UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, ELEANOR would have recognized the danger signals for what they were. Or so she later convinced herself. Except for a very brief message, she had not heard from Henry for several weeks, which was unlike him unless he was in the midst of a battle or some other crisis that needed his attention.
But on that unseasonably warm day in early November, the circumstances were far from normal, and while a threat of danger existed it was entirely political in nature. Seated in the courtyard of the castle at Angers, all of Eleanor’s attention was centered on three recently arrived envoys as they reported the latest disquieting news: fresh outbreaks of rebellion throughout Aquitaine; increased demonstrations in Poitiers for no discernable reason; and, most disturbing of all, Thomas Becket’s continued acceptance at the court of France.
“Indeed, my lady,” said the envoy from France, “the archbishop leaves a trail of poison and slander wherever he goes, but he outdid himself at the French court, calling Duke Henry tyrant and threatening to make use of all the spiritual weapons at his disposal.”
Eleanor caught her breath. “Excommunication?”
The envoy crossed himself and bent his head.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Thomas would not dare to go so far. The pope would never allow it.”
On the other hand, she suddenly realized, the Holy Father had ordered Thomas not to leave the Abbey of Cluny, but he had obviously ignored that. Who could say how far the wayward prelate would go?
Baby Joanna, who sat on her lap, as though sensing her mother’s disquiet, began to cry. Eleanor handed her to a hovering nurse. In the tense silence that followed, she was aware of the background tinkle of laughter and muted conversation among the guests attending the court, the sun warm on her back and a light wind brushing her cheeks. There had been an enormous amount to do over the last months, more than usual, what with preparing for the upcoming Yuletide season and dealing with discontented vassals. The whole region had been a tinderbox when she arrived and after several futile attempts at diplomacy, Eleanor felt she was just beginning to reestablish communication with the rebellious barons. In the light of what she had just heard, however, it appeared that her efforts were less successful than she had hoped.
“We think it possible that the former archbishop has done his best to inflame Duke Henry’s domains in Anjou and Poitiers,” said the envoy from Poitou, “aided by Louis of France, of course. We cannot prove anything, but—” He shrugged. “King Louis does nothing to silence Thomas Becket, but sympathizes with the former archbishop’s grievances.”
“Have him watched,” said Eleanor after a moment’s thought. “When Becket leaves France, wherever he goes, keep me informed.”
The envoys nodded. “It is rumored, lady, that the archbishop intends to go to Rouen to try and persuade Duke Henry’s mother to intercede on his behalf.”
Eleanor gave a grim laugh. “Thomas will get short shrift there. The empress has always disliked him and warned the duke not to appoint him to the primacy in the first place.”
The steward of Anjou approached with a sheaf of parchments in his hand.
“These need signing, lady,” said the steward, pulling up a small elm table. Behind him a servitor carried a tray of quill pens and inkwells, which he deposited on the table.
“And then there is that case to be heard,” added the steward. “The disputed boundary between—”
“Yes,” Eleanor interjected, “I remember.”
With a sigh she dismissed the envoys and picked up the first document to sign. Always so much to do and never enough time to do it.
Henry couldn’t explain either to himself or to anyone else the effect Rosamund de Clifford had upon him when he first encountered her holding Beaumont’s bridle. The combined effect of luminous blue eyes, silver-gilt braids, and skin that resembled the inner petals of a summer rose, was so unexpected that Henry’s heart melted, his breath caught in his throat, and he had the sensation of having fallen from a high tower.
Impatient to see her again, Henry was already seated in the hall of the manor house when Rosamund entered carrying a bowl of walnuts. This time he could see she was unfashionably tall for a maid, slender and hipless as a youth, clad in a patched blue kirtle that strained across the delicate thrust of her breasts. A worn cloak swung from her shoulders, and a thin gold cross depended from a chain around the creamy stalk of her neck. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years of age. Sir Walter, tall and fair as a Viking with the same ice-blue eyes as his daughter, said grace. Henry now remembered him well, although he seemed quite different from the affable warrior of the Welsh campaign.
“It is only simple fare, Your Grace,” said Lady Margaret. “I hope you will forgive us.” Her attitude, wary when they met, had thawed markedly.
“This will do very nicely, thank you.” He helped himself to a slice of eel pie, boiled greens, and a thick pottage, noting the obviously stale trenchers of bread and the lack of any pages or even the steward he had seen earlier.
William seemed ill at ease, and there was an underlying tension in the hall, extending even to the de Cliffords’ son, Walter, and older daughter, Anne. Was it due to the family’s straitened circumstances? Henry wondered. Rosamund did not speak and kept her eyes downcast.
“You do not have much to say for yourself, mistress,” Henry said, breaking the silence.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Let us dispense with these formalities, shall we? No titles. Today I am not your sovereign but plain Henry, talking his ease among friends.”
“Rosamund has been gently bred and is not used to strangers.” Lady de Clifford looked down her long nose. “As befits a girl of noble family who was educated by the nuns at Godstow. She returned only this summer, and knows little of the world.”
“Her king is hardly a stranger, madam.” Although the rebuke was obvious, Henry softened it with a smile. “I was not objecting. On the contrary, I am used to highly articulate women; both my wife and mother have a great deal to say for themselves and are not hesitant about saying it. This modest manner is refreshing.”
Henry was taken aback at the dark look Sir Walter sent him.
“It is kind of you to say so.” Lady de Clifford returned his smile, which faded when she saw he had barely touched his food. “Can I get you something else?”
“No, no. The food is excellent.” He had barely tasted what he ate. “More of this excellent wine would be most welcome.” Henry held up a pewter goblet and gazed around the empty hall. “Is it my imagination or have your servants deserted us?”
Lady de Clifford cleared her throat. “It is All Souls Eve, you see.”
“When prayers are offered for the souls of those in Purgatory, I believe.” Henry nodded his head. “Your servants attend a church service, then?”
“Well,” she paused, somewhat embarrassed, “the folk hereabouts, servants and villagers, are good Christians all, make no mistake, but on certain feast days they have leave to light their fires and dance around them. Their own sort of festival.”
“It is the same in Gloucester and Bristol,” said William. “An ancient custom, cousin, practiced in these parts since time out of mind.”
“I am familiar with some of the pagan customs of old Britain.” Henry glanced at Rosamund with a smile. “And do you ever join in these rites, mistress?”
He had meant this as a jest and could not conceal his surprise when she nodded.
“I often did as a child. I would go with Gwennyth. We also burned nuts in the fire to read our futures.”
“Really, daughter,” interjected Lady Margaret, “you will give King Henry the wrong impression. Unfortunately, the Welsh nurse, Gwennyth, still followed some of the old ways, unbeknownst to us, of course. Rosamund fell under her influence . . .”
“I am intrigued by this burning of nuts,” Henry said, trying to ease the sense of discomfort in the hall. “Is it a divining art?”
“Young people in the village do it to predict their futures,” Rosamund explained.
“It is merely a game for the gullible. No one takes it seriously.” Lady Margaret glared at her daughter.
Henry rose to his feet and walked over to the central fire. “Here is a fire and there are walnuts on the table.” He beckoned to Rosamund. “Come, mistress, show me what to do. I would know my future—and yours.”
Rosamund stood, picked two walnuts from the bowl, and walked over to the fire. “When they grow hot, the nuts will burst their shells. If one or both nuts crackle loudly, that is proof of hopeful love.”
Henry took the nuts from her hand and threw them into the fire. In a few moments they burst their shells but did not crackle.
“Nary a sound. What does that mean?”
“That love will flame briefly but soon perish.” Rosamund shivered despite the heat of the fire.
“A bleak future,” said Walter de Clifford in a tight voice. “That is what it means.”
Henry laughed. “It is my belief that I determine my own future.” He looked boldly at Rosamund. “And sometimes others’ as well.”
She returned his gaze with a questioning glance completely free of artifice or allure, then resumed her seat. Throughout the rest of the meal Henry was aware of Lady Margaret’s probing gaze. Rosamund did not speak again, and neither did she reveal by gesture or manner anything of herself, but this only added to the mystery that was part of her haunting loveliness. When Lady de Clifford suggested Rosamund show Henry the garden, he was elated at the chance to be alone with her. Sir Walter looked as if he would cheerfully strangle his wife but said nothing. There was a storm brewing here, Henry thought, anxious to be gone before it broke.
“So you were educated at Godstow?” Henry asked, following Rosamund out of the hall as she led him into the garden, half hidden by an arbor of climbing vines, which surrounded a grassy bank. He sat down on a stone bench and patted a place beside him.
“Yes. I consider myself most fortunate.” She sat down. “My brother Walter and I are the only members of the family who are lettered.” After a moment’s pause she added, “Which will be a most valuable asset as a wife, my mother says.”
“Indeed. Both my wife and my mother were very well educated. In fact, Eleanor was a student at the Abbey of Fontevrault, so I have been spoiled—” Henry stopped in midsentence wondering what on earth had possessed him to mention Eleanor.
“How fortunate for Queen Eleanor. If I could have chosen for myself,” Rosamund continued, apparently following her own line of thought, “I would have remained at Godstow to become a novice.”
Henry was taken aback. The thought of all this beauty hidden behind the walls of a cloister was almost a sacrilege.
“You would be wasted behind a nun’s veil.”
“That is what my mother says.” There was an unmistakable note of bitterness in her voice.
“I have a castle at Woodstock, very near Godstow,” he said, changing the subject.
She nodded. “I have seen Woodstock at a distance.”
A damp wind swept across the bare thorny rosebushes and Rosamund glanced up at the overcast sky. “It will rain shortly.”
“How can you tell?”
“Those dark horse-tailed clouds usually mean rain.”
Rosamund spoke with the air of someone country born and bred, familiar with the cycles of nature. She fell silent and Henry could think of nothing else to say. He considered himself adept at conversation, but suddenly found himself tongue-tied, unable to spout forth the practiced worn phrases that usually came so readily to his lips when a potential conquest was at hand. In truth, he was unsure whether he even wanted to seduce her. No. That was not true either. Rosamund had a way of holding her lips, half open, like a ripe pomegranate, that made Henry want to taste them, yet at the same time she did not arouse him to lust. Because she did not exhibit any of the coy flirtatious ways he was accustomed to in the wives and daughters of his nobles, he felt disarmed, unsure of how to proceed. With her air of innocence, of being untouched by worldly bonds, Rosamund was like a butterfly about to emerge from its chrysalis.
He could not recall ever having felt this way before. When he and Eleanor had met it was like an explosion, wild and passionate and filled with magic. This was gentle and cool and tranquil—really, it was beyond explanation. Impulsively, Henry took Rosamund’s graceful white hand in his and brought it to his lips. She cast a guilty look in the direction of the manor house and quickly withdrew it. Instead of feeling rebuffed, Henry was charmed.
“I did not mean to offend you, mistress.”
“Your Grace—”
“Henry.”
“Henry. You have not offended me.” The words were so faint he was not sure she had really spoken.
“What else did your old nurse teach you besides throwing nuts in the fire?” he asked.
“Gwennyth was very skilled in the healing arts, and knew all about herbs and plants, which I also learned at Godstow. She was also a wondrous storyteller, famous throughout the village for her tales.”
“Such as?”
Rosamund clasped her hands together. “Oh, let me see, the Enchantment of Dyfed, the Throne of Arberth, and my favorite, the mysterious Rhiannon on her magic horse.”
This was the first sign of animation Henry had seen in her, except when she had quieted Beaumont. “You must tell me these stories one day.”
She smiled her agreement. Henry did not know how long they sat together in companionable silence, but when a chill rain began to fall they returned to the great hall, where Walter de Clifford, Lady Margaret, and his cousin William were gathered around the central fire.
“Leave us, daughter,” de Clifford told Rosamund in a harsh voice.
Rosamund nodded and turned. She threw a fleeting smile over her shoulder and hurried away.
“The maid is very young, Majesty,” said Sir Walter. “She is easily impressed, unused to men and their blandishments.”
“Really, my lord, I can see that for myself.” Henry glanced in surprise at the black scowl on his host’s face. “I mean no harm to your daughter. After all, I have two daughters of my own. Three, in fact, since Queen Eleanor gave birth only last month.”
“Of course you meant no harm, Your Grace—Henry,” said Lady Margaret, bridling.
“I thought only to help the maid, to be of use to her in some way. Such loveliness, such grace and charm, is wasted in this remote area, if you will forgive my saying so. She would create a sensation at court. And of course her family would benefit from—from any royal—ah—association.”
Until the words were out of his mouth Henry had no idea he was going to say them. He saw William looking at him as if he had just gone mad, which perhaps he had.
“Rosamund would be most unhappy with court life,” de Clifford snapped. “And this ‘remote area,’ as you so term it, if you will forgive my saying so, has been good enough for my family since time out of mind.”
The man had been insolent, but Henry was too taken aback to be angry. The steward, he noted, who had returned and was passing around a wooden tray with pewter tankards of mead, glanced at his master in astonishment. Lady Margaret gave her husband a look sharp as a knife blade. “Please excuse my husband’s rudeness—”
But de Clifford’s blood was up, and he was oblivious to consequences. “What would your wife, Queen Eleanor, say to Rosamund’s presence at court, Your Grace?”
“What should she say, my lord?” Henry cleared his throat. “If Rosamund came to court, it would be as an attendant to Eleanor.” This was a barefaced lie. One look at this maid and Eleanor would send her straight back home.
The unexpected response took the wind out of Walter de Clifford’s sails and his face sagged.
“Her family would benefit, you say, if Rosamund went to court? How generous would this benefit be?” Lady Margaret could barely conceal her excitement. “After all, we have had offers for Rosamund’s hand.”
There was a tightness in Henry’s chest at the thought of this untouched maid belonging to someone else. The whole matter was getting wildly out of control, but he felt powerless to stop himself.
“Rosamund is a devoted daughter of Holy Church, my lord king,” said Sir Walter, pale and tight-lipped. “She wants to become a novice.”
“Yes, so she said.”
“Nor is my daughter a piece of goods up for sale.” Sir Walter belligerently thrust out his lower lip.
“Certainly not.” Henry ran his hand through his hair. “I only meant—” God’s eyes! What had he meant? “This would be an excellent opportunity for the maid.”
“My husband did not mean—”
“Hold your tongue, wife!” Sir Walter’s jaw clenched. “And if the maid does not wish to leave her home, what then?”
“If that is her decision, there is an end to the matter.”
Lady Margaret’s lips tightened as she glanced at her husband in barely suppressed exasperation. There was a taut silence during which Henry could see de Clifford struggling with himself. He almost felt sorry for the man. Perhaps he would feel this way if it were his own daughter. Although, there was something not quite—
“Where will you take her?”
“Take her?” Henry, who had not thought beyond the impulse of the moment, had no idea what he would do with Rosamund, and was already regretting the whole business. He looked quickly at William, who gave him a stony look.
Having neatly trapped himself, Henry cleared his throat and forced a smile. “Ah, well, I must let you know. The queen is in Anjou acting as regent for me on the Continent. When she returns to England something can be arranged.”
“You did mention benefits to the family?” Lady de Clifford inquired.
“Send a request to the treasury in Winchester,” Henry said shortly, disgusted by the rapacious look on her face. “It will be met without question.
“You don’t take Rosamund now, then?” Sir Walter’s look of relief was almost embarrassing.
Did de Clifford think that he was going to sling his daughter over his shoulder and carry her off as if she were a sack of meal? Henry, who could hardly wait to leave this extraordinary household, handed his empty tankard to the steward.
“What do you take me for, my lord? The girl has not even been consulted yet.”
“Consult Rosamund? She will do as she is bid.” Lady Margaret sniffed. “We will await your summons, my lord king—Henry.” She bowed and, standing, hurried out of the hall.
The bells rang for nones, and Henry stood. “I must be on my way to Hereford,” he said.
Sir Walter nodded morosely and said he would see that the horses were brought from the stables.
The moment he left, William threw up his hands. “You cannot be serious, cousin. It would be madness to bring this maid to court.”
“I agree with you. I must indeed have been mad.” Before his cousin could reply, Henry walked out of the hall and into the courtyard.
The sky was starting to clear, but a damp November wind swept down from the Welsh hills. Henry had only a moment alone with his thoughts before Rosamund appeared, looking pale and somewhat distressed.
“I see your mother has spoken to you.”
She looked away from him; a bank of purple clouds tinged with fire hovered on the western horizon. “She said you wish me to come to court?”
Henry could tell nothing from her voice. “To attend Queen Eleanor when she returns from the Continent. But only if you are in agreement.” He was surprised to find that he was steeling himself for her answer.
“My mother said you would recompense the family generously for my—for my loss.”
“It’s what I said, yes.”
Rosamund swallowed. “She said it was every subject’s duty to do as the king wished.”
“Exceptions can be made. What are your wishes in the matter?”
“I am to be an attendant to the queen, my mother said.” She looked at him then, inquiringly, without a trace of guile.
“Well, I would want to see you for myself, of course.” Henry felt his cheeks flush. “That is to say, I would want to ensure that you are happy in your new life.”
“Happy as your . . . paramour, you mean?”
Acutely embarrassed, Henry could not think of a rejoinder. “That is rather bluntly put, mistress.”
“Adultery is a mortal sin. Against the rule of Holy Church.”
Henry nodded. “So we are told. For myself, I do not consider that God really minds about these little lapses of the flesh. Not nearly as much as Holy Church would have us believe.”
“I cannot presume to know what God minds, Your Grace, other than what Holy Writ tells us.” Her voice was gently chiding. “But I would mind.”
Henry stared at her, his mouth open.
“My nurse, Gwennyth, once told me an old saw, something about folk who ‘condemn the sins that they’ve no mind to, condone the sins that they’re inclined to.’”
Henry threw back his head and laughed. “Well said, mistress, you have a ready wit as well as beauty. I stand reproved.”
She swallowed and gave him a shy smile.
“In self-defense let me say this: whatever my inclinations, there are worse sins than adultery.”
Rosamund’s eyes widened in a look he could not fathom and she caught her breath. “That is true.” She signed herself.
To his surprise his words appeared to have made a deep impression and it seemed the right note on which to take his leave. “Shall we meet again, fair Rosamund?”
He waited for an answer but none came. The grooms entered the courtyard with the saddled horses and, suddenly, from under thick gold lashes, she shot him a dazzling blue glance that pierced him like a wound and set his senses reeling. Enchanted, he took her hand and pressed it against his lips. Rosamund did not resist; an encouraging sign. Mounting Beaumont—whose shoe had been expertly repaired; even his foreleg seemed miraculously healed—Henry joined William and the others, then rode out of the courtyard and down the muddy track toward Hereford.
Feeling absurdly lighthearted, Henry began to sing:
Whatsoever Venus bids
Is a joy excelling,
Never in an evil heart
Did she make her dwelling.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, Feast of the Epiphany, Eleanor sat with her husband in the courtyard of the castle at Angers, capital city of the House of Anjou. The morning sun shone from a pale-blue sky, a light wind stirred the air. In the background she could hear the sounds of laughter and muted conversation among the guests attending the Christmas court. Their voices mingled with the strains of lute and voices from strolling troubadours.
How good it was to bask in the sun on this unseasonably warm January afternoon, enjoying a rare moment of tranquility. There was always so much to do: organizing the Christmas court with its hundreds of guests, keeping her eye on the children’s activities and education, and, until Henry’s arrival in December, acting as regent for Anjou and Poitou, that part of her own duchy of Aquitaine that lay just across the Angevin border. Discontented vassals had created sporadic uprisings in Brittany and Poitou, and though Eleanor had not been able to reestablish order, she had continued to use her diplomatic skills to try to maintain communication with those barons in rebellion.
Eleanor glanced at Henry who, for a wonder, looked rested and content, a blue cap perched on his head, a scarlet cloak embroidered with three gold lions thrown carelessly over his shoulders. Even at this moment, though, Henry, in typical fashion, was juggling three things at once: he held baby Joanna on his lap with one arm; his other encircled little three-year-old Eleanor leaning against his knee, while at the same time he watched Richard, age seven, and Geoffrey, age five, practice with small swords and shields under the protective eye of a sergeant-at-arms.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Henry reached behind his daughter’s shoulder to caress Eleanor’s knee, sparking memories of the previous night’s passions. In truth, ever since his arrival Henry had been unusually amiable and affectionate.
“You have done well in difficult times,” he said. “Though I expect no less from those I appoint in my stead.”
“Remarkably well. Admit you could have done no better.”
“I admit no such thing. You have done almost as well as myself. That’s as good as you’ll get, madam.”
Eleanor was pleased. It was rare praise, as he commonly took what she did for granted. And she’d been enjoying their time together despite the news of more uprisings, a new rebellion in Poitou, and Thomas Becket’s continuous efforts to blacken Henry’s good name to any and all who would listen. Yet—she could not put a finger on exactly what was amiss. She sensed a distraction in him, as if his attention was not fully present. This perception was so tenuous, so fragile, that she wondered if she were not imagining it. But she knew Henry so well. . . .
“Is anything troubling you?” she asked.
“God’s eyes! What a question. The problems in my realm defy number.”
“No, I mean something you have not said.”
“If there were, surely you would have found out by now?” He reached up and tweaked her nose. “You have the instincts of a bloodhound.”
Still, there was something in his voice . . .
“Splendid, my boys!” Henry suddenly shouted. Eleanor looked up to see that Richard had unshielded Geoffrey with his sword. Geoffrey dropped his weapon and looked like he was about to cry.
“You did well, Geoffrey, considering your brother is older and larger,” called Henry. “Next time you will be prepared.” He nodded at Richard. “And you, my son, I hope I never have to face you in the lists.”
Richard flushed, Geoffrey nodded, and the two boys jostled with each other competitively before following the sergeant to stow away their arms.
Eleanor smiled at Henry. “That was kind.”
“I never do anything to be kind, Nell,” he replied. “Richard will one day make a splendid warrior.” He glanced at the sun, kissed baby Joanna on the cheek, then handed her to a waiting nurse, patted little Eleanor’s head, and rose to his feet. “I should be off if I hope to make Le Mans before vespers.”
“So soon. I was hoping you could stay longer.”
“After Le Mans I journey to Rouen to see my mother, who grows weaker daily, I am told, then back to England to try and settle my differences with the contentious clergy.” A bitter note entered his voice. “The furor over Thomas Becket does not abate.”
Far from abating, Eleanor knew that the furor raised by Thomas’s banishment was growing worse, even spreading to the Continent. Many ecclesiastics wanted him reinstated to his See of Canterbury despite Henry’s vehement opposition.
“My justiciars,” Henry continued, “write to say that, in the four weeks since I’ve been gone, the ill will among the clergy is spreading to the general populace as well.”
“So you’ve said. What will you do about it?”
“What does one do about a host of canting prelates?” He shrugged. “Thomas! When I think of that treacherous ingrate!” His fists clenched and his face reddened.
Eleanor refrained from saying that the obvious and politic solution was to let Thomas return to his See. But then, Henry knew that as well as she did; only pride and his stubborn nature would not permit him to relent. It was almost impossible to believe that four years earlier, when Thomas had been chancellor of England and not yet primate, he and Henry had been boon companions, close as brothers. Until Henry himself had appointed Thomas to the highest ecclesiastic office in the land, comparable to the king himself in power and influence. What was it about achieving that exalted position that had caused Thomas to turn on his benefactor, defying Henry at every turn?
“When will you be back?” Eleanor asked, thrusting aside her thoughts and rising to her feet.
Henry was silent for a moment, then, collecting himself, took her in his arms. “By summer, perhaps earlier. I shall see Harry when I return to London. Any message for him?”
Eleanor could not help but smile at the mention of their eldest son and heir. “How I miss my sweet Harry! Give him all my love. Tell him to do well at his lessons.” Her smile faded and she signed herself. “Also tell the empress Maud I hope she recovers.”
“My mother is unlikely to recover, Nell,” he said gently. “All one can wish her now is the grace of a speedy death.” He crossed himself as well. “In London I will visit my other Geoffrey. Shall I give him your love too?”
Eleanor nodded. Henry’s “other Geoffrey” was his bastard son by an Anglo-Saxon whore. When the woman had joined a convent four years earlier, Henry had taken in their son to raise with his legitimate children. He doted on the boy, a few months older than his eldest son.
Eleanor hugged Henry tightly. “Don’t go. I wish you would stay.”
Henry took her by the shoulders and searched her face with inquiring gray eyes. “What’s this? The formidable queen of England and duchess of Aquitaine behaving like a mere woman?”
She shook her head and buried her face against his shoulder. “Don’t tease. Stay. Or let me come with you.” This display of weakness on her part was unexpected, almost embarrassing.
“All right. Come with me. If we can find someone to trust who will act as regent and run my affairs in your absence. You are my good right arm, Nell, who can replace you?” He clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead.
“You once said the same of Thomas.” Sweet Marie, what on earth made her say that?
Henry drew back in surprise. “And it was true when I said it. But that was before he stabbed his crosier into my back. I also said the same of my mother. But she is dying. Now it is you alone I can wholly depend upon.” He put his lips to hers and for an instant she was lost in the strong current that flowed between them.
“Nell,” he said, pulling back. “There is something I must tell you. When I was in Hereford last November—”
“Hereford?” Eleanor wiped a lone tear from her eye. “Near the Welsh Marches, isn’t it?”
He paused as if searching for the right words. “It—it can wait. The matter is of no import.” He took a deep breath. “A few instructions before I go: One, the pope has ordered Thomas to the Abbey of Pontigny for rest and prayer, but I’ve heard he spends precious little time there. Let me know what you hear regarding his movements, where he goes and whom he sees. Two, keep a sharp eye on Poitou and the new governor there. Make sure you get regular reports from people you can trust. He is a good man but new to the region and as the unrest in Poitou has increased, matters may get worse before they settle down.”
“If they ever do settle down,” Eleanor said, her attention now turning to the volatile situation in her duchy. “I warned you not to appoint an English lord over Aquitaine—”
“Ah, I see the regent is back, who always knows better than I do.” Henry grinned. “Dearest Nell, my heart is in your keeping so take good care of yourself.”
Eleanor could not help laughing. He was right. The political concerns of their realm were never far from her thoughts. A short while later he was gone, waving an arm as he trotted under the portcullis and across the drawbridge. The issue of her accompanying him had dropped from her mind.
On a damp gray morning in late January of the New Year 1166, Rosamund, who felt she would go from her wits if she had to listen to one more bitter quarrel between her parents, asked for, and was given, leave to ride to the village. This was a market day and she did need to buy some silk thread and skeins of wool, but in truth she really wanted to visit Gwennyth’s grave. Her old nurse would have understood her frustration and anger better than anyone, for Gwennyth had been sent from Bredelais in disgrace, as a result of her “unchristian practices,” her mother had said. Lady Margaret would have banished Gwennyth from the village itself had she been able, but as the old woman was related in one form or another to almost half the villagers—Gerald, their stable boy, was her grandson; their cook a distant cousin; and the parish priest a nephew—that had not been possible, thank the Holy Virgin.
The grave was an hour’s ride from the manor house, located on the edge of a meadow under a rowan tree, well known for its ability to ward off evil. Rosamund dismounted and laid a bouquet of autumn flowers on the grave, noting that someone had carefully surrounded the gravestone with dried mountain ash and verbena, said to possess magical properties. Such tokens were part of the old ways, which frightened her mother, but seemed perfectly harmless to Rosamund. Her nurse had died while she was at the abbey, and when Rosamund returned from Godstow and asked where Gwennyth was buried no one would tell her until she finally wormed it out of Gerald. He had hinted that his gran practiced dark secret rites along with many of the village folk. Disbelieving, Rosamund had then questioned Anne.
“Of course it’s true,” her sister replied. “Don’t you remember? After all, you were nine years old then, only five years ago.”
“I only remember what Mother told me. One day Gwennyth was here and the next she was gone, and then—” Rosamund searched for a memory of that time, but there were only vague images jumbled together. “I was at Godstow. I don’t recall how I got there or even why I was sent. Everything before Godstow is a bit hazy.”
Anne had given her a peculiar look, compressed her lips, and changed the subject.
Now Rosamund knelt in front of the old woman’s grave. “What shall I do, Gwenny?” she said aloud. “My father says he will not allow me to become the king’s whore and my mother screams at him for being a fool. I don’t know which way to turn.”
She did not want to remain at Bredelais, but to share someone’s bed out of wedlock, even if he were king of England and appealing, seemed just as bad, despite what Henry had said. If only a suitable nobleman would offer for her, someone at least reasonably young and pleasant, then she would be properly married. Rosamund patted the grave and with a sigh rose to her feet, mounted Ladybird, and started back toward the manor house. The narrow road ran alongside a huge forest, full of beech and ancient oak trees, which bordered the north side of the de Clifford demesne, then made a sharp turn that took her beside the fallow South Field, where the village hayward was repairing the field’s boundary.
She reached Bredelais before recalling that she was supposed to have gone to the village. No help for it now, she would have to make up some excuse as to why she was returning empty-handed. After putting Ladybird in her stall, she went into the henhouse to gather eggs in a straw basket before entering the kitchen where she was greeted by the sound of raised voices echoing from the great hall.
“What are they arguing about?” Rosamund asked Anne, who, red-faced, her cheeks damp with sweat, was shoveling loaves of maslin bread out of the huge bake oven with a long-handled wooden implement, and onto a wooden platter held by a scullion.
“You. Isn’t it always either you or money?” Anne lifted the last loaf onto the platter. “Some sort of document just arrived from the royal treasury.”
“Do you know what it said?”
“The chaplain read it aloud and I was listening at the door but I am not sure I heard it all.” Anne wiped her face. “It said there were no instructions regarding mother’s request for funds. The treasury cannot act until King Henry returns from the Continent, but he was expected any day. That was the gist of it. Father said the king had probably forgotten all about you. Mother was furious and said it was only a matter of weeks before he would send for you.”
Rosamund was shocked that her mother would have the gall to write to the treasury. The voices increased in volume, and she winced. It was her future being disputed, she thought with sudden resentment. According to the law, of course, it was her parents’ right to dispose of their daughters as they wished, but King Henry, at least, had thought highly enough of her to seek her consent; her opinion mattered.
The argument had reached such a pitch that even the cook, who had started to pluck a guinea hen, and the scullion, holding the platter of smoking loaves, stopped to listen. A sudden wave of anger gripped her and before she knew what she was about, Rosamund ran out of the kitchen, through the buttery, down the passage, and into the hall. Her mother and father were standing by the central fire, heads thrust forward like two gamecocks.
“You can stop quarreling. I’m going to leave Bredelais and—and go to London. As soon as King Henry returns to England I will be there to—greet him.”
Until the words escaped from her mouth, Rosamund had not known if she would have the courage ever to say them. Now that the decision was made, she felt relieved.
“You have behaved as a dutiful daughter should, Rosamund,” said her mother with a triumphant glance at Sir Walter. “Bredelais and our family will reap the benefit.”
Her father looked at her as if he could not believe his ears. “What benefit when our good name will be ruined?” He turned to Rosamund. “You are not foolish enough to believe you go to attend the queen?”
“No. I go to share the king’s bed.”
There was moment of strained silence before her mother, with some difficulty, muttered, “A great honor. A king’s bed is, after all, different from … from an ordinary man’s.” She signed herself and would not meet Rosamund’s glance.
“God’s blood! Out of wedlock, a king’s bed is no different from any other man’s bed!” Sir Walter’s face contorted with rage as he glared at his wife.
“Nonsense. You remember that Yorkshire lord? His sister was the king’s mistress for a time and did very well out of it, I’m told.”
Her mother still would not look at her, and something in her voice told Rosamund she was trying to convince herself as well as her father.
“Think on it, Walter. At one fell swoop we could pay off our debts, repair Bredelais, and have sufficient to give Anne a dowry.”
“Do you really believe I would ever allow the king to make my child into his whore? Not for all the silver in the kingdom. How could I live with the shame of it?” Sir Walter walked over to the table and picked up a pewter pitcher of wine.
“Shame? Shame? You are a fine one to talk of shame,” hissed her mother. “You agreed that she could go when the king was here.”
“He is not here now!” Her father put the pitcher to his lips and took a long draught.
“If you do not let her go, I will tell the whole world of your crimes against nature.” Her voice dripping venom, Lady Margaret folded her arms across her bony chest.
Her father’s face grew beet red, his eyes blazed with such violent hatred that Rosamund, in an agony of humiliation over what her mother had said, became frightened and took a backward step. Sir Walter drank again from the pitcher, brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, then stalked over to her mother.
“Enough, scold. Your tongue has flayed me long enough!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her violently then let her go so suddenly that she fell backward onto the rushes.
Lady de Clifford began to scream at the top of her lungs. Anne came running from the kitchen and the steward raced in from the courtyard, dropping the load of logs he carried. Before anyone could stop him, her father picked Rosamund up in his great arms and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of meal. She began to beat at his back and tried to free her legs but he held her in a grip of iron. He strode out of the hall, through the passage, and into the kitchen. Rosamund saw the cook’s eyes pop when she saw him.
“Out of my way!” he bellowed.
Her father carried her outside and into the stables. When he reached an empty stall, he kicked open the door and dumped her onto a pile of straw.
“You will not disgrace me,” he said in a steely voice. “Not if I have to keep you prisoner here.”
“How dare you treat me so!” Tears spurted to her eyes. “Have you not disgraced me enough?”
“You can never know how deeply you have hurt me, my child.”
He knelt on the straw beside her and pulled her into his arms, kissing her frantically all over her face, murmuring incoherent words into her ears. As she twisted and turned to get away from him, he relinquished his grip; his hands brushed aside her cloak and sought her breasts, his fingers rubbing the nipples.
“Stop! Please! Don’t touch me. I told you never to touch me again,” she screamed, raking his face with her nails until she drew blood.
Her father grunted in pain, and with an oath flung her aside and rose to his feet. Clutching at his face, he stumbled out of the stall, barring it behind him. Rosamund threw herself onto the thick straw and began to sob. Turmoil and dissension were tearing apart her family, and it was all her fault. She must be cursed, possessed of some demon for these terrible things to be happening. Her body shook with weeping until, exhausted, she fell asleep.
On a chill day in January, Eleanor, humming a gay joi d’amour, walked along the ramparts between the rust-colored towers of Angers castle. Through the morning mist, beyond the old Roman walls of Angers she glimpsed the silver ribbon of road that coiled around the town to the gatehouse below. Leaning over the parapet she could see who traversed the highway: ox-driven carts, knights on prancing steeds, burghers trotting on hacks, townspeople trudging along with knobbed sticks, and several black-cloaked ecclesiastics mounted on mules. With a sigh, she wondered if they were on their way to consult her as regent. There were so many requests to hear petitions, approve charters, judge cases, entertain visiting nobles, and appropriate funds that there were never enough hours in the day to deal with them all. Although she truly missed Henry, she could hardly deny that she enjoyed her position as supreme authority in his absence. After all, before she ever married Henry, she had successfully run the affairs of Poitou and Aquitaine.
The sudden blast of a horn startled her, but it was only the steward calling the castle mesnie to the noon meal. Eleanor smoothed the skirt of her sapphire blue tunic and adjusted the blue chin band of her headdress. Still humming under her breath, she leisurely descended the winding staircase to the second floor of the castle, and entered the great hall.
Head high, a regal smile on her face, she threaded her way through the maze of trestle tables, avoiding the squires and pages holding pitchers of wine as they darted this way and that, the scullions carrying logs on their shoulders. The castle mesnie awaiting her arrival inclined their heads as she entered. She stopped to greet a sergeant-at-arms newly arrived from Normandy, smiled at a local falconer who had trained a peregrine for her, nodded to the head verderer she had recently seen about poachers in the royal woods, and let the marshal of Angers lead her to the dais.
A troubadour from Eleanor’s native Aquitaine, clad in rust-brown hood and cape, plucked a series of chords on his lute as he made an elaborate bow then stepped back to make way for a visiting German minisinger who trilled:
Were the world all mine
From the sea to the Rhine,
I’d give it all
If so be the Queen of England
Lay in my arms.
There was a widespread chorus of muted laughter and clapping of hands. Eleanor blew him a kiss through her fingers, pleased at the thought she was still admired throughout the northern regions.
She seated herself at the high table in the straight-backed wooden chair, displacing at her feet a growling deerhound, who hid under the table. A quick glance around the hall told her all was in order: A tree trunk burned brightly in the hearth, the floor was spread with dried green rushes, lavender, and herbs whose fragrance mingled with the pungent odor of blue wood smoke curling upward toward the blackened beams of the ceiling. The table was laid with a snowy cloth, tall silver saltcellars, goblets polished to a high sheen, and fresh trenchers of bread at each place. Everyone in the hall now seated themselves. Her son, Richard, sat at Eleanor’s right hand with Geoffrey next to him, then a visiting baron from Poitou who had arrived only that morning, and lastly the marshal. Her uncle Ralph de Faye, sat on her left, her daughter Matilda beside him, then the bishop of Angers.
Eleanor nodded to the steward, who blew his horn to signal the meal to begin. The bishop of Angers said grace, and amidst a chorus of ahhs and hand-clapping, the head cook, plump face wreathed in sweat, carried in a roast swan adorned in all its feathers. He was followed by a procession of squires and pages carrying platters of roast venison, boiled carp covered in a white sauce, breast of guinea hen, rabbit stewed in milk, sweetmeats, dried apples, and nuts.
“How were your lessons today, Richard?” Eleanor asked once the dishes were laid on the table.
“He wasn’t at his lessons,” said Matilda, glancing at her brother out of supercilious gray eyes.
“Oh?” Eleanor raised her brows. “Why was that?”
“He went off to practice at the quintain because he was bored with learning Cicero. The tutor was furious. Anyway, lessons are wasted on Richard.” Nine-year-old Matilda, excellent at her lessons and the center of attention due to her betrothal to the duke of Saxony, was inclined to give herself airs.
Richard thrust his little silver knife into a chunk of venison. “All I need to learn is how to ride a destrier, hunt well, and kill men with a spear or sword.” He made a face. “I will be duke of Aquitaine, won’t I? Of what use is some dead Roman to me?”
“There is more to ruling a duchy, nephew, than killing men and hunting deer.” Eleanor’s uncle, Ralph de Faye, hair and beard the color of ashes, a paunch bulging under his crimson tunic, chewed a piece of stewed rabbit with his yellowed front teeth. “You must be able to govern men as well.”
“You mean I have to make men do as I say?” Richard stuffed his mouth with meat. “But that should be easy. If they don’t obey, hang them.”
Her uncle shook his head and rolled his eyes toward heaven, but Eleanor’s gaze rested tenderly on the corn-gold hair and comely features of her second son. “One does not talk with one’s mouth full, Richard. Nor do elbows belong on the table. The Romans once ruled the known world, remember. You might learn something of use from them.”
“I like learning about—” little Geoffrey piped up.
“No one asked your opinion,” Richard interjected.
Geoffrey fell silent.
“Richard won’t let Geoffrey talk because Geoffrey is so much smarter.” Matilda looked down her nose at her brother.
Richard gave his sister a dark look and Eleanor held up her hands. “Enough.”
The two children, eleven months apart, did not get on, but then Richard tended to have difficulty with all his siblings. Apart from resenting Matilda, he was jealous of his eldest brother, Harry, heir to England, Normandy, and Anjou; bullied his younger brother, Geoffrey; and actively hated his half brother, the bastard Geoffrey.
“What is the news from Poitiers, my lord?” Eleanor asked the Poitevin baron before the children could find something else to argue about. Poitiers was the capitol of Poitou and usually the center of any discontent.
“Seething with unrest, I fear, the usual state of affairs. But this time matters threaten to get out of hand.” The baron, elderly, with a bald head, signed himself with palsied fingers.
“Hah! I predicted as much.” Ralph belched. “I said to my niece only the other day, after thirteen years of iron-fisted leadership, I said, the lords of Poitou will no longer tolerate your husband’s ruthless pruning of their liberties.”
Eleanor, who felt she had jumped from the cauldron into the fire with her question, frowned. “The Poitevins are always up in arms about something, uncle, so do not exaggerate.”
“Indeed.” The marshal of Angers nodded. “There is no leader these people can tolerate. Before Count Henry of Anjou it was Louis of France the Poitevins would not tolerate.”
Eleanor, whose first husband had been the king of France before the annulment of their marriage fourteen years earlier, wondered that the marshal could even speak of the bumbling, inadequate Louis in the same breath as Henry.
“Before that it was Lady Eleanor’s father, Duke William,” the marshal continued, “and before that her grandfather, Duke William the First, the Troubadour of blessed memory. Whoever carries the title duke of Aquitaine becomes the target of their resentment.”
The Poitevin lord looked offended. “But in this case, Marshal, there is much truth in what my lord de Faye says. The Poitevins are dangerously resentful. And with reason. The new English military governor, Lord Patrick of Salisbury, is the source of their discontent, and the Poitevins blame Duke Henry, who appointed him.”
“The duke of Salisbury is still new to the task, my lord,” said Eleanor. “In time he will—adjust.”
“With all due respect, madam,” the baron responded with a frown, “Salisbury makes no effort to understand us. The Poitevins are not the same as the English and one cannot treat them with a heavy hand. As a result, Salisbury’s orders are ignored, and his means of retaliation most savage.” He glanced at the children. “The details do not bear repeating here.”
Eleanor, heartsick at this news, was not surprised. Hadn’t she warned Henry this might happen?
“Does my lord of Salisbury hang, draw, and quarter those who defy him?” Richard asked with keen interest.
Ignoring the question, the Poitevin lord continued to address Eleanor. “This is why I came to Angers, madam, hoping that you, as regent of the area, might be able to do something for us.”
“Rest assured I shall give the matter my full attention,” Eleanor said with a diplomatic smile. She had been tactless to bring up so inflammatory a subject at table, where she could not control the course of the discussion, and her uncle equally so for throwing more coals on the fire.
Eleanor had had difficulty in curbing Ralph’s venomous tongue ever since, against her protests, Henry had replaced him as castellan of Aquitaine with Lord Patrick of Salisbury. Although, in truth, Ralph de Faye had had little success in the duchy, having experienced constant difficulty with those same Poitevin lords whose cause he now appeared to be supporting. Still, he understood the Poitevins better and at least attempted to negotiate with them. Eleanor loved Poitou but was the first to admit that, like all Aquitainians, they were a defiant and contrary people. As the marshal of Angers had said, nothing and no one pleased them for long.
Her uncle, oblivious, continued his tirade. “And it is not only the Poitevins who are resentful. What about the border lords of Maine, Brittany, and Normandy? Were they also up in arms last summer or do I exaggerate that as well?”
She curbed a sharp retort. “No, uncle, they were—unruly.” In truth, the sporadic uprisings the previous summer had been such that Eleanor, fearful for Anjou’s safety, had ordered the constable of Normandy to muster an army to quell the insurgents. “But things are much better since Henry was here for the Christmas court.”
Ralph belched again, loosening the gold-studded belt around his tunic. “Better, are they? Only today I heard a disquieting rumor that in retaliation for this English lord your husband has set over Poitou, the counts of Angoulême and La Marche intend to form a confederation to sever their ties to your husband and offer their loyalty to Louis of France.” He had everyone’s attention now. “What this says to me, niece, is that faith in Duke Henry is virtually destroyed.” He tapped his fleshy nose with a heavily ringed finger.
A frisson of alarm ran through Eleanor and she could feel her scalp prickle. Even though her spies had told her similar tales, she had not really believed them to be true. While a hovering squire poured ruby wine from a silver pitcher into her jeweled goblet, she gave her uncle a sharp look, well aware of his penchant for malice and intrigue, the enjoyment he derived from creating turbulence. She then turned to the Poitevin lord who, face flushed, was nibbling on a piece of marchpane and would not meet her gaze. No secret as to where Ralph had heard this “rumor.” Her appetite suddenly vanished, Eleanor pushed her trencher away.
“What have you heard, Your Grace?” she asked the bishop of Angers. A staunch supporter of Henry’s, she could trust him to put matters in perspective.
The bishop spread his hands. “Certainly one hears of discontent and uprisings, and not only in Poitou as my lord de Faye has mentioned. But there is another factor at work here. Ever since the archbishop of Canterbury arrived on the Continent two years ago—”
“Aha,” Ralph interjected, thumping the table. “I was just coming to that, niece. That firebrand, Thomas, goes from place to place protesting his banishment, and mouthing threats of excommunication against Henry Plantagenet and those prelates who supported him.”
“Dies Irae.” The bishop of Angers signed himself. “Who would have thought that the primate’s quarrel with the king in England could have such a disastrous effect across the Channel? No one suspected Thomas wielded such influence.”
“What does His Grace mean, Maman?” Richard looked at her then at the bishop.
“What he means, nephew,” said Ralph, “is that Thomas Becket, by spreading poison wherever he goes, is demonstrating quite clearly to all who have a mind to take the law into their own hands, that the king of England can be successfully defied.”
Rosamund was sharply awakened by a rattling at the door of the stall, accompanied by subdued voices.
“Rosamund?” It was her sister’s voice, filled with alarm. “Are you there?”
Relief flooded through her. “Yes. Who is with you?”
“Gerald. He is trying to open the stall. It has been fastened so securely we cannot easily dislodge the bar of wood.”
Groggy, Rosamund stood up, straightening her cloak and adjusting her skirts with trembling fingers. Every limb ached and her body was chilled to the bone. In a moment the stall door opened. Anne, holding aloft a lit torch, was standing before her pale as death, with the young groom behind her.
“Father has been behaving like someone possessed, ranting like a madman, making wild threats—” Anne hesitated. “He threw Mother into her chamber and locked her in. He then drank off two pitchers of wine and now lies senseless over the table in the hall, stinking like an ale vat.” She peered closely at Rosamund as she handed her a leather wine flask. “There is straw all over your hair. Holy Mother, Father didn’t—I mean—” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
Rosamund, not trusting herself to speak, blinked back tears as she shook her head, quickly brushed the straw off her hair and cloak, then took a large swallow of wine from the flask. It was sour but still warmed her belly. A moment later the bells rang for matins.
“Midnight already! Father could wake soon, so we must act quickly. Bring the horses, Gerald.” Anne took a deep breath. “I am afraid to let Mother out, but I talked to her through the door. She said that you must leave for London now, before Father can stop you. Here are a few clothes I’ve packed, food, and some money Mother had hidden away which she told me where to find.”
Anne handed Rosamund a bulging straw basket and a large bundle wrapped in a linen cloth, then held up a small leather bag and tucked it into the basket. Dazed, she followed her sister out of the stables. Outside it was dark, with shadowed clouds sailing across a starry sky, and a hunter’s moon hanging like a beacon of light over the ridge of mountains. In the crisp air Rosamund’s head began to clear; blood returned to her cramped limbs.
“Gerald will take you into Hereford,” Anne continued, looking anxiously toward the manor. “Farmers and wheelwrights leave daily for London and you can pay one of them to take you into the city. It could take ten days or so, if the weather holds, but you must leave at once. Go straight to Westminster, Mother says. King Henry should have returned from the Continent by the time you arrive.”
Rosamund dared not let herself think of what might happen if he had not returned. Just as she dared not think of what her father might do when he woke to find her gone.
“Thank Mother for me,” Rosamund said, grateful. “She has thought of everything.”
Gerald appeared with Ladybird and another horse. “The carts leave from the inn on the north side of Hereford by cockcrow, mistress.” He cast a quick glance toward the manor. “That be a three-hour ride this time o’ night, we best leave at once.” He took the basket and bundle of food, stuffing them into a saddlebag.
“How can I ever thank you?” Rosamund threw her arms about her sister.
“Mother said to remind you that you can show your gratitude by seeing that King Henry does not forget his promise to help us.”
“I will remind him, never fear.”
Anne hesitated. “I wish you well, Sister. Forgive me for ever having hated you for being so well favored.” She crossed herself. “Mother also said”—she suddenly seemed ill at ease—“I don’t know how to tell you this—Mother said don’t come back. Whatever happens, regardless of your circumstances—” Anne began to cry. “I only repeat what she said. Mother says you bring trouble, Rosamund, and cause disharmony. Not by intention but—I’m so sorry.” She turned, ran toward the kitchen courtyard, and disappeared into the darkness.
Rosamund felt rooted to the ground.
“Hurry, mistress.” Gerald half dragged her toward her mount, virtually lifting her onto Ladybird’s back, then swung himself onto his own horse.
Stunned and disbelieving, Rosamund trotted behind him out the postern gate. She wanted to weep but there were no tears left. There was nothing left anymore but the certainty that she was leaving Bredelais and her old life behind her forever.