Windsor Castle February 1173 Richard and I were sitting in his rooms, whiling away the long, dark afternoon in my husband’s keep, when Alais burst in on us from the hidden door. I could not have been more shocked if she had risen full-blown from the stones of the floor the way Henry’s ancestor was said to have been raised straight from hell. Richard was on his feet in an instant, trained for war as he was. He had his dagger¹ in his hand before he realized that it was not an assassin who came to us but Alais. “Richard, you must leave this place,” she said. “Alais.” Richard spoke² only her name. My son had the sense to put away his weapon, but I saw that he was slain³ already Pain and love lingered on his face, at war with each other, vying⁴ for precedence. I saw then that he loved her far more than I had understood. For the first time, I saw that between these two, there were no politics, no talk of war, or lands, or gold. Between these two, they had found something I had never sought. A love based not on necessity, politics, or power but on the simple, personal bond between them. The loss of Alais had cost him not an alliance with France, or the lands of the Vexin, but something that was to Richard more precious. Alais seemed as struck by the sight of my son as he was by her. She blinked, swallowing convulsively, though she was too strong to weep. As I watched, she rallied, and found her voice once more. “You must go. John has brought Henry a letter that tells of your alliance with Geoffrey. Even now, the king musters⁵ his men-at-arms.” Light began to dawn behind Richard’s eyes, a light of joy I thought never to see again. “You have betrayed him,” Richard said. “You have risked yourself, for me.” Alais reached for him, and he caught her hand. “I will not stand by and let them kill you.”
Henry would never raise his hand to our son. But I remembered Becket, and how Henry’s knights⁶ had murdered him in cold blood. I knew that Richard could not tarry here. Richard kissed Alais’ hand as if swearing her

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