Windsor Castle February 1173 Alais had the strength of a lion. I had always known this, but I saw it clearly on the day her child died. My daughter stood strong in the face of the loss of Henry, and the loss of the Crown. I saw at once that such things were as nothing to her, compared to the love she bore her child. Alais came back to herself as she held her daughter in her arms. She did not weep when her child’s spirit flew, but dried her eyes on the fur the babe was wrapped in, as if my furs were made to dry her tears. Her waiting woman brought from her clothespress the deep blue gown that had come from Henry. Alais took the scissors from Marie Helene’s workbasket, and cut away the skirt. The royal blue silk gleamed in the light of the lamps. Alais fingered it, and decided that it was soft enough to touch her daughter’s skin. She wrapped the child in that blue silk, until only the baby’s face was visible above the cloth. She leaned down and kissed her daughter’s brow. Already, it was as cold as stone. After she laid her child down, we both looked at that little girl. All my own lost children came back to me, one by one: Charles, who had died stillborn in the Levant; little William, who had not lived to see his third birthday; and Isabelle, Louis’ infant daughter, buried and left behind long ago in France. At sunset, we stood together in the churchyard in the cold wind of that winter day. Rose did not rest in a box, but was laid directly into the earth, still wrapped in blue silk. The sight of her child laid in the ground was Alais’ undoing. She almost dived into the grave, to bring her baby out of it, but I held her back. “It is hard,” I said. “Nothing will ever be as hard as this. But you must bear it.” The priest made the sign of the cross. When I nodded my permission, he went into the chapel to prepare for the mass that would be sung for the child’s soul. In spite of all my teachings, I still had not wrested from Alais her childhood religion. That day, for the first time, I was glad I had not. Perhaps her religion and her prayers would bring her some consolation, when I myself could not. That night, Alais and I sat alone in the rooms that once had been mine. Her waiting woman, Marie Helene, would not leave us; only when I ordered her, and made it clear that I would brook no refusals, did she obey me. She saw that then, as always, I was queen. My own Amaria went to find her bed at my prompting. She knew me well, and knew that I would sit alone with my adopted daughter, keeping vigil that night, and for the nights to come, should Alais have need of me. Our rancor was gone like a dream cast off at morning. We sat together, two women who loved each other, for now Alais was a woman indeed. The scissors from Marie Helene’s sewing basket lay on the table, the blades Alais had used to make her daughter’s shroud. They were heavy, for they were made of steel, polished to a fine sheen. Alais picked up those scissors, and cut into her hair. A great sea of curls fell at her feet, all around the table where I sat. When she was done, her hair was only an inch long, as a nun’s would be. “Ah, Alais,” I said. “Ever and always, you are a woman of extremes.” She smiled at me. Her mouth shuddered, as if she could not remember how to form a smile, as if she might weep. But she steadied, and her smile grew, until it almost reached her eyes. “Come here, daughter, and let me trim it.” She knelt beside me, and I combed her short hair with my fingers, tidying the strands of it, so that it lay over her skull more like a cap, and less like a nun’s devotion. “There,” I said. “You are a beautiful woman. The loss of your hair does not dim it.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she clutched my hand. I thought she might lose control then, but she did not. She pressed my hand to her lips. I felt them quake against my skin; then she pulled away. Alais sat beside me in a second chair, lowering herself gingerly, still sore from giving birth. Her body spoke of her labor, even if she wished to forget. “Perhaps someone might use it to make a wig,” she said. I laughed as she had meant me to. I poured her a cup of Anjou wine. When she took it up, I placed my hand over hers. “I love you, Alais. Now and always, no matter what comes after.” She did not shed tears even then. Instead, she spoke in a steady voice, undimmed by pain. “And I love you, Eleanor. I always have. I always will.” It was my turn to swallow my tears as I turned my face toward the firelight, her hand warm on mine. I sent word to Henry as soon as the baby died, but he was in London planning the hunt for Richard, and did not come. We heard soon afterward that Richard had left England, and had made safe landfall in Barfleur. It was April now and the cold of winter had broken. I knew that spring would bring war. But not yet. I had not yet given the order that would set my sons in motion. As Richard mustered his troops in the Aquitaine, Henry received final word from His Holiness the pope. The Holy See would not support his marriage to Alais. My spies brought the knowledge to me, secondhand. I, in turn, gave it to Alais, who accepted it, pale and unmoved. She spent all her time at prayer when she was not with me. Alais’ short hair shocked my women, and they withdrew from her. I found I did not want them by me, either, so Alais and I spent a good deal of time alone, with Bertrand to play for us. Alais was quiet, as she had been when she first came to me as a child. But day by day I saw a little of the light of her soul coming back into her eyes. She was brokenhearted by the death of her daughter, but her spirit had not been broken. I had never been prouder of her than I was during those dark days. On a day in mid-April, Henry rode into the keep at Windsor. The sky was a bright blue, and the wind was from the south, and warm. It promised joy, a sense of hope that Alais did not feel. I saw in her eyes that she thought her life was over. She was so very young. Henry came to me first in my solar. He did not announce himself, nor did he knock, but walked in past my women, raising one hand so that they knew to withdraw. I stood looking at the husband who had tried to rid himself of me. We had been parted only a few months, but already it was as if I did not know him. As I looked at Henry, standing aloof and remote before me, I saw that I would never know his mind again. “Henry,” I said. “I am sorry for your loss.” His gray eyes met mine, but I did not feel their warmth. He stared at me, cold, remote, as he might stare at a stranger. “Thank you,” he said. Alais came in, and I was grateful for her presence. She moved slowly, as an invalid might. She felt the loss of her daughter keenly. The princess did not hesitate, but went straight to Henry’s side. Despite all that had happened, she still felt drawn to him, as if she had the right. And I suppose, if the right was something Henry gave her, she did have it. He opened his arms to her as if they had never been apart, as if she had not betrayed him to Richard. I saw the love between them. I looked beyond their lust, beyond politics, and saw that they were kindred spirits, just as Alais and I were, just as Henry and I once had been. Henry held her gently, close to his heart, as if she were made of Venetian glass and might break at the slightest touch. “Henry” His name was the only word she spoke. She drew the heavy wimple and veil from her head, so that he might see her shorn hair. His features darkened when he beheld the small cap of dark brown, all that was left of her glorious curls. He held her face between his hands, staring down into her eyes. He kissed her gently on the forehead, his lips as soft and fleeting as his love. He kissed her once, then let her go. The pain in his eyes receded, drawn back into his heart, where he would never look at it again. I saw the shutters of his eyes close to her, as they already had closed to me. He stared at Alais for a long moment, then took a step away from both of us. Though he loved her almost as much as he had once loved me, he had decided her fate already. “It is good that you have shorn your hair, Princess. For in two weeks’ time, you will return............