Free The Scarlet Lion by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

and her fingers adorned by gold rings. She might be approaching eighty years old and have retired to dwell amongst nuns, but she still had her vanity. The full wimple that framed her face was a flattering soft shade of blue; her gown, although plain, was thrice dyed and her prayer beads were fashioned of smooth, polished amethysts, topazes, and sapphires.
       "Madam," William said. "As ever your presence lights up the chamber."
       Eleanor's eyes, once golden like John's, were muddy with the weight of years, but a spark kindled in their depths. "Do I, my William? I suspect these days that it's the light of another world—probably hell if my second husband was right. He always said he would see me there." She gestured him to be seated on a bench by the hearth and, with the aid of her stick, eased herself slowly down into a chair facing him. "Old age is not to be recommended," she said wryly.
       "I heard that you had been ill, madam, and I was sorry to hear it."
       She made a dismissive gesture. "Naught but the spirit overtaxing a worn-out body. I am better now and glad of my visitors." She glanced around the room, which was busy with the knights, clerics, and courtiers of her son's household. Her rheumy eyes fixed on John and the golden-haired child-bride standing nervously at his side.
       "Did you counsel him to marry her?"
       "No, madam. He had already made up his mind when he told me, but I thought it no bad policy."
       "Policy you say?" Eleanor snorted. "Well, mayhap, but aided and abetted by more than a seasoning of lust."
       William winced. The new bride's name was Ysabel and it disconcerted him to hear John render the name with husky desire in his voice. They had been married for three weeks and the girl was never away from his side, at John's behest, not hers. He had seen the tension in her eyes and the way she steeled herself when he touched her. "If the houses of Lusignan and Angoulême had united, it would have made matters difficult."
       "Uniting Anjou and Angoulême won't necessarily resolve things either," Eleanor said. "A Portuguese alliance would have served us as well in the long term. My son has gambled and I am not yet sure that he has won the throw." Her eyes filled with melancholy. "Who would have thought I would still be living after near four-score years and all my sons but one would be dead." She gave a deep sigh and closed her eyes. "I am tired, William. The world no longer holds the savour it once did. I am too rusty to dance."
       "I do not believe that, madam."
       "You should, because it is the truth. I am content to dwell with my nuns and find my peace—or at least try."
       Not just with her nuns, William thought, for Fontevrault housed the mortal remains of her beloved Richard.
       She opened her eyes. "And you, William, what will you do now?"
       "Once the Queen has been crowned at Westminster, I have permission to visit Pembroke and Ireland, madam. I have been promising Isabelle for so long that I don't think she believes me."
       Eleanor eyed him with a mingling of severity and humour. It is never wise to make promises to a woman and then delay them beyond her expectations," she cautioned. "Your wife is forbearing and fair. Do not take her for granted or you will lose her trust."
       "I don't, madam." He made a face. "If not for love and respect of my wife, I wouldn't be contemplating a crossing of the Irish Sea in late autumn."
       Eleanor laughed, but the sadness in her eyes deepened. "Have a care, my William. I have been far in my life, even to Jerusalem like yourself, but I have never seen Ireland, nor will I now. Count it as a blessing and an opportunity to investigate pastures new."
       "In your honour, madam," he said, feeling chagrined at her words.
       "In my memory," Eleanor responded with pointed amusement.
       Taking her hand, William bowed over it again, deeply saddened at the sight of a dying