lowered his gaze to the tabletop. A servant put a cup of wine by his hand. The spies were talking again, vying with each other for the choicest, best-paid news.
“Thierry Galeran is his closest man, but the monks always have their way with him.”
“No, ’tis the Queen, in the end, he listens to.”
“She heeds him little. Thierry Galeran is always with him; the Queen avoids him.”
“The monks—”
“She is wicked, she is lusty; he should put her in a convent, all say it.”
“Then he would have no heir,” Anjou said, the amusement still trembling in his voice. They jabbered at him, several opinions at once,
She rubbed her hand over her nose. There was a hard painful lump on her chest. Her mind was blank with fear. Dark was coming. After a while she trudged away down the island, to the last refuge of the sick and homeless, to the Hotel-Dieu, where the hopeless and unwanted went to die.
Six
Henry had never even dreamed before of having Aquitaine. Duke of Normandy, someday Count of Anjou, yes, and he had been pushing his claim to the crown of England since he was nine, but until now Aquitaine had not entered his mind.
Everything he had ever heard of the place flooded back to him: the old cities, the beautiful women, the wine and the troubadours. Hard to rule, they said. But rich.
He wondered if she could break the marriage vow. He did not see how that would happen. Yet now that the notion had been ignited in him, he burned to have Aquitaine. He began to scheme to carry her off somehow. His father would make problems for that, to say nothing of the King.
After he left the house where they had met, he went around the city for a while. He had heard of the Studium, on the Left Bank of the river, and he walked up and down the rows of ramshackle halls, then went into a tavern full of men in the black hooded gowns of priests, drinking and talking in Latin and grabbing at the women. He listened to them, but said nothing, knowing better than to risk his churchboy Latin against their quick and merciless tongues.
At nightfall he went back to his father’s house, in the village of Saint Germaine, west of the Studium. In the courtyard Robert de Courcy was waiting for him, and another of his knights, Reynard.
“My lord, the Count’s been sending for you constantly.”
“It’s a big city,” Henry said. “There’s a lot to look at. Where is everybody?” Most of the knights they had brought to Paris with them were his father’s household guards. Some of his own men, like these, had come along, too, but he saw none of the others.
“My lord.” Reynard was shorter than Robert and stood straighter as a consequence. “They will be back, I promise.”
“You promise,” Henry said sharply. “Where the hell are they?”
“They will be back. I have sentries on all night.”
“Good. I don’t trust this place.” Henry went up the step past him and into the hall, Robert on his heels.
The hall was stuffy and smelled bad. One end was full of lumber. Around the other end the servants had arranged a hasty elegance for his father, an arras, a table covered in silk and some chairs. His father stood before the table, facing three or four men who bowed and nodded continually, their hats dragging the ground. Men from the city. Anjou’s spies in the city. Henry went around to the end of the table, as if he were not listening, and busied himself shrugging off his cloak.
His brother Geoffrey sat on the far side of the table, his back to the huge brazier warming the room, a cup of wine in his hand. The light of the fire shone behind them, so that to Henry he was only a dark lump.
One of the Parisian men said, “The King was so sick he could not eat, ’tis said.”
Another voice cut in. “Not so sick. Any time the King of France falls sick, he takes a fear of dying, because he has no heir.”
Father of sons, Anjou grunted, amused at that, and the other men obediently laughed. Henry lowered his gaze to the tabletop. A servant put a cup of wine by his hand. The spies were talking again, vying with each other for the choicest, best-paid news.
“Thierry Galeran is his closest man, but the monks always have their way with him.”
“No, ’tis the Queen, in the end, he listens to.”
“She heeds him little. Thierry Galeran is always with him; the Queen avoids him.”
“The monks—”
“She is wicked, she is lusty; he should put her in a convent, all say it.”
“Then he would have no heir,” Anjou said, the amusement still trembling in his voice. They jabbered at him, several opinions at once,
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