Eleanor de Payens shivered as Norbert and Alberic intoned the Advent 'O' antiphons. Outside Hugh's tent it was black and cold. Inside, a meagre fire and two evil-smelling candles shed a little light and warmth against the stink and the freezing cold. 1097, the year of iron and blood, was drawing to a close. [...]
She tried to curb the wave of self-pity and stared round the tent. They had left Constantinople seventy thousand strong; now they were fewer than fifty thousand. A long trail of funeral crosses and burial mounds stretched back across Asia. An army of ghosts must now march with them. She closed her eyes briefly and gave thanks that at least those dear to her had survived. Hugh and Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert, Theodore, Beltran and Imogene, but, she stared swiftly around, they were all now grey people: grey-haired, grey-faced, grey-souled, ekeing out a grey existence in that sinister half-light of the year before the brooding mass of Antioch.
She was a beautiful woman, this princess of France. Her skin was pale and perfect, her eyes clear blue. She was clad in a pelicon, a fur-trimmed mantle that was quite voluminous, making Baldwin wonder how many tunics he would be able to cut from the one item of clothing. At a rough guess, he reckoned six.
Her arm was clearly giving her some pain, for when she moved as she spoke, it made her wince. Baldwin remembered hearing that some years before, maybe ten or so, she had been trapped in a fire when her tent had caught alight, and she had been badly burned. Apparently this was one of those injuries that healed only poorly. However, the aspect of her clothing that struck him more than any other was the almost shaneful nature of her bodice – it was cut lower than any he had seen in England before. He was forced to keep his eyes from her décolletage as he spoke to her.
'Radulf? What say you? We cannot set the lady free, for fear she fall prey to rebellious elements. Should we shackle her?'
Inwardly Radulf groaned. William was amusing himself. The king's playful, oftimes violent, sense of humor was famous, and rightly feared.
'I agree she should be shackled, sire,' he replied, refusing to meet Lily's stricken gray eyes, although he felt their power like a spear in his belly.
William shifted eagerly in his ornately carved chair. 'And what should we use to shackle her, my friend?'
Radulf pretended to be thoughtful. 'For such a woman as this we must use a mighty restraint, sire. Shackles she cannot possibly escape, shackles which will hold her prisoner all her life.'
The great hall was hushed, anticipation rubbing against horror until the atmosphere was raw.
'Yes.' William drew the word out thoughtfully. 'Mighty shackles. I think I know what will hold Lady Wilfreda securely, Radulf. You will marry her, and without delay.'
