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the bathwater."
    "Ugh."
    "I am not so highborn as you, Eleanor of Nantes. While servants labor to drag heated to water you, I take my turn in the same tub with all but the scullery.
    "Well, when you are become a great lord, I will see you have hot water and fresh towels, and I will bathe you myself," she promised.
    The castle was crowded and everywhere she turned, Eleanor encountered strangers come to share the Maying with Gilbert. She picked her way along the covered walkway to the banquet hall with her skirts held above her ankles to avoid any spittle on the floor. She was dressed unusually fine even for a festival. Upon her return, her father had summoned her with unwonted joviality and presented her with a choice of her mother's jewelry to wear. Moreover, he'd given her an exquisitely embroidered surcoat which she wore low over a silver-threaded gown of ruby samite. The sleeves of her dress were fitted at her wrists with tiny silver bows, an unusual decoration created by Glynis. Even Herleva had outdone herself for her charge. Eleanor's hair had been brushed until it shone, then strands had been selected on her crown and woven with silver threads that ended in bows halfway between crown and shoulder.
    Jostled by the crowd until she found a small open space, Eleanor came face-to-face with her brother's tormentor of the morning. She gave him what she hoped passed for her haughtiest look and moved to pass. He stepped directly into her path. She found herself staring straight into a fine green tunic embroidered with golden leaves. He left her little choice but to acknowledge him. She met his eyes coolly.
    "Pray step aside that I may pass."
    Up close, she could see that he was unbelievably handsome—tall, black-haired, with green eyes that flickered over her with calculated arrogance before he spoke. There was no warmth in them or in his voice.
    "One day, Demoiselle, I will hold the fate of you and your family in my hands."
    A chill ran down her spine, but she held her ground. "A brave speech for a boy, I think."
    A black eyebrow rose. "I am older than Henry or the bastard you call brother. 'Tis you who are yet the child, Eleanor of Nantes, but I can wait." With the briefest of bows, he moved aside.
    She swept past him and into the great hall. Catching sight of her cousin, Walter de Clare, she made her way to his side. Nearly twenty, Walter carried about him an air of worldliness that always impressed her. At her approach he took in her face, her form, and her gown, murmuring appreciatively, "Sweet Jesu Cousin, you have grown since I last saw you." He caught her hand gracefully and carried it to his lip "Were I not betrothed myself, I should apply to the Pope for a dispensation and take you instead."
    "Pooh."
    She linked an arm through his and drew him aside from his fellows. "Walter, have you seen Roger? I would warn him to have a care for Belesme."
    Her cousin frowned and shook his head. "Eleanor if you would aid him, leave Roger be. He has won
Normandy
's favor—mayhap Henry's also—so do not be stirring up a quarrel when he has a chance to rise. 'Tis time to part and cry Godspeed if you love him." Walter leaned closer to whisper for her ears only, "Have a care for yourself and your family, sweet cousin. The rumor is that Prince Henry is besotted of you." He paused as Belesme passed by. "Think on that, Eleanor, and think how you can aid the family."
    "How?" she asked bluntly.
    "Make him ask for your hand in marriage."
    "Walter"—she shook her head in asperity—"you mistake the matter. Prince Henry and Duke William are merely being kind to me."
    "Foolish child. Neither the Old Bastard nor his spawn is given to kindness unless it suits their policy. Look at yourself and look at this hall—think you Gilbert hasn't hopes of snaring a rich alliance with you?" Walter waved his hand expansively around the room. "This place has been scraped, whitewashed, strewn with fresh rushes and flower petals, and decorated with new