#devil's brood

A lifetime of tears and laughter. Lusting after crowns and each other. Their wedding night, his first words after their lovemaking. Good God, woman... Forget what I told you in Paris; I would have married you without Aquitaine. Laughing when she called him a gallant liar, and laughing, too, when she related scandalous stories of her grandfather, exclaiming gleefully, Between the two of us, we've got a family tree rooted in Hell! Yes, there were good memories, too, thirty-seven years of good and bad. Quarrels and reconciliations. Eight cradles and too many gravestones and Rosamund Clifford and power that rivaled Caesar's, an empire that stretched from the Scots border to the Mediterranean Sea.

Earlier in year of Philippe had attempted to repudiate Isabelle of Hainault, the niece of his onetime ally turned enemy, the Count of Flanders, claiming that she had failed to give him an heir, an unfair accusation in light of her extreme youth; she'd been ten at the time of their marriage and was now only fourteen. Isabelle had outmaneuvered him, though, taking to the streets of Senlis as a penitent. Barefoot and clad only in her chemise, she'd made a pilgrimage from church to church, attracting huge, sympathetic crowds as she prayed to God to forgive her sins and protect her from her husband's evil counselors. The citizens had rioted in her favor, and when the flustered Philippe had offered to find her a highborn second husband, she had responded, "Sire, it does not please God for a mortal man to lie in the bed in which you have lain." Facing the disapproval of his subjects and the likely opposition of the Church, his pride assuaged by his young wife's artful flattery, Philippe had relented and agreed to take her back.

She'd remembered him as a veritable whirlwind, remembered a hoarse, raspy voice that could shout down the heavens or purr intimately in her mother's ear, remembered coppery curly hair and sunbursts of pure energy, a giant who towered above other mortal men, a force of nature as dazzling and daunting as heat lightning in a summer sky. What she found at Chinon was a man of forty-nine who was not aging well, a man not much taller than her husband, with too many grey hairs, a stiff leg that throbbed when the weather changed, and hooded eyes etched in wrinkles that no longer looked like laugh lines. ....as she gazed into her father's face, she'd realized that the story of his ruined marriage and betrayals was writ plain for all to see, and her heart ached for him, for her mother sequestered in England, and for the little girl she'd once been, the child secure in her innocent belief that their family was, and always would be, favored by God.

You are not only blind to the truth about our sons. You are equally blind to the truth about us. We've been wed for twenty-five years, have shared a bed for more than twenty of those years. I bore you eight children and we buried one together. We've schemed and fought and loved until we are so entangled in hearts and minds that there is no way to set us free. God help us both, Henry, for we will never be rid of each other. Not even death will do that.

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 had not given him an ultimatum, had not demanded that he banish Rosamund from his bed and life. Not understanding that she was unwilling to risk the humiliation of a refusal, he'd assumed his worldly, pragmatic wife did not see his infidelity as so great a sin. Grateful that she'd chosen to deal with the problem of Rosamund Clifford by not even acknowledging there was a problem, he'd eagerly entered into their conspiracy of silence, never once detecting the scent of burning bridges in the air.

She gently stroked Hal's tousled fair hair, and he murmured her name in his sleep, instinctively reaching out for her warmth and softness. Her throat was so tight that it hurt, for she was determined to choke back her tears. Oh, my beautiful boy, what have you done? She had no memories of a life without Hal. She still loved him dearly, would love him until she drew her last breath. But it was as if their roles had reversed, for she suddenly felt so much older and wiser than he. Watching him sleep, she found herself wondering if the Almighty, in His Infinite Wisdom, had taken her son because her husband would always be as he was now, a charming child adrift upon stormy seas.

It had been six months since he'd last seen his sons. In the past, he'd been separated from them for longer than that, most recently during his sojourn in Ireland. But he was acutely aware now of the changes that those months apart had wrought. Richard seemed to have added a year or two to his age, for his shoulders had broadened and his stubble had become a full-fledged golden beard. A shadow on Geoffrey's upper lip and peach fuzz on his cheeks had not been there at Christmas. The sight of Hal was the most painful. The sunlight gilding his curly, fair hair, he looked regal and resplendent in a scarlet mantle and matching cowhide boots with gold turned-down tops, a natural magnet for all eyes - just as on that night at Chinon when he'd saluted Henry with a dazzling smile and a silver cup of drugged wine.