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queen knows?” I stumbled through it, but it had to be asked.
    I knew I was presuming on our old friendship. I was taking a risk, but I felt beyond humiliation. If he had given the slightest indication of yielding, of telling me the fate of the child, the fate that Eleanor already knew, I would have thrown myself at his feet to beg.
    â€œYour Grace.” Tom stared at the rushes on the floor, his voice grave, his own cheeks reddening. Then he raised his eyes to mine. “I know only that the queen seems quite beside herself over this situation that threatens the throne of her son. She desperately wants to retrieve her letters before they can be used to wreak further mischief in this wrangle. And because I serve her”—here he paused as if his script required elaboration—“as I serve you”—his look was unwavering—“I have pledged myself to assist in any way I can.”
    His candor made me ashamed. I suddenly saw myself in the reflection of his eyes and glanced away.
    He paused, and for a long time we said nothing. Then he added, “No one knows better than I how painful that … event … many years ago was for you. If I had answers I could give you, I would have done so then.”
    â€œSo if I go to Canterbury, you go with me?” I shifted slightly and began sorting the manuscripts on the table, to hide my emotion from his unbearably sympathetic eyes.
    â€œYes, Your Grace.”
    â€œWell, then.” I turned back to him. “Prepare yourself, good Tom, for we leave for Canterbury at dawn on the morrow.”
    His broad face broke into a smile so honest and relieved that I had to smile back. Truly, I was amused to see he had expected me to refuse. He clasped his hands behind his back, and his shoulders seemed to lift.
    â€œI’ll have to tell my brother, and I expect he will press a few knights on us for safekeeping.”
    He nodded crisply, still grinning. Then, without further ado, he asked leave to go. I gave it to him gladly, for I had much to think about.
    In truth, I had surprised myself. When the interview began, I was by no means certain that I would give an assent to this bizarre scheme. I did not react well to the coercion Eleanor was using. And yet if she did have information about the child, I must have it. If the price was doing her bidding and—worse—opening those old wounds that had been long closed, so be it.
    I rang for my servants. By the time they appeared, I had already begun the note that would be taken to my brother, requesting permission for the journey. I had to call upon all my diplomatic skills to give a convincing explanation of what I was about to do, and why. And of course I did not, exactly, tell the full story.

.3.
Tales of the Deaths of Children
    W e rode hard out of the Île de la Cité at dawn the next morning, Tom and I and the escort of three knights that Philippe had pressed upon us. We paused before the bridge over the Seine, Tom examining the river for boats. I turned to take a last look at the cluster of gray stone that formed the buildings called home to the Paris court. As I did so, I noted three figures on horseback some distance behind us on the road. They were well mounted, with swords catching the early light, and so must be knights, but they had no other identification. They each wore the same nondescript gray cloak, and their hoods were raised. They pulled up their horses when we did, and I was disquieted for a moment. They seemed to turn sideways as I looked. Odd, too, that such a small party rode alone at dawn.
    Perhaps Philippe had provided an unannounced escort for us, not trusting our safety to such small numbers. We would see. I spurred my horse forward, and Tom and my other knights followed.
    The wind was up as we crossed the bridge, and a fine mist hit our faces as we headed southwest on the royal road. The sounds of the masons working on Sully’s great cathedral behind our backs