ENGLAND! AT LONG LAST!
Beside himself with excitement, Henry jumped from the wildly rocking ship and splashed through the icy green water until he reached the shore. Even though his legs were numb with cold it was all he could do not to rush headlong down the beach, shouting aloud for sheer joy.
“What day is this?” he called to one of his knights.
“The sixth morning in January, my lord.”
A day to remember. He could almost visualize what the future chroniclers would say: On this sixth day of January, in the year of Our Lord, 1153, did Henry, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou and Maine, land upon England’s shores at Wareham to deliver the realm from the usurper, King Stephen.
A chill wind lashed about Henry’s ears as he stood on the empty beach watching his forces disembark. All thirty-six ships carrying one-hundred-forty knights and three-thousand foot soldiers had safely survived a stormy Channel crossing. Hugging his body to keep warm, Henry stomped up and down on the hard sand. Not nearly enough men, his mother had warned him, but with a sure instinct he had known he would be able to pick up the rest in England. He had been unwilling to leave before ensuring Normandy and Anjou were sufficiently manned, as he suspected that in his absence Louis might attempt another foray on Normandy, despite the failure of his initial attack a few months ago.
Upon Henry’s return to Rouen from Poitiers, Louis had ordered him to appear before the royal court to answer for his conduct in marrying Eleanor without permission of his overlord. Henry had sent spies into Paris who returned with the news that Louis was incensed at what he considered his vassal’s betrayal. Henry decided to ignore the summons. When he failed to appear, Louis and his army had crossed the borders into Normandy. Prominent among Louis’s confederates were Henry’s own brother, Geoffrey, jealous of Henry’s increasing rise to power, and his old enemy, Prince Eustace of England.
“By joining Louis, Geoffrey obviously hopes to defeat me and keep Anjou for himself,” Henry had told his mother.
He smiled grimly when he remembered how he had trounced Louis’s forces with such vehemence that the French monarch had retreated hastily back into France. Eustace had been recalled to England. His mother, as formidable in her wrath as an entire army, had dealt with his brother so soundly that Geoffrey had gone to ground in one of his castles and caused no further difficulty. For the moment all lay quiet in Normandy.
Henry did not expect trouble in Aquitaine, but if trouble appeared he trusted Eleanor, already pregnant with their first child, to deal with it. At his request she had left Poitou in the hands of her uncle Ralph, a competent seneschal, and traveled to Anjou, so that their first son would be born in Le Mans, his own birthplace. At the same time—as Henry could no longer trust his brother—she would act as a replacement for himself in Angers, yet still be close enough to Poitiers so that she would be aware of any difficulties in her own duchy.
Whenever he thought of Eleanor a wave of heat flooded his body, warming him despite the freezing weather. Unaccountably, no matter the time or place, his heart would swell, his loins stir, and, much to his amazement, he often found himself talking to her in his head. With the exception of his mother and the nameless wenches he had bedded, Henry had had little to do with women. At times, what he felt for Nell—he could not bring himself to use the word love—was so intense that his need to resist this feeling was almost as overpowering.
Initially Henry had been dazzled by the sparkle and wit of Eleanor’s personality, impressed by her wealth, intoxicated by her beauty, suborned by her overwhelming sensuality, and stimulated by her intelligence and worldly knowledge. He had been in such a fever to possess her that he could hardly contain himself.
Henry could not put his finger on the exact moment when he had become hopelessly bound by her spell. All that he knew was that when he left Poitou he had begun to care so deeply it disturbed him. There was something—not shameful exactly, but unmanly—in caring so strongly about a woman, almost as if his very survival were being threatened. For the first time he understood the story of Samson and Delilah in Holy Writ. As a result he had resolved never to let her or anyone else know the depth of his need. Resolutely, he now thrust all thoughts of Eleanor from his mind.
Against the driving wind he could hear his men call out to one another as they waded through the surf to the damp sand. Undaunted by the weather, Henry looked with possessive pride at the rolling green sea as it crashed onto the shore, the gray skies heavy with impending rain, the struggles of his men to secure the tossing ships. What did the elements matter? Wind and rain were merely another challenge to be met and conquered. He was riding the crest of the wave now; nothing and no one could stand against him.
Soon, soon this would be his beach, his sky, his water, his land. Even the freezing salt air was like a benediction upon his upturned face.
The men began to lead the great destriers ashore, then the baggage. When men, gear, and horses were all unloaded, Henry turned toward the town of Wareham. As they pushed against the howling wind, one of his advance guard, a knight he had sent on ahead to explore the territory, met him before they entered Wareham.
“All is quiet, my lord,” the knight reported. “There is a chapel over there.” He pointed toward a spire just visible through the swirling mist. “The folk inside are celebrating the Feast of the Epiphany at mass.”
“An auspicious day! Let us join them,” Henry said, striding toward the spire. “We’ve made a safe crossing and have much to be thankful for.”
Inside the chapel he had just knelt and signed himself when he heard the voice of the priest reciting from scripture:
“Behold the Lord, the ruler, is come and the kingdom is in his hand.” Henry’s men stirred and looked wonderingly at him. His heart leapt in triumph. There was no doubt in his mind that the priest’s words referred to his landing in England. Surely this was a symbolic sign from heaven that God smiled upon his endeavors.
Six months later, Henry, reining in his horse on top of a hill, was less sure. Like Job, the Almighty appeared to be testing him.
He had decided upon a strategy of gradual approach to attack the beleaguered Wallingford, which lay deep within royal territory. It had been his intention to draw off the besiegers by attacking other castles, forcing King Stephen to withdraw his troops to aid them. A few months at the most, he had reasoned, then he would relieve his supporters and fight the decisive battle with the king.
Now it was July and the outcome still undetermined. Removing his helmet, Henry slitted his eyes against the shroud of mist obscuring his view. Where in God’s name—yes, there it was. A dark mass looming up like a giant’s fist out of the winding sheet of dense fog. Wallingford. Where his enemy King Stephen waited. The veil of swirling gray suddenly lifted to admit a pale morning sun. Below, Henry could now see the gorge of the Thames River. Above it hung the huge fortress, three bastions on its north side and two on the south. On the western flank the main entrance was approached by a drawbridge while beneath the tower a heavy iron portcullis defended the gateway. Although the last time he had been here was as a young lad, the castle was exactly as he remembered.
Beneath the keep lay the town itself, the spires of its parish churches rising like needles from the cluster of thatched roofs and barns. Outside the curtain walls, the king’s forces covered the open country of the Thames valley like a blight: pavilions, siege-engines, horses, and clumps of armed men were scattered everywhere. A strong wooden tower resting at the foot of the bridge over the Thames effectively blocked all supplies into Wallingford.
Henry’s jaws tightened. “God’s eyes! The first thing we must do is demolish that tower and victual the castle. A miracle the garrison has held out as long as it has.”
“But the men have ridden all night, my lord,” said Robert de Beaumont, earl of Leicester, whose recent defection from Stephen’s side to his own had brought thirty midland castles into his camp. “They must eat and rest.”
“Not until we have done what we came to do.” Henry ignored the plea in Leicester’s voice. “Now the end is finally in sight and you ask me to stop?”
In his desperate, impatient march across the southwest of England, Henry had forced men and horses through driving rain, slippery mud, and swollen rivers until they dropped on the road from exhaustion. Nor did he need Leicester to tell him the condition of his troops. Henry knew only too well that his men, wet and hungry, shivered with cold and staggered from weakness, scarce able to hold their weapons. Was he not in a similar condition? But castle after castle had fallen to him. More and more defectors from Stephen’s side had swelled his ranks. How could he let up now? When he was so close? If he was merciless to his men, he was no less so on himself.
I’m on the eve of a great victory, he explained to an invisible Eleanor. I may not cease until it is won or I die in the attempt. You understand, Nell.
“But my lord,” said Leicester. “It’s inhuman to drive the troops this hard. You cannot expect—”
“Expect, expect?” Henry hissed the word through clenched teeth. “Let me tell you what I expect. That those who serve me are more than human, that they will rise to unimagined heights of valor and strength. If their limbs ache from weariness, if their bellies groan with hunger, what does that signify when our cause is just?” He fixed the earl with a steely gaze. “And our cause is just. There is no room in my camp for weaklings or the faint of heart.”
“I am your man, my lord,” replied Leicester in a barely audible voice.
Henry clamped his helmet firmly back upon his head, and waving an arm for his troops to follow, started down the muddy slope toward the castle and the glorious battle that now, at long last, awaited him.
“Stephen’s barons claim they will not fight, my lord. At this very moment a furious debate rages inside the royal pavilion between the king and his advisors.”
Henry, sitting in the great hall of Wallingford two days later, could scarcely believe the evidence of his ears as he looked up at Robert of Leicester, who had just approached the high table.
“Not fight? Men sworn to serve their anointed king? It is nothing less than treason. Does Stephen agree?”
From somewhere in the hall Henry could hear the sound of a rebec and the plaintive voice of a minstrel. He must send for that impertinent troubadour Eleanor had dismissed. Bernart something. He would know how to compose stirring chansons of derring-do.
“On the contrary, King Stephen is violently opposed to them. But the king is under pressure from his magnates, the archbishop of Canterbury, and his brother, the bishop of Winchester, to reach an accommodation with us.” Leicester paused. “Everyone is sick unto death of this conflict. Magnates and clergy alike want peace.”
Down the line of trestle tables echoed a chorus of agreement.
A dull pain throbbing in his temples indicated to Henry that one of his headaches was on the way. Although he had every reason to rejoice, as he and the leaders of his army were feasted, he felt frustrated. Did everyone suppose that because the enemy was now driven back across the Thames and supplies once again reached the castle, he would be satisfied? Well, he wasn’t, Henry brooded. Routing a host of troops back across the river was a far cry from the valiant clash of arms he had expected. He had been waiting to fight Stephen since his knighting by the king of Scotland four years ago. This time no one was going to cheat him of his chance at valor and glory.
His cousin William, earl of Gloucester, leaned across the table.
“This war claimed my father’s life. You have not lived here as we have, Cousin, you cannot know how terribly the people have suffered. How we all have suffered.”
“So you told me on our hair-raising trip to London when I was ten years old; I have never forgotten.” He laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “But am I not here to relieve everyone’s misery by defeating the usurper?” Henry removed his hand to tear off a wing of roast fowl. “Make no mistake, William. I will avenge my uncle’s death and all the other deaths by doing battle with Stephen. Now, there’s an end to it. Will someone get rid of that trouvère before I go mad?”
From the corner of his eye Henry saw his cousin of Gloucester exchange a glance with Leicester. His gaze switched back and forth between them. What were those two plotting? He was about to speak when Leicester took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself.
“My lord, last night some of us met secretly with Stephen’s barons—”
Hands balled into fists, Henry jumped to his feet.
“Please!” Leicester’s voice rose. “Let me finish, I beg you. In truth, we would do almost anything to avoid further bloodshed. A compromise has been suggested which the magnates of both sides may look upon with favor. Just listen to—”
But Henry, the blood beginning to pound like an anvil in his temples, was beyond listening. They were trying to thwart him, cheat him of his longed-for battle. Any moment now the bubble of crimson rage would burst inside his head and he would lose control.
“There will be a battle, I tell you.” He heard a stranger’s voice shouting at the top of his lungs. “By God’s eyes, there will be a battle between Stephen and me if I have to challenge him to single combat!”
Henry raced down the hall and flung himself out the door. Behind him the silence in the hall was like death.
In Angers, Eleanor waited for news of her husband. She had heard of his safe landing in England, then nothing further. But even lack of news could not dim her radiant happiness.
“Sometimes I’m so happy it frightens me,” she told Petronilla, who had finally joined her. “At any moment I may wake to find it is all a glorious dream and I’m still married to that French eunuch, suffocating in that gilded Parisian dungeon, with Abbé Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux as my jailers.”
“Do not speak ill of the dead,” said Petronilla, subdued and far more serious since the death of her elderly husband, Ralph. She signed herself.
They were walking arm in arm on the flintstone ramparts of Angers Castle. Looking out over the red roofs of the city, Eleanor could see beyond the old Roman walls to where the converging Loire and Mayenne rivers sparkled like blue-green jewels in the July sun.
“Not only do I finally feel fulfilled as a woman,” she continued, ignoring her sister’s remark, “but I am also with child, and Henry sufficiently trusts my judgment to appoint me his deputy in Angers.”
“There is no question that you are blessed, Sister,” said Petronilla.
“I know, I know!”
Behind her came the melodic sounds of a rebec and the lilting voice of Bernart de Ventadour following at a discreet distance. Eleanor threw him a brilliant smile over her shoulder.
Petronilla frowned. “You show that troubadour too much favor. There is talk that he has become infatuated with you.”
“In six weeks time I shall be delivered of a babe—a son—that should stop tongues wagging.” She gently patted her rounded belly. “There is little I can do about his infatuation even if I wanted to—and I don’t. It’s all quite innocent as you are well aware.” She laughed. “But you know how I adore being adored.”
Petronilla wagged a cautionary finger. “Prudence, prudence. No breath of scandal must reach your husband’s ears. Not after what you told me.”
A picture sprang to Eleanor’s mind of Henry thrashing wildly about on the rushes shouting imprecations at Bernart. She shivered, retreating from the grotesque memory.
“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” she said, amused but sad that the once-flighty Petronilla should be the one to preach caution. “Henry will be most pleased when he hears how well I’ve done in his capital.”
Unwittingly, Eleanor had fallen in love with Angers. Upon her arrival she had not known what to expect and was pleasantly surprised to find it a mellow city of ancient churches and monastic schools, where philosophy and poetry had long flourished under the benign rule of the counts of Anjou. To the comfortable, imposing castle set high above the city, Eleanor had transported her household from Poitiers. Troubadours, poets, and chroniclers soon followed. Here, free from restraint, disapproving eyes, or malicious tongues, she set about creating her own court, infusing it with all the enthusiasm and gaiety of her Aquitainian heritage. Much as she missed Aquitaine, she was gratified to hear that Angers was responding favorably to her presence.
Shortly after her conversation with Petronilla it became evident that Bernart’s attentions were crossing the boundaries of propriety. In song he accused Eleanor of first enticing him, then spurning his advances. She was, he sang, noble and sweet, tormenting his dreams, causing him to suffer the most appalling agonies. When he sang of offering himself as her bedside slave to draw off her boots when she retired, Eleanor knew he had gone too far.
Before she could act, however, a message finally arrived from Henry to say he had arrived at Wallingford and was preparing to do battle with King Stephen. In his letter Henry also mentioned, casually enough, that he wanted Bernart de Ventadour to come to England at once and exhort his men to battle by composing stirring chansons de geste. Did Henry have unknown eyes and ears spying on her? The possibility made Eleanor uneasy.
“Is it necessary I go?” Bernart asked Eleanor, as he knelt before her in the great hall of Angers Castle.
His crisp black hair curled appealingly over a high pale forehead. Liquid brown eyes gazed longingly up at her. Really, he was quite irresistible, but she was proof against his charm. In fact, her husband’s summons very neatly removed a potential dilemma: how to get rid of Bernart gracefully, without calling attention to the fact.
“The count of Anjou has ordered you to England; naturally you must obey.”
Eleanor experienced a momentary regret. There was a side to her nature that basked in the chivalrous admiration Bernart showered on her. Secretly she thought it a shame that a woman was not allowed to indulge all the diverse aspects of herself. As men did. To expect one lone male to provide all one’s needs was, perhaps, asking too much. She dismissed the thought. After all, she loved her husband to distraction and he was riding into grave danger to win them both a crown. The loss of her favorite troubadour was of no importance whatsoever.
“That Norman duke has the soul of an acquisitive merchant and the predatory instincts of a greedy hawk,” Bernart cried. “He can never love or understand you the way I do. Like most men he regards you only as a prized possession, somewhere between his favorite gyrfalcon and his champion hound. Secretly he considers you his inferior. It is typical of such a knight.”
“Be careful how you speak of my lord,” Eleanor retorted, glancing round to make sure no one had heard him. “What you say is nonsense. Thus far he has treated me like an equal.”
Bernart raised his brows. “Tell me, Lady, what was the name of Charlemagne’s queen, empress, whatever? Or the paladin Roland’s wife?”
“Really, who can remember? If I ever even knew.”
“Exactly. What was the name of Charlemagne’s sword?”
Eleanor shrugged impatiently. “Everyone knows that. Joyeuse.”
“Roland’s?”
“Durandel—oh!”
“I see I have made my point.”
Only too well, Eleanor thought, rather shaken.
“I will immortalize you, Domna, in my verse and song. Centuries from now, your name will still be remembered.”
“For which I will always be grateful. Your songs, they please me well. But my husband does not regard me as some chattel, I assure you.”
Bernart lowered his voice. “I did not think to find you so blind. Duke Henry will never think of you as an equal. That does not bode well for one who believes herself superior to all men.”
Color flooded Eleanor’s face. “You go too far, minstrel. It is high time you removed yourself from my court. A journey to England will cool your hot blood and muzzle your impetuous tongue. If I find you have been unwise enough to repeat such slanderous thoughts elsewhere …”
Bernart bowed his head in submission. “Divinity, I am your devoted slave. Never would I be so indiscreet—” He deftly caught the purse of silver coins she flung at him.
He left the next day. Eleanor knew she would miss Bernart’s worshipful attentions but it was a relief to have him gone. Man’s superior! How had he divined those secret thoughts that lurked, half-formed, in the hidden recesses of her mind, when she herself had never fully viewed them? It was disquieting.
A sennight after Bernart had gone, another troubadour appeared, sent by the master, he said, with a song for her.
She said in accents clear
Before I did depart,
“Your songs they please me well.”
I would each Christian soul
Could know my rapture then,
For all I write and sing
Is meant for her delight.
Yes, indeed. She would miss that impudent rogue.
Meanwhile she had her unborn child to occupy her mind, a civilized court to preside over, her own lands to keep a watchful eye on, and Henry’s safety to pray for. Not that Eleanor doubted his eventual success. Every instinct told her that the Angevin star was in the ascendant.
On the seventeenth day of August Eleanor gave birth to a son in Le Mans. He had a patch of russet hair and blue-gray eyes. Beside herself with triumph and joy, she kept examining the tiny pink evidence of his sex, hardly able to believe what she saw. She named him William, after the great Conqueror, and the Troubadour, as well as her own father. At long last she was vindicated. The stain of her two failures to bear Louis an heir was wiped clean.
Two months later, in October, Eleanor’s mother-in-law, the Empress Maud, requested her to come to Normandy. There had been no word from Henry since early September, when he had written that battle was imminent. Since he had been at Wallingford since July, this made no sense to Eleanor. She also had misgivings about going to Rouen until she realized that when Henry did return he would undoubtedly go straight to Normandy. Not to mention that whatever news did manage to float back across the Channel, Henry’s mother would receive it first.
When William was strong enough—he was a weak babe who ailed frequently—she would most certainly go to Rouen.
“What do you mean there was no battle? What has everyone been doing at Wallingford for the last three and one-half months? Making faces at each other across the river?”
Eleanor, surrounded by her women, sat in her mother-in-law’s solar in the ducal palace at Rouen. She looked quizzically at the messenger, a cleric, who had arrived this chill November morning to inform her and Henry’s mother of the most recent events in England. The cleric, who claimed to be an archdeacon of Canterbury, had been closeted alone for over an hour with the Empress Maud, who only two days ago had herself just returned from a rather mysterious journey to Anjou, she claimed. Eleanor tried to stifle the unworthy prick of resentment that rose within her breast. I am Henry’s wife. It is I who should have seen this man first.
Ever since arriving in Normandy last month, Eleanor had bent over backward to accommodate her formidable mother-in-law, knowing it would please Henry. In the main, although wary of each other, they had gotten on surprisingly well, discovering they had as many similarities as differences. But when all was said and done this was the empress’s domain, and never before had Eleanor been forced to yield pride of place to another woman. She knew it was a question of protocol and courtesy, entirely proper that Henry’s mother should have been told the news first, but still it rankled.
Beside her the wet nurse crooned to baby William as she rocked him in her arms. It was another rainy day, so bleak that the charcoal braziers could barely warm the chamber. Ivory tapers flickered wildly in the howling wind that penetrated through the cracks in the stone walls. Outside, torrential rains lashed the towers and ramparts. Eleanor shivered. Sweet St. Radegonde, how she missed the sunlit warmth of Aquitaine.
Overall though, she knew she had little cause for complaint. Ever since giving birth to her son, she had been petted and spoiled, the center of attention in both Anjou and Normandy. Unfortunately, the babe was still not strong, and continued to ail. Eleanor felt protective toward little William and fussed over him—something she had not done with her two daughters. When she heard that Louis and the Frankish nobility were reeling from the shock that the Norman succession was now assured, her satisfaction knew no bounds.
The black-hooded cleric from England, who had not been sent directly by Henry but by the archbishop of Canterbury, returned her quizzical look. His unblinking eyes, dark as mulberries, were set close together in an arresting face dominated by a nose beaked like a hawk. This gave him something of a predatory aspect. Eleanor had the grudging thought that it was a face you would look at twice—and once seen never forget.
“If you will allow me to explain,” the cleric said in a deep voice that was probably meant to be deferential but instead sounded condescending.
“Do so.” Eleanor wondered why the man, personable and well-spoken as he was, should put her back up. Maybe it was because she had suddenly remembered her father once telling her that you could never trust a man whose eyes were set too closely together.
“Duke Henry and King Stephen both wanted to do battle, Madam. It was the barons, supported by the clergy, who refused. Led by my master, his grace of Canterbury, and the bishop of Winchester, a peace was finally negotiated that proved acceptable to both sides.”
“A wise decision yet one that amazes me,” Eleanor said. “Henry so looked forward to defeating Stephen on his own ground. And the English king has sworn time and again that he would never make peace.”
“I believe that his exact words were he would never make peace unless his son Eustace inherited.”
Eleanor curbed her irritation. He was right, of course. “But now that Eustace is dead … yes, I see, that would change matters. So—both King Stephen and my husband were persuaded of the advantages to be gained by a legal settlement rather than by power of the sword. I’m greatly relieved that the war in England is finally at an end.”
“So are we all. Of course, our Heavenly Father also intervened by sending Stephen an evil omen.” The cleric crossed himself.
“Something other than Eustace’s death?” Eleanor leaned forward with interest.
The cleric nodded. “While Stephen was marshaling his troops, his horse reared and almost threw him. Not once but thrice. He took it as a sign from heaven.”
“The poor beast probably slipped in the mud.” Eleanor’s women tittered. Ignoring the disapproving look that crossed the cleric’s face she lowered her voice. “Tell me, is it really true that Prince Eustace actually choked on tainted fish?”
“So I understand.”
“How fortuitous. Do you expect me to believe that no one helped him to a most timely end?” Eleanor placed a hand over her heart. “I promise to be the soul of discretion. Come, tell me how it was done.”
The cleric looked down his beaked nose. “There is naught to tell. Many may have wished Eustace dead, one cannot deny that. But in this instance there is no evidence of murder.”
“So you say.” Suddenly restless, Eleanor rose and walked to the copper brazier, stretching her hands out over the coals. “The whole matter concerning Stephen’s change of heart is so—so—unlikely. I cannot help but feel there is more to this tale than has been told, though I doubt we shall ever know the truth of it. Well, go on.”
The cleric bowed his head. “Stephen acknowledged Henry’s heredity right in England and named the duke his heir. Duke Henry in turn said that Stephen might hold the kingdom until his death. In fact the two have adopted each other as father and son …”
Eleanor turned around. “Sworn enemies adopted each other as father and son? Now does the lion lie down with the lamb! Extraordinary.”
Ignoring her outburst, the cleric continued. “The barons and bishops then agreed to bind themselves by oath that Henry should succeed to the kingdom peacefully.”
Eleanor laughed and returned to her seat. “An oath sworn by the magnates of England is as binding as water. The empress’s struggle to become queen of England is living proof of that.”
The cleric’s lips tightened and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “It was further agreed that the rights of the crown which nobles everywhere had usurped were to be restored and—”
“I’m sure all the details were quite in order.” Eleanor knew she was being provoking but could not seem to stop herself. “Thank you. Did my husband have a personal message for me?”
The cleric fumbled in the scrip at his belt. “As I left in rather a hurry I did not actually talk with the duke myself, madam. In fact I have yet to meet him. My master, the archbishop of Canterbury, gave me this for you from Duke Henry.” He unwound his black-clothed body from the stool and handed her a square of sealed parchment. “It was His Grace who arranged for me to deliver these glad tidings to you and the empress.”
Courteous as he was, there was a sanctimonious air about the cleric that continued to irritate her. In addition he was so tall that Eleanor had to arch her neck to look up at him.
“Please wait in the hall. I’ll have an answer for you to take back.”
“I’ll be glad to act as scribe for you, Madam.”
“How kind. But I can write a fair hand myself. In several languages, as it happens.”
The cleric flushed. For a moment he seemed nonplussed then swallowed his surprise as she walked with him to the door of the solar.
“Do you have any idea when the duke will be returning to Rouen?”
The cleric gazed down at her with those strange unblinking eyes. “No, Madam. It might be a few months yet. Duke Henry is to return with the king to London so that he may acquaint himself with the workings of Stephen’s realm.”
“I see.” A few months! Eleanor made no effort to conceal her sharp disappointment.
She missed Henry so much, and he had never even seen his firstborn son. Still, the arrangements made political sense and even she could see this was not the moment for him to leave England. After all, what they both longed for had come to pass: Henry would be king and she queen.
The cleric opened the door. Eleanor watched him stride down the passageway, his black robe billowing out behind him like a dark cloud. Suddenly curious, she called out:
“How are you called?”
He turned his head without breaking stride. “Becket, Madam. Thomas Becket.”