“COUNT GEOFFREY OF ANJOU is dead, may God assoil him.”
Eleanor, playing in the rushes of the solar with her young daughters, Marie and Alix, glanced up. Louis, looking like the angel of death in somber black, stood in the doorway.
“What are you saying? He left here less than ten days ago.” Trust Louis to get the facts wrong. She turned impatiently back to the children.
“It’s true. As God is my witness. A messenger from his son, Geoffrey, in Angers has just brought the news. Not ten leagues from Le Mans the count became overheated and stopped to bathe in the tainted waters of the Loire,” Louis continued, an unmistakable note of relish in his voice. “That very night he developed a raging fever and two days later he died.” He signed himself. “What says Holy Writ? ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’ ”
Stunned, Eleanor slowly got to her feet. Geoffrey le Bel dead. It was unimaginable. After absorbing the initial shock, she wondered if word had reached Henry in Rouen. He would be grief-stricken, and she must send an immediate message of condolence. Eleanor strenuously hoped that Henry and Geoffrey had made up their differences before going their separate ways outside Paris. For a brief instant she experienced a surge of guilt, remembering that she had been the unwitting cause of conflict between father and son.
“This means that brash young upstart, Henry, is now count of Anjou as well as duke of Normandy,” Louis said, watching her. “Too much power to be concentrated in the hands of one so young and impetuous. We must pray that he does not gain England as well.”
“As I recall, Louis, you were only sixteen when the crown of France descended upon your inexperienced head.”
Blinking back an unexpected rush of tears, Eleanor wondered what Louis would do when he discovered that Aquitaine would increase that “upstart’s” domains still further. She signaled the nurse to take the children back to their quarters.
“Bernard of Clairvaux has told me that in his opinion you were far too fond of Count Geoffrey,” Louis said.
Eleanor did not answer, but Louis seemed compelled to talk about the Angevin, whom he had always resented yet whose charm had beguiled him. “The abbé predicted the count would come to a bad end, and also his son.”
“Is there anyone he doesn’t think will come to a bad end?”
The meddling monk of Clairvaux, who had replaced Abbé Suger as unofficial advisor, now had the king’s exclusive confidence. Eleanor knew Bernard distilled poison into Louis’s ears at every opportunity. Mostly against her and, to be fair, not all of it false. While it was certainly true that she had dallied with Count Geoffrey over the years, flirting with him and teasing, she had never granted him the one favor he most desired.
In the monk’s eyes, however, if she had sinned in her heart, the desire and the deed were virtually one and the same. Louis had told her that in his youth, Bernard had once cast a fleeting glance of admiration toward a girl. It had been winter and to make amends for this sin he had plunged himself into an icy pond for over an hour, where he almost expired before being rescued.
“Geoffrey is dead. Isn’t that enough for both of you? I was raised to believe it is uncharitable to speak ill of the dead. Now, please, leave me alone. I would mourn the death of my good friend in private.”
“Eleanor—” Louis began in a distraught voice. “Could we not—” His voice trailed off.
She knew the sight of those houndlike eyes, that long disconsolate face should move her to pity, but everything he did, every word he uttered, set her teeth on edge. She forced herself to respond with courtesy.
“What do you wish to say to me, Louis?”
With a despairing gesture, he left the solar.
In the ducal palace at Rouen, Henry wept. The unexpected death of his father was devastating. Again and again, he went over their last days together, unable to dislodge from his mind that they had not parted as friends, but as rivals for the same woman—and Geoffrey had lost. Was he somehow responsible for his father’s death? Henry could not confide his sense of guilt to his mother, who was going through her own Gethsemene regarding the loss of her husband. He had the uncomfortable feeling that guilt played a part in his mother’s pain as well. He did not want to know why.
All the way to Le Mans to attend the funeral and hear the will read, Henry tried to persuade himself that his father’s demise had nothing to do with his actions in Paris. To imagine that it did was pure folly. Why then did he feel so ashamed?
In early September Eleanor received an angry letter from Henry, in Le Mans for his father’s burial. It confirmed that he was now count of Anjou and Maine, but also mentioned a surprising clause in the count’s will that left Anjou to his second son, Geoffrey, should Henry gain the crown of England. Henry was obviously outraged at this unexpected twist in what should have been a routine matter. Eleanor did not blame him for being angry, nor could she understand why Geoffrey had added the clause. In Anjou, as well as in other parts of the Continent, the eldest son always inherited the fief, county, or duchy as a matter of course. It was extraordinary that the count should have broken with precedent. The action hinted at some dark secret.
She replied immediately with an outpouring of sympathy and condolences. He did not respond but later Eleanor heard that after burying his father he had gone back to Normandy to prepare for the invasion of England. At Christmas there was another brief message from Henry, sent in secret, informing her he was having trouble getting together enough men and ships to cross the Channel. He also wanted to know, almost as an afterthought, when the annulment proceedings would occur. Then, four months passed during which Eleanor heard no word at all. Greatly disappointed, alternating between resentment and anxiety, she sometimes wondered whether the entire encounter between them had been a figment of her imagination.
The arrangements for the annulment, which had been proceeding at a snail’s pace in Eleanor’s view, almost came to a complete halt over the matter of her daughters.
“Of course I intend to keep Alix and Marie with me,” she told Bernard of Clairvaux, Louis, and Louis’s advisors, who were paying a visit to her solar. “I’m their mother and I will raise them in Aquitaine.”
“As you well know, King Louis wishes to keep them, Madam,” said Bernard. “They are royal children.”
“Royal French children,” added Louis.
“They will come with me.”
Bernard raised his brows. “What has prompted this sudden burgeoning of maternal feeling? You have shown little interest in your children up to now.”
“Little interest. Exactly,” said Louis with a vigorous nod.
“I’ve shown as much interest as you,” said Eleanor to Louis. “You’ve never forgiven them for not being boys.”
She refused to meet Bernard’s eyes. His accusation was only too true. She had had little maternal feeling for Marie and Alix, but she felt responsible for their welfare and had no intention of being parted from them.
There was a tense silence while Bernard fixed her with a stern look. “You may not know this, Madam, but had I had my way, the grounds for annulment of this marriage would not be consanguinity but adultery—or worse.”
She composed her face into an expressionless mask. “That is a ridiculous charge. You have no reason to accuse me.”
“If one were to dig deeply into your own life, Madam, I daresay much might be found that you would prefer to keep secret. Shall we put it to the test?” He paused. “You know what happens to adulterous wives? Loss of freedom—in a nunnery or remote castle—sometimes loss of life, not to mention total disgrace. I doubt convent discipline would suit you. Certainly that precious heretical duchy that means so much to you would be lost to you forever and become part of France.”
Impaled on those burning eyes, Eleanor could not speak. Did he know about Raymond? What had Louis—or others—told him?
“I see that you are aware of the possible consequences. If you are wise, do not push this matter of your children. Be grateful to God that your husband is so charitable, and take a lesson from his goodness of heart. You have been allowed to retain Aquitaine. This must satisfy you. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
Legally, of course, she was within her rights. Annulment meant the marriage had never existed, therefore the children of a nonexistent marriage might be said not to exist either. But Eleanor did not attempt to argue. In any encounter with Bernard, invariably she was the loser.
The council for the annulment proceedings was held in April of the new year 1152 at the royal castle of Beaugency on the Loire. After a host of witnesses swore that Louis was related to the duchess of Aquitaine in the forbidden degree, the archbishop of Sens rose to his feet and in a solemn voice pronounced the marriage null and void; the daughters, Marie and Alix, were to be awarded to their father. Suddenly limp, unable to move from her chair, Eleanor thought she would faint with relief. At long last, could it really be over? She stole a glance at Louis and was surprised to see his cheeks damp with tears. For an instant their gaze met. Eleanor was the first to look away, unable to bear the naked longing reflected in his eyes. That he still loved her was painfully evident.
Spurred by the knowledge that once news of the annulment was spread abroad her person and lands would be fair game, Eleanor planned to leave immediately for Poitou. She had accepted that the price of her freedom would be the loss of Marie and Alix, and, with a leaden heart, had already said her good-byes. Filled with guilt, she had convinced herself that they would be better off with Louis and his next wife—whoever that might be. Perhaps one day when they were grown she could speak to them as equals and make them understand why she had been forced to abandon them—or chosen this course as the only way out of her dungeon, would be more accurate.
Eleanor donned an ermine-lined black cloak and Cordovan boots of wine-colored leather, then hung an embossed leather sheath from her girdle. Into this she slipped a narrow silver dagger with rubies embedded in its hilt that she had bought in the bazaars of Jerusalem. It wasn’t that she anticipated trouble, but it was just as well to be prepared.
Outside in the courtyard her entourage was waiting, mules and sumpter horses already loaded with her belongings. By nightfall she hoped to reach the safety of Blois, far from Louis’s domains, where the royal arm could not reach her.
The Vespers bell had just sounded when Eleanor, hungry and half-asleep, approached the castle of young Count Thibaud of Blois, seeking shelter for the night. The count, a nephew of King Stephen of England, welcomed her, then, once she was safely inside his keep, announced in the most charming manner that he would not allow Eleanor to leave unless she agreed to become his countess.
She was speechless, far too tired to argue. Fortunately he took her silence for consent, and when she pleaded exhaustion allowed her to retire to her quarters immediately after supper. She had geared herself for just this possibility and then walked right into the trap like an unsuspecting rabbit. To be caught nodding like a convent maid was galling to her pride. In truth, she was not afraid of Count Thibaud, who was very young and untried, more bluster than anything else, she suspected. He should be very easy to outwit, and her seeming lack of resistance would put him off the scent.
And so matters turned out. Assuming she would not attempt to escape, the foolish count left the drawbridge lowered. In the dead of night, dagger in hand, Eleanor slipped unnoticed from her chamber into the outer bailey and out through an unguarded postern gate where her own men and horses were quartered. By dawn they were out of Blois and into Touraine. She was elated and could not wait to tell Henry how she had outwitted Count Thibaud—although this could not be considered a great feat. It was well known that the counts of Blois, though charming and comely, were not blessed with a great quantity of wits.
Despite the fact that Touraine was under Henry’s control, Eleanor, wary now, sent out an advance guard to look over the region. They reported back with a rumor that Henry’s younger brother, Geoffrey, planned to ambush her, take her captive, and force her into marrying him. She avoided this possible snare by taking a detour off the main road, her party then crossed the river Creuse in boats in order to put young Geoffrey off the scent.
Astride her white palfrey, Eleanor approached the borders of Poitou. The countryside, decked out in the yellow-green livery of spring, had never looked more beautiful. Above her the sky curved in a dizzying arc of palest blue. In the distance, she could see dappled slopes, black olive groves, valleys dotted with golden buttercups, and daisies turning white and yellow faces toward the afternoon sun.
Closer to view, hydrangea and magnolia trees were just beginning to put forth young green shoots. The scent of honeysuckle blew on the breeze; the sound of thrush and lark pierced the air with a throbbing sweetness. The renewal of life blossoming all around her filled Eleanor with a growing sense of promise, an awareness that after a long dry winter the sap was rising in her as well.
Despite all the obstacles Louis and his advisors had tried to put in her path, she had flung open the doors of her prison, and successfully fought for and retained control of Aquitaine, as well as the right to remarry with her overlord’s consent. Thank the Holy Mother she had had the foresight to become aware of her rights, acquainting herself with the legal and ecclesiastical restrictions governing annulments. It was an almost impossible achievement, and Eleanor felt absurdly pleased with herself. Still, her recent contretemps with the count of Blois and her escape from Henry’s younger brother, made it chillingly clear that to protect her duchy she would need a duke-consort. She thought wistfully of Henry and wondered where he was.
Just ahead the path led through a wooded copse. The horses picked their way through cool green glades where sunlight did not penetrate and skirted clearings filled with thistle, ragwort, wild foxglove, and bramble.
“Look, Lady,” said one of the knights, as they trotted out of the copse. “Poitou.”
Free! Free! Free! Her heart sang, keeping pace with the rhythm of her palfrey’s hooves against the moist earth. Shackles unfettered, she was flown with the knowledge of her release, intoxicated by her hard-won independence.
They crossed the border, then followed the Vienne River as it flowed south toward Chinon, Châttellerault, and Poitiers.
A day later Eleanor rounded the curve of a sharply rising hill and drew rein. Her heart leapt. Below lay the familiar walls of Poitiers. She was home. That night she spent alone with her women in her old chamber at the Maubergeonne Tower. When she woke the next morning, bursting with energy, she felt like the Eleanor of old for the first time in fourteen years.
There was an enormous amount to do in order to prepare for her wedding, which must be held as soon as possible before Louis got wind of their plans. But first she must write to Henry telling him of her safe arrival. She sought out her grandmother’s old chaplain, one of her own early teachers, Master André, who could write faster than she, asking him to attend her in the small chamber at the top of the tower.
She had not visited the chamber since she was a child but nothing had changed. Surely this was the same high-backed wooden chair, worn footstool, and scarred reading desk she had known of yore? She ran her hands over them with loving familiarity, half-expecting to hear the gentle rustle of her mother’s skirts as she climbed the stairs, her soft voice calling her for the evening meal. She blinked back an absurd desire to cry. What a long way she had come since those carefree golden days.
Armed with pens, inkhorn, lead, a ruler, and leaves of parchment, the now elderly chaplain clattered stiffly into the chamber and seated himself in the armchair. While he prepared himself for his task, Eleanor sank down onto the wooden bench she had sat in so often as a child. Her mother’s angelic presence gave way to an image of Henry’s freckled face split by an engaging grin. She remembered how his piercing gray eyes could suddenly turn warm and inviting, how intense the force of his superabundant vitality, how intoxicating the spell cast by his rough-hewn charm. Her heart leapt. She could hardly wait to feel all that restless energy …
“To whom is this letter to be written, Lady?”
She turned to the white-tonsured chaplain, a Poitevin born and bred, with whom she had argued all through her childhood until she went away to school at the Abbey of Fontevrault. He had taught her to read and write Provençal, knew her as well as anyone in Poitiers, and was one of the very few clerics she could not only tolerate but enjoy.
“To my next husband, Father André. What do you think of that?”
The chaplain raised unruly brows. “What I think will depend on the name of this most fortunate individual.”
“Henry Plantagenet, duke of Normandy, most recently count of Anjou, and king of England in the not too distant future.”
“Benedicite! How time passes! He must be all of eighteen years now. It seems like only yesterday that he was a naughty child creating a disturbance at your betrothal feast. And from all I hear he is creating disturbances still. But duke, count, and possibly king? Most impressive. You have outdone yourself, my child.”
“I take it you think Henry a wise choice?”
He tapped a considering finger against his withered chin. “Wise? There are problems, of course. A dispensation will be required. You and the duke are as closely related as were you and Louis, all three of you having a common ancestor in Robert the Pious, King of France, in the early days of the eleventh century.”
Eleanor giggled. “I know. Louis will be beside himself.”
“Do I detect a note of satisfaction? For shame. Haven’t you caused that unhappy monarch enough trouble, my child?”
Eleanor tossed her head. “Less than he caused me—and Aquitaine.”
“This marriage to young Henry may well engender a feud between the Angevins and France that could take generations to mend. Have you thought of that?”
Eleanor rose and peered out the tiny window, bathing her face in a narrow ray of sunlight. “Normandy and France have been enemies since time out of mind, and Anjou is now ruled by a half-Norman. What is one more coal to an already raging fire? Right now Aquitaine desperately needs a strong consort.” She turned back to him. “If I hadn’t escaped, the count of Blois would have forced me into marriage, and Henry’s younger brother attempted to lay a trap for the same purpose. And this occurred between Poitou and France within only a week’s time! The future must look to itself, Father André; my concern is this duchy. I asked if you thought Henry a wise choice.”
“Wiser than who? Louis of France? Most certainly so. And I would be the last person to deny that there is great need of a strong consort to protect Aquitaine. But a Norman? Will he adapt to our ways or must we adapt to his? Your people will not stand for another tyrant.”
Eleanor did not answer, could not answer. She returned to her seat and looked at the chaplain with troubled eyes. When she had impulsively offered Henry her hand and duchy, she felt certain they would suit one another, above and beyond her feelings as a woman for him. She could appreciate Henry’s strength, approve his vaulting ambition, and identify with his dream of ruling England.
“He has showed no signs of being a tyrant—” she began then stopped, realizing that this was no guarantee that he would not turn out to be one.
Master André was watching her carefully. “Louis of France behaved like the mildest of men—but not in Poitou when he cut off the hands of the rebel leaders, or in Vitry where he was responsible for the death of thirteen thousand innocent people.”
Eleanor found she could not meet his eyes. Now that she was in the sanctity of her own domain, she felt less certain about Henry. In truth, except for his titles and lineage, she barely knew this personable youth to whom she had already committed herself.
“I suspect there will be a need to adapt on both sides,” she said at last, thrusting aside a niggle of doubt.
The chaplain nodded approvingly. “Compromise is always the wise course to follow. Those that bend do not break. And it is well to remember that your father thought very highly of Count Geoffrey of Anjou; your grandfather, albeit briefly, was once married to a sister of Geoffrey’s father. Thus Poitou and Anjou are not exactly strangers. How far can the apple fall from the tree?”
After a moment’s pause he shot her a keen glance. “I hope you have properly thanked God and His Holy Mother for your good fortune?”
“I hardly need reminding.”
“Oh, but you do. After all these years, you think I’m unaware of your attitude toward the Church? Just bear in mind that the main reason you did not lose Aquitaine to France was due to the skillful negotiations of the archbishop of Bordeaux. He saw to it that the marriage contract to Louis should stipulate that Aquitaine could only be incorporated into the kingdom of France when you had borne a son and that son succeeded on the throne.”
“Yes, all right. I truly am grateful. Don’t be tiresome.”
“There is much you can teach your new husband,” mused the chaplain. “The duke is mettlesome but young, not yet hardened in his ways; he can still be molded to your hand, subtly introduced to our customs and how we go about things here.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Eleanor said. She was about to say more but saw there was no need.
Her eyes met the old chaplain’s. For an instant their disparate identities—churchman and duchess—blurred, as two Aquitainians exchanged a look of perfect understanding.
For the next few weeks Eleanor was so busy seeing to the administration of her duchy that there was little time to yearn for Henry. By prior agreement, all Louis’s men were to be withdrawn from key positions in Aquitaine and replaced with her own loyal vassals. Three clerks as well as the chaplain were kept busy writing letters to her chief barons informing them that once again she was now duchess of Aquitaine and countess of Poitou in her own right and acting as such; they must once again renew their oaths of homage and fealty to her. In addition, Eleanor issued an edict declaring every act she and Louis had made together, or that Louis had made alone, now null and void.
“I intend to obliterate the last fifteen years as if they never existed,” she told Master André, “and start anew.”
“Is this for the benefit of your subjects, or are you punishing Louis for your unhappy life in France?”
Eleanor made a face at him but did not answer.
While letters were being written and messages sent, there was the tower to be cleaned and refurbished, her own possessions restored and polished. Everything must be made ready for the arrival of her future husband—although she had received no word from Henry and had no idea when he would make an appearance.
As the days passed, Eleanor’s concern for the Norman duke was mitigated by the enormous sense of satisfaction she was achieving from finally being able to do things her way in her own duchy without male interference. Instinctively, miraculously, effortlessly, she knew exactly how to proceed without once placing a foot wrong.
One of the first things she did was to design her own seal. On one side was the figure of a bare-headed woman with outstretched arms, a falcon in one hand, a fleur-de-lis in the other. The inscription stated simply, “Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine.” On the reverse side were the titles she would acquire when she married: Countess of Anjou, Duchess of Normandy. The figure on this side would be clad in a tight gown and a veil falling to the ground.
When Master André told her that various abbeys and convents were concerned about their rights and privileges, she acted immediately.
“Tell the abbot of Montierneuf Abbey to attend me as soon as possible.”
“Lady,” said the old abbot in a quavering voice, as he approached her in the great hall of the Tower the following day. “I hope you have not forgotten us.”
Eleanor, seated on a raised dais, rose to her feet to welcome him. “On the contrary, I intend to renew all the abbey’s privileges granted by my great-grandfather, grandfather, and father.” She turned to the two clerks who attended her. “Please draw up the charter at once.”
She was rewarded by a toothless smile of relief.
When the abbot of St.-Maixent complained that in her sweeping removal of all Louis’s grants the abbey’s woods, donated by the French king, had reverted back to her, Eleanor acknowledged her error. She instructed the clerk:
“Write the abbot that I gladly renew all his abbey’s rights to those lands.”
The abbot was overcome with gratitude at her prompt handling of the situation.
It was so easy, really, to keep these people happy, Eleanor realized. You listened, showed interest, and acted for the greatest good of all concerned.
One morning in mid-May, a sudden impulse took her to visit the abbey of Fontevrault near the Angevin border. She now knew a great deal more about its origins than she had as a pupil there, and what she knew appealed to her.
Founded fifty-three years ago by a Breton reformer who, astoundingly, believed in the superiority of women, Fontevrault had been dedicated to the Virgin. The abbey was unique in that it housed both nuns and monks under the rule of an abbess. Over the years it had become a refuge for battered noblewomen escaping from abusive husbands. Eleanor’s own grandmother on her father’s side, the Troubadour’s second wife, Phillipa of Toulouse, enraged at her philandering husband and his mistress, Dangereuse, had ended her days at Fontevrault.
“You have not visited us since you were a pupil here,” the abbess said, as they sat in her private quarters, over wine and honey cakes baked in the abbey’s own kitchens. “Of course I was much younger then, but I remember you very well.”
Eleanor laughed. “In and out of scrapes, as I recall.” She paused. “You know my marriage to King Louis is annulled?”
The abbess’s face, framed by a snowy wimple, creased into a wide smile. “Surely all Europe knows this by now.”
“Of course. I had forgotten that in these parts gossip travels faster than the wind. What you may not know, however, is that soon I’m to marry Duke Henry of Normandy, now count of Anjou as well, and one day king of England—or so we fervently hope.”
She could not keep the note of pride from her voice.
“Indeed, I had not heard that. I wish the Holy Mother’s blessing upon you, my child.” The abbess paused. “I was Alys of Anjou when I entered Fontevrault, thus you may not know that Henry of Normandy is my nephew. His father, Geoffrey—may he rest in peace—was my younger brother, and for a very brief time—I was only thirteen—I was wed to Henry’s uncle, his mother’s twin brother, William, who drowned in the White Ship only days after our wedding.”
Eleanor stared. “How extraordinary. I had no idea.”
The abbess smiled. “Soon I will be your aunt-in-law. I cannot help but feel that there are so many coincidences here, the Holy Mother must have intended our lives to intertwine.”
With the exception of Petronilla, now married to Ralph and living in France, Eleanor had never sought either the counsel or company of women, despite her affection for her mother, the influence of her grandmother, and her great admiration for the abbess—long since dead—she had known here as a child. Winning the approval of men had been so much more important to her survival. Now, to her surprise, she found she wanted the approbation of this woman whose serene presence permeated the chamber like a ray of sunlight.
“Then I take it you approve of this marriage, Reverend Mother?”
The abbess cocked her head to one side. “It is not for me to approve or disapprove, though naturally I am partial to my nephew. The duchy’s welfare aside, your own heart is your best guide.”
Eleanor took a sip of wine. “Not God? Or the Holy Mother?”
“Do I detect a note of skepticism?” The abbess wagged a gently reproving finger. “The Holy Mother is guiding us when we follow the true dictates of our heart.”
It was the last thing Eleanor had expected to hear, and it disposed her to intimacy. “I will remember that.” She leaned forward. “You know, I’ve never really had the opportunity to be my own mistress before. I must say I truly enjoy it.”
The abbess’s eyes twinkled. “Naturally, for now you are both duke and duchess with no one to gainsay you. The power is all yours.” She paused. “Though from all I hear—and I hear a great deal that goes on in Poitou—you’re using that power most wisely. It appears to me that you have the makings of a great administrator, my child. Far better than your well-meaning father, who, I often heard, frequently behaved with reckless abandon where the duchy was concerned.”
At this unexpected praise, Eleanor was overcome with a surge of pleasure. In France she had been acknowledged only as a troublemaker.
“In truth, Reverend Mother, sometimes I am at a loss to understand the male way of things. Louis and his advisors complicated everything. My people can be difficult, but if one is willing to be impartial, give them generally what they want—if no harm results—and respect their differences, this business of ruling can be greatly simplified.”
“I tend to agree—but do not be surprised if my nephew views the matter in a different light.”
Eleanor searched the calm face before her, almost afraid to ask the abbess what she meant. “I’m not sure I understand. Is this a warning?”
There was a long pause. Then the abbess leaned forward and took Eleanor’s hand in her cool dry fingers. “This is a heady time for you, my child. A golden future beckons. Just remember that a house cannot have two masters.” She smiled. “Be guided by the example of St. Radegonde, the patron saint of Poitou. At a time when Church councils were debating whether woman has a soul, she proved that a gentle female of intelligence and courage could create her own world. Through Radegonde the world of learning and transcribing manuscripts became open to us. In an age of true barbarity, she was a glowing illustration of what a woman can do.”
The abbess released Eleanor’s hand, rising to her feet. “And now, I fear, my duties call me.”
“It is with great gladness that I, as duchess, renew all Fontevrault’s privileges,” Eleanor said, also rising. “In addition I would like to add five hundred silver pennies as a personal donation—let it go to the support of the abused wives and noblewomen that take refuge here.”
“It is a regal gift. We are very grateful. One day, perhaps, Fontevrault can show its gratitude.”
“I hardly expect to seek refuge here as the victim of a cruel and abusive husband,” Eleanor said, laughing.
“No indeed.” The abbess joined in the laughter.
Elated that she had discovered a friend, Eleanor left the abbey in high spirits.
A week later her formidable Aunt Agnes, who was now abbess of the Convent of Saintes, descended on the Maubergeonne Tower in high dudgeon.
“The news is all over Poitou that you have given that upstart Fontevrault a huge donation,” her aunt announced.
This abbess’s presence was far from serene. Her thin lips reminded Eleanor of a steel trap, and the gray hairs sprouting from her chin quivered in accusation.
“Dearest Aunt, what a pleasant surprise! Would you believe I was just about to send for you to discuss new lands and privileges for Saintes?”
Aunt Agnes snorted but allowed herself to be placated.
Shortly thereafter her mother’s shrewd, mischief-making brothers appeared from Châttellerault. She promptly appointed one of them, Ralph de Faye, as seneschal of the duchy, knowing that if she gave him power he could be trusted to keep the others in line. When she heard that her troublesome neighbors, the de Lusignans, were threatening not to renew their oaths of homage to her, Eleanor invited them to a feast where she succeeded in charming them into grudging compliance.
“Matters progress well, don’t you think?” she asked the chaplain.
“Exceeding well—thus far,” he said.
As the weeks passed with still no word from Henry, Eleanor discovered that her memories of the young duke were growing dim. Her domains were not being threatened; she was managing the duchy’s affairs with ease and skill. If the nuptial ceremony was delayed she would not be brokenhearted. Surviving on her own was far more pleasurable and rewarding than Eleanor had imagined; she was so busy that even her restless body had not troubled her. In truth, for the first time she felt released from the fetters of gender, and was amazed to realize that she was in no haste to remarry at all.
One morning in mid-May Eleanor was holding court in the great hall, listening to a series of complaints from the citizens of Poitiers. At a table close by, on a wide piece of parchment almost three feet long, a clerk recorded all decisions made.
A wealthy widow was complaining that her neighbor’s pigs had broken into her garden and rooted up all her beans and cabbages.
“That is a falsehood,” cried the neighbor lady. “My pigs never left my land.”
“Do you have witnesses or any other proof of this offense?” Eleanor asked.
The widow sullenly shook her head.
“Unless you have witnesses there is no evidence that your neighbor’s pigs broke into your garden. If you can bring at least one or two witnesses, I will hear your grievance at the next court, otherwise I must fine you for a false complaint.”
Unable to stifle a sigh of weariness—the hall was very hot and she had been judging cases since Terce—Eleanor was about to ask for the next complaint when the steward, who stood at her side, bent his head.
“There is no need for you to continue here, Lady. After all, these are but trifling cases, and I or the local bailiff can easily deal with them.”
“Thank you, but these are my people. After fifteen years of King Louis, they must get to know and trust me all over again. What better way than for me to dispense justice? Now who is next?”
The steward nodded then called the wives of the blacksmith and the miller, who had had a violent quarrel at the baker’s oven over two missing loaves of bread. They had shouted and slapped one another, then tore at each other’s hair. Their husbands had joined the fray and the local bailiff had been called in to restore order.
Repressing a laugh, Eleanor assumed what she hoped was a judicial expression.
“We cannot have such a public disturbance. It sets a bad example. The miller and the smith are fined five sous each.” She glanced at the wives. “You are hereby warned that if another incident of this kind occurs the penalty will be more severe. The oven is for everyone’s use and we must be charitable toward one another. Two missing loaves do not equal two stolen loaves.”
As Eleanor called for the next case, she heard the sound of horses’ hooves thundering into the courtyard. Moments later a groom rushed into the hall and breathlessly announced the arrival of the duke of Normandy and three companions.
She rose quickly to her feet. “That will be all for today.”
Leaving the steward to dismiss the people and collect the fines, Eleanor entered the courtyard. Henry had not yet dismounted. A hooded falcon sat on one gauntleted wrist; a sprig of golden planta genista bobbed in his blue cap. One look at his broad shoulders, his muscular body vibrant with energy, a single hot glance from his smoky eyes, and Eleanor’s heart turned over in her breast.
Before she could stop herself, she ran to his horse and stretched out a trembling hand. Henry tore off a gauntlet with his teeth and seized her fingers, almost crushing them in the force of his grip. When Eleanor felt a hot flow pass from his palm into hers, she could not remember why she had wanted for even a single moment to put off the wedding.