WHEN HENRY RETURNED FROM Clarendon well after the midnight hour, Eleanor was in the great hall of Westminster to greet him.
“I thought you would long be in bed, Nell,” Henry said wearily, soaked through from the night’s heavy rainfall.
“Bring a tub of hot water into the solar,” Eleanor said to Henry’s body servant, Milo. “Lest he perish of cold. And some food as well.”
Milo trotted from the hall to do her bidding and Eleanor helped Henry, already shivering, off with his boots and cloak. He looked so miserable from the cold and wet that it was impossible to tell what his mood might be as a result of events at Clarendon. She decided to leave such matters alone; she had more important news for him, news that would wait until he had warmed his body and eaten something.
A quarter of an hour later four servitors carrying a wooden tub of hot water staggered into the solar, followed by two more with a tray of cold roast meats, a loaf of wheaten bread, and a cup of foaming ale. When Henry had soaked his body in the hot water he wrapped himself in a long linen towel and seated himself on a stool by the central fire, Eleanor ordered his tray of food to be set on another stool and carried over to him and then she dismissed the servitors.
“There is some bad news to give you, my dear, and some good,” she said.
His face rosy from the bath, his hair damp, he tore off a piece of meat and washed it down with a long swallow of ale. “There usually is,” he said with a rueful sigh. “Good news first.”
Eleanor dropped to her knees. “We have three sons and two daughters but not yet a full bevy apparently.”
She watched Henry’s face break into a wide smile. “No! How wonderful, Nell.” He pushed the stool aside and held out his arms. “How truly, truly wonderful. And how unexpected.” He hugged her and kissed her resoundingly on both cheeks.
“Unexpected? All you need do is look at me, my lord . . .”
Henry grinned. “A girl, I hope. It must be, I have no more land to give another boy. I feel it will be a girl.” He paused. “Let me see. Joanna?” He nodded vigorously. “We will call her Joanna.”
“Very well.” Eleanor kissed him on the lips “A fine name. But this must be the last, Henry. It is enough.”
“We must take what God sends, madam,” Henry replied in an overly solemn voice, reaching for the cup of ale.
“Yes, well, this is not God’s baby, is it? We both know whose baby it is.”
Henry burst out laughing. “Indeed we do. You’ve cheered me up no end, Nell. I had rather a bad time of it—” He did not finish his sentence but took another long swallow of ale then his face sobered. “And the bad news?”
Eleanor hesitated, but her news was more important, surely, than anything to do with Thomas Becket. She rose to her feet while Henry gazed up at her questioningly.
“There are eruptions in Aquitaine and Poitou; it looks to be quite serious this time.”
“Nothing unusual in that, is there?” Henry shrugged. “Your duchy is more often in turmoil than not. The most embattled part of our empire, I think you’ll agree.”
Eleanor gave a reluctant nod. Henry’s empire stretched from the Pyrenees to the Welsh Marches and the most contentious part of it was certainly Aquitaine and the adjoining county of Poitou, those vast and rich lands that lay to the south of the kingdom of France. Her grandfather, Count William of Aquitaine, had had trouble governing these areas, and her father after that. Even she had difficulty, but nothing compared to Henry, who was considered a foreigner in the eyes of her countrymen. “A hated Angevin,” they called him, and whomever he put in charge was the object of derision and petty violence. This had now extended to Eleanor’s uncle, a fellow Poitevin.
“My uncle Ralph says blood has been spilled in Poitiers among several of the lords—”
“Which he can’t handle, of course.” Henry gave an exasperated sigh. “Your uncle is less than useless, Nell. I warned you we should not leave him in charge. I should have listened to my own counsel.”
Eleanor gave a trembling sigh. “Recriminations are a waste of time, Henry. The situation is apparently serious, as you can surmise if Ralph himself sent for me. I must go to Poitiers and thence to Aquitaine. My uncle says the discontent could spread to Maine and Anjou. The region is inflamed and he claims not to know what lies behind the violence. I am the only one with a hope of influencing these Poitevin lords, he says.”
Henry rose to his feet, the towel falling from his shoulders. “I would go myself but I cannot manage it right now.” He turned away. “There are—other matters to attend to.”
“You will catch cold standing naked like that. And no one is asking you to go. I will leave within the sennight, see what the grievances are now, and try to hold matters together until you arrive.”
“But in the condition you are in, I mean it is foolish to take a chance.”
“I have traveled all across the continent much farther along than this. Do you remember with Geoffrey when I was in my ninth month and—”
“Yes, I remember. All right.” Henry picked up the towel and wrapped it around himself. “I won’t argue with you, although it seems more dangerous now—at least as you describe it.”
Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. “I myself have nothing to fear from my own countrymen, truly. They will not behave with their usual foolhardiness once I am there.” At least, that was what she hoped. Poitevins were an unpredictable lot.
Henry walked over to her and threw his arms around her. “If anything happens to you, however slight, I will level Poitou and Aquitaine to the ground.” He frowned. “But there must be no uprisings in Maine and Anjou. Louis of France will pounce like a cat if he thinks my lands are weak and ungovernable.” He kissed her lingeringly on the lips. “I will make you temporary regent of the area until I arrive.” He kissed her neck. “And only if you make it worth my while.”
Eleanor smiled as she arched her neck. “I will accept the regency if you make it worth my while.”
Henry chuckled. “Fair enough. I know you are not without influence in the area, Nell, therefore I expect results. No slip-ups, mind.”
He really meant it, Eleanor realized as he carried her over to the bed. She lay on her back, unaccountably aware of the dark green bed hangings, the pile of gold-threaded green cushions beside her, the pale lettuce color of the bed canopy and Henry’s red head at her breast. These things, insignificant in themselves, became fixed in her mind like a brushstroke on vellum.
Ten months later, Henry was in the forest of Gloucester with his cousin William, telling him about the birth of his three-week-old daughter. The messenger had arrived in England only a few days before and finally tracked Henry down at his cousin’s hunting lodge in early November.
“What a glorious morning, cousin,” said Henry, “doubly glorious because of Joanna.”
They had left his cousin’s lodge for a day’s hunting before Henry returned to London. It was well before dawn, the woods just starting to come into reddish-gold color. Green-clad huntsmen beat tall reeds by the riverbed, and tawny bercelet hounds splashed in the wet grasses.
Henry took in deep breaths of the crisp autumn air as he leaned back in his padded hunting saddle and raised his arm. A white Icelandic gyrfalcon, black leather jesses trailing from her feet, little gold bells tinkling around her ankles, clawed his gauntleted wrist as she settled herself more comfortably. A short distance away the other members of his hunting party chatted and laughed as they rode under sun-dappled branches.
Over to the left came a shout and the hounds began to bark.
“Swan in the river, me lord!” shouted one of Gloucester’s men
“In a moment you will see what Nell can do, cousin.” Henry stroked the bird’s feathered breast.
“Nell?” William rolled his eyes. Stocky and dark-haired, his hunting cap, sleeveless tan jerkin, and fawn hunting boots matched Henry’s own. “Doesn’t Queen Eleanor object to your naming this bird of prey after her?”
“On the contrary, she takes it for the compliment it is. My wife is a woman of steadfast purpose and strong intent. Like the gyrfalcon, she does not miss her mark.”
“Like your mother, as well.”
Henry gave a pleased smile. “Yes, I am blessed with a wonderful wife, a splendid mother, and now a third daughter who will also be a credit to the House of Anjou.”
William burst out laughing. “Vanitas, vanitatum.”
“Mind your tongue, cousin. Can’t a man be proud of his family? Both Eleanor and my daughter thrive. I hear she is fair as an angel, golden-haired and blue-eyed as is her brother Richard. In truth, I cannot wait to see her.”
William’s late father, Count Robert of Gloucester, had been Henry’s mother’s brother, and William was the closest thing Henry had to a boon companion, at least since Thomas’s defection.
The barking of the hounds increased, distracting him from the unwelcome thought of Thomas. Henry could begin to see some activity behind the tall green reeds. He slowed his mount.
“You are not disappointed with another daughter, cousin?”
“On the contrary, another daughter is most welcome. Unlike Louis of France, who complains about his superfluity of daughters, I see them as a means to extend my empire. For example, I have just betrothed my eldest daughter, Matilda, to the duke of Saxony. A most illustrious match.”
“I doubt the French king is complaining at the moment,” said William with a sidelong look.
“No.”
Henry felt increasingly irritated, not caring to be reminded that after three wives and four or five daughters, the pious Louis, at age forty-five, had finally become the father of a son. When he had heard the unwelcome news in August, Henry was bitterly disappointed, for he had strenuously hoped that Louis would remain without an heir. Had this been the case, his own eldest son, young Henry, married to Louis’s daughter, Marguerite, would undoubtedly have become king of France. The thought of his son ruling both England and France was intoxicating.
Instead it was Paris that had gone wild with joy at the news, feasting and celebrating for weeks on end. The son, called Philip but referred to as “Dieudonné,” the God-given, was also hailed by the Parisians as the future “hammer of the English.” Henry was furious, but could only seethe impotently at the insult.
Rumor claimed the infant was puny and sickly. With any luck at all, the boy would not live. Still, the birth was an ill omen. Henry shivered as if a wolf had walked over his grave.
The barking grew louder. At last the swan lumbered heavily into the air and flew off. Henry unhooded the gyrfalcon and with a quick thrust cast her upward into the air. He slit his eyes against a rising sun to watch the falcon mounting into the sky. Where was the swan? He blew a few impatient notes upon an ivory hunting horn that hung from a leather cord around his neck.
“Your mother should be well pleased at Matilda’s match,” William said. “Considering she was once married to the Holy Roman Emperor of Germany.”
Henry grumbled deep in his throat. The previous spring, far from being made happy at her granddaughter’s illustrious betrothal, the empress Maud was at first critical then distressed.
“Nicht so sehr schoen und ganz dumm,” she announced, lapsing into German to describe the duke of Saxony.
Henry was outraged. “You’ve only met him once! On the contrary, he is very well favored and extremely intelligent.”
“But Matilda is only eight, the duke is thirty-six! You cannot do it.” The empress suddenly became distraught, clasping and unclasping her hands as she paced back and forth across a small garden in the courtyard of the ducal palace at Rouen. “It is folly, this business of marrying a child to a man so much older. How can she ever know happiness? When she is a woman in her prime, he will be an old man!”
Henry remembered struggling to control his temper. “How many times have you told me that one does not look for happiness in marriage? The task of a ruler and his consort is to serve those they rule. God’s eyes, I took that in with your milk! If I heard it once I heard it a hundred times: to see justice done, to govern with the patience of Job and the wisdom of Solomon, is the whole point of wearing a crown—or ducal coronet in this case.”
His mother, who had tears in her eyes, had appealed to Eleanor. Lately, Maud had also been critical of his policies on the Continent, accusing him of ruling with too heavy a hand, even denouncing him for what she considered his inadequate handling of Thomas Becket. Which did not endear her to her son.
“I do agree with Henry, madam,” Eleanor had replied. “One could not hope for a more prestigious match or a better husband than the duke of Saxony. Furthermore, Matilda herself is quite taken with him and he with her.”
With even Eleanor against her, the empress had held her tongue. She was getting old, Henry confided to Eleanor, and was losing her vigor of spirit. And, in fact, before Eleanor returned to Angers to resume her regency, his mother had fallen ill and was still not recovered. Henry had tried to make amends before he returned to England, but as the Welsh were causing trouble along the English Marches he had been forced to leave Rouen sooner than expected.
He was secretly relieved to bid his mother farewell; she was becoming a thorn in his side much as Thomas Becket had been before fleeing the country some months after the council at Clarendon. The archbishop had fled in fear for his life, he told allies in Paris. That had not been true at the time, and Thomas knew it. But after he’d left England in a small boat in the dead of night with a few trusted companions, Henry had had no choice but to officially banish him. Now it was worth the archbishop’s life to set foot in England. The thought of Thomas oiling his way across the Continent, dripping lies and treachery into the ears of the pope, King Louis of France, and whomever else he could find to listen, filled Henry with incoherent rage. He remembered a dispatch from Paris that reported Louis’s reaction when he heard Thomas referred to as the former archbishop of Canterbury.
The French monarch rose to his feet and had exclaimed, “Former archbishop of Canterbury? He was duly elected in 1162 and his appointment approved by the Holy Father himself. Who, pray, has deposed him? Tell me that, my lords, who has deposed him?”
Whenever Henry thought about that, he—
“There she flies!” a huntsman’s shout echoed up from the riverbed.
Stifling his thoughts, Henry gathered his reins in one hand and rammed his boots into the stirrups in hot pursuit of the swan. Soon he and the others had left the shelter of the forest and were galloping down a sparsely wooded ridge, then skirting a marsh to follow the swan as it winged its way across the sky looking for open water. The falcon continued to mount ever higher, then paused, readying herself for her stoop. Henry and his party drew rein on the edge of a stretch of woodland; all eyes turned heavenward. The bird towered an instant longer, then fell like a thunderbolt, a streak of white against the widening blue dawn of the sky. She bound to her hapless prey and both struck the earth. The sight gave Henry a savage feeling of satisfaction. Although Thomas Becket was out of reach at the moment, in just such a manner would Henry strike at him. And Louis of France. It might not happen in a day or even a month or a year. But one day . . .
Henry and William approached the quarry. The gyrfalcon had begun to peck at the dead swan with her cruel beak. Members of the hunting party rode up to admire the gyrfalcon’s performance.
“Nell will destroy that swan if you do not call her back,” said William.
Before the gyrfalcon could do more damage to the swan’s entrails, Henry called her back to the lure and fed her a chunk of meat from the leather scrip at his belt. The bird tore out pieces of raw flesh and swallowed them whole. After she was satiated, Henry hooded her and she perched securely on his gauntleted wrist.
Two huntsmen tied the dead swan to a cut branch of a tree and carried it on their shoulders while the hunting party made for a silver ribbon of stream that shimmered on the edge of the blue-green woodland. Suddenly Henry’s horse stumbled and almost fell. Henry pitched forward and had to grab the pommel to keep his seat. He slipped from the saddle, knelt on the mossy earth, and examined the stallion’s brown foreleg. The horse shied away with a loud whinny.
“No break, but the foreleg’s tender.” His fingers slid down and he lifted up the hoof. “He’s cast a shoe as well. God’s eyes! We must be leagues from a blacksmith.”
“The nearest town of any size is Hereford near the Welsh border,” said William in consternation. “By the Rood, it could take us—No, wait! I know—there will be a smithy at Bredelais, just the other side of these woods.”
Henry rose and stroked the stallion’s damp flanks. “Bredelais?”
“A manor belonging to Sir Walter Clifford. A petty knight, cousin, who fell on evil times some years ago. He fought for you against the Welsh last summer. A good man, Sir Walter; you will recognize him when you see him. He will see the horse shod.”
“Then let us not waste time. We will take two grooms, a few huntsmen, and archers with us. Let the rest of the party return to Gloucester. I will lead Beaumont by the reins.”
An hour later as the bells tolled for tierce, Henry and his party forded a broad stream then trotted along a stretch of ploughland where villeins were carting away bound sheaves of wheat. Ahead lay what must be Sir Walter’s manor. Henry could see that the low towers and mossy walls were filled with cracks and there were holes in the gabled roof of the main building. There was a feeling of neglect and decay about the place that he had not expected.
“Is Sir Walter in straitened circumstances?”
William nodded. “Struggling to keep his manor aloft after the drought that ruined his crops two years in a row, followed by Welsh cattle raids, and the substantial dowries required for the marriages of two of his four daughters.”
“Everything but a plague of locusts, it seems,” Henry replied in a sympathetic tone. “What are his prospects?”
“There are two daughters left. One is a beauty, the fairest maid in all Shropshire, if I say so myself. Some say in all England.”
Henry raised his brows in disbelief.
“You will see for yourself. If Rosamund—that is her name—can snag a wealthy husband who requires no dowry, it may well restore the family’s losses. I had this from Sir Walter’s only son, Walter the Younger, who is being trained at my household in Gloucester, although he is at home now.”
“A sad tale.” Henry signed himself. “Well, we will not impose. A new shoe for Beaumont, and something to ease his foreleg. I will leave Sir Walter a token of my appreciation.”
“He is a proud man, cousin, I am not sure—”
“Trust me to handle . . . hello, there’s smoke coming from the roof.” Henry walked Beaumont into the courtyard. “I could eat a whole cow. Do you think they can spare me a crust, cousin?”
William laughed. A young boy carrying a bucket of water entered the courtyard, staring at them owl-eyed. “Announce us, lad. Tell your master the Lord of Gloucester and King Henry have come a-calling.”
The boy dropped the bucket and ran around the side of the main building. When several long minutes had passed and no one appeared, Henry impatiently lifted the hunting horn from around his neck and blew three sharp blasts. He had no inkling then, although later he was to remember this moment as the calm before the storm, that within the hour his life—and the lives of those closest to him—would be changed forever.