Cruel as the Grave

TOWER OF LONDON, ENGLAND April 1193 They were intimate enemies, bound by blood. Here in the torchlit splendor of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, they'd fought yet another of their battles. As always, there was no winner. They'd inflicted wounds that would be slow to heal, and that, too, was familiar. Nothing had changed, nothing had been resolved. But never had the stakes been so high. It shimmered in the shadows between them, the ultimate icon of power: England's royal crown. Few knew better than Eleanor of Aquitaine how seductive that power could be. In her youth, she'd wed the French king, then left him for the man who would become King of England. That passionate, turbulent marriage of love and hate was part of her distant, eventful past; if Henry's unquiet ghost still stalked the realm of marital memory, she alone knew it. Now in her seventy-first year, she was England's revered Dowager Queen, rising above the ruins of her life like a castle impervious to assault. If her fabled beauty had faded, her wit had not, and her will was as finely honed as the sword of her most celebrated son, Richard Lionheart, the crusader king languishing in a German prison. But she was much more than Richard's mother, his invincible ally: She was his only hope. The torches sputtered in their wall sconces, sending up wavering fingers of flame. The silence grew louder by the moment, thudding in her ears like an army's drumbeat. She watched as he paced, this youngest of her eaglets. John, Count of Mortain and Earl of Gloucester, would-be king. He seethed with barely suppressed fury, giving off almost as much heat as those erratic torches. His spurs struck white sparks against the tiled floor, and the swirl of his mantle gave her a glimpse of the sword at his hip. This might be her last chance to reach him, to avert calamity. What could she say that he would heed? What threat was likely to work? What promise? "I will not allow you to steal Richard's crown," she said tautly. "Understand that if you understand nothing else, John. As long as I have breath in my body, I will oppose you in this. As will the justiciars." "You think so?" he scoffed. "They held fast today, but who knows what may happen on the morrow? They might well decide that England would be better served by a living king than a dead one!" "Richard is not dead." "How can you be so sure of that, Madame? Have you second-sight? Or is this merely a doting mother's lapse into maudlin sentimentality?" Beneath his savage sarcasm, she caught echoes of an emotion he would never acknowledge: a jealousy more bitter than gall. "Bring us back incontrovertible proof of Richard's death," she said, "and we will then consider your claim to the throne." John's eyes showed sudden glints of green. "You mean you would weigh my claim against Arthur's, do you not?" "Richard named his nephew as his heir. I did not," she said pointedly. "Must I remind you that you are my son, flesh of my flesh? Why would I not want the kingship for you?" "That is a question I've often asked myself." "If you'd have me say it, listen, then. I want you to be king. Not Arthuryou." He could not hide a flicker of surprise. "You almost sound as if you mean that." "I do, John," she said. "I swear by all the saints that I do." For a moment, he hesitated, and she thought she'd gotten to him.Penman, Sharon Kay is the author of 'Cruel as the Grave' with ISBN 9780345441447 and ISBN 0345441443.