Free Devil's Brood by Sharon Kay Penman Page A

inheritance.”
    “Ah, but this is not France or England. The Countess of Mauguio struck back swiftly, disinheriting her impatient son in favor of her granddaughter.”
    Maud was amazed. “She could do that?”
    Eleanor’s eyes reflected the closest candle flame, taking on greenish glints in its flickering light. “This is not England or France,” she repeated proudly, and Maud could only nod, thinking, Indeed not!
    Raimbaut d’Aurenga’s joglar had taken up a gittern again, making ready to sing another of his lord’s compositions. His earlier French rendition had been a courtesy for the Poitevin guests, but now he chose his own language, the lyrical lengua romana of the troubadour.
“Cars, douz e fenhz del bederesc
    M’es sos bas chanz, per cui m’aerc;
    C’ab joi s’espan viu e noire.”
    Without Eleanor to translate for her, the words held no meaning for Maud. She discovered it was easy to be caught up in the flow of the language, though, for it held a melodic harmony that French or English lacked, putting her in mind of the softer sounds of Spanish or Italian. It was a beautiful tongue, this lengua romana, but an alien one. And as she listened, she fully comprehended for the first time that this was an alien world, too, Eleanor’s Aquitaine.

C HAPTER F OUR

    November 1172
    Gisors Castle, Norman Vexin

    M ARGUERITE WISHED that she did not feel so shy with this stranger who was her father. She did not doubt that the French king was a kindly man, a good man, quick to smile, slow to find fault. The vices of his youth—his temper, his stubbornness—had been mitigated by the passage of time and his piety was acclaimed by all. She knew he was in his fifty-third year, an age that seemed ancient to a girl not yet fifteen. His flaxen hair was sparse around his crown, like a monk’s tonsure, and his eyes were heavy-lidded, but still as brightly blue as a summer sky; she’d always been thankful that she’d inherited his fairness and not the unfashionable dark coloring of her dead mother, a Spanish princess she could not remember. She’d heard it said that he’d been comely in his youth, and she supposed it might well be true. But if she could visualize Louis in his prime, she could not see him wed to her husband’s mother. Each time she’d tried to envision Louis and Eleanor together, her imagination failed her.
    It occurred to her that she could count on the fingers of one hand the times she’d been alone with Louis, for she’d been sent to King Henry’s court before she’d celebrated her first birthday. But she’d grown up knowing that she was the daughter of the King of France, knowing what a proud heritage that was, and never doubting that this father she’d so rarely seen had not forgotten her. Now, though, she was discovering that they had little to say to each other and when Louis suggested that they seek out her husband, she felt a surge of relief, for Hal was never at a loss for words.
     
    A TILTYARD HAD BEEN set up in the northern end of the upper bailey, and the young King of England had drawn an admiring audience. A skilled rider, Hal had made several successful runs at the quintain, hitting the target dead-on each time, whereas his competitors were not so fortunate. As Louis and Marguerite approached, a knight struck the shield a glancing blow and was unhorsed when he was smacked by the sandbag attached to a wooden pivot. When it was Hal’s turn again, he drove his ten-foot lance into the shield with enough force to set the quintain post vibrating.
    “Well done!” Louis called out, loudly enough for Hal to hear, and then, in a lower tone, to Marguerite, “The lad could not look more like a king with the blessed crown of Jerusalem upon his head.”
    “I think so, too,” she agreed, so ardently that Louis smiled, pleased that she seemed to have found such happiness in her marriage. At that moment Marguerite happened to notice the boy watching from the sidelines, a pale, solemn child with