A BRISK WIND ROILED the Channel; white-capped breakers rocked the keels of moored vessels. A chain of sailors, tunics girt waist-high, bore bundles and saddlebags through the shallows to the sturdy hoy resting at anchor. Eleanor, her hand on Richard’s shoulder, stared, unseeing, at the Boulogne shore thronged with onlookers on this clear April morning. All Fools Day, as she recalled with a sense of irony.
“Have you gone totally mad?” Her uncle had looked at her in disbelief when, the day after Thomas left Angers, she’d told him she was going to England, and why.
“A foolhardy venture. You are the regent here, niece. What do you think Duke Henry will do when he finds out you have deserted your post on a questionable rumor from a known enemy?”
“It sounds more than just rumor, uncle.”
Ralph threw up his hands. “Suppose your husband has taken some trollop to his bed? It would not be the first time, nor will it be the last. Such an inconsequential matter, and you make it out to be the end of the world.”
“Inconsequential? If Henry has set up a girl of good family at Woodstock and made a public display of this liaison, it is an affront to me, and I will not tolerate such humiliation.”
“You have lost your wits, niece. Thomas has addled your good common sense.” Ralph’s eyes bulged from his head in agitation. “In the name of God, send someone else—”
“I will probably return within the month,” she interrupted. “If not, I will send for the children. Richard goes with me, and I leave you in charge while I am gone.”
“Duke Henry will hardly approve your choice. And if, by some chance, the rumor is true, what will you accomplish by going to Woodstock?”
The only way she could be certain that Thomas was telling the truth was to see for herself. She had not thought beyond that. “Try to behave with circumspection and tact, uncle.”
Eleanor had closed her ears to his outraged sputtering, hastily packed what she would need, and, taking an armed guard, set out for Boulogne.
The hoy was not the most comfortable of vessels, but it was fast and able to accommodate all the baggage, Richard and her, four Angevin knights, and three Benedictine brothers, from the Abbey of Bec near Rouen, who had begged a passage. The captain shouted orders; the anchor swung aboard, oars rattled, and the ship turned seaward as sailors dragged her from the shallows. A delighted Richard hung precariously over the wooden rail, with Eleanor and one of the knights holding on to his belt to steady him. The sail was hoisted to the masthead and bellied in the wind. A wave of spray hit her face and she tasted salt on her tongue. Wiping her eyes, Eleanor looked over her shoulder. Boulogne was slowly receding. On her left the coast of Ponthieu was only a strip of shoreline. Ahead there was nothing but a vast green sea that stretched across an endless horizon.
But now that she had time to catch her breath, doubts assailed her. She knew full well that she had left Angers precipitously. Against all reason she had abandoned her responsibilities as regent, something she had never done, on the word of a vindictive prelate. Her uncle was right; she had lost her wits. But it was too late to turn back the hourglass. The gold and scarlet dragon that adorned the hoy’s prow plunged through pale emerald waves. Snowy clouds cavorted across a glittering blue sky.
Thus mariners of old must have felt setting sail upon uncharted seas, braving fatal currents, not knowing whether they would find safe harbor or fall afoul of hidden rocks to meet their doom.
It had not been Henry’s intention to install Rosamund de Clifford at Woodstock. On the contrary, when he left Angers he had been of two minds whether even to see her again, blowing first hot then cold on the matter. To begin with, he did not want to risk offending Eleanor. Together they had built an empire, produced a fine brood of children, and knew each other’s minds almost as well as they knew their own. He loved her deeply, and if their passion no longer burned with the same breath-catching fire, it still simmered with a satisfying glow. Only to be expected after fourteen years. She meant everything to him, and he could not account for his overwhelming response to Rosamund.
Henry knew himself well enough to realize that such encounters did not last forever, regardless of how captivated he was in the moment. And sooner or later, of course, Eleanor was bound to find out. The repercussions did not bear thinking on. He remembered all too vividly the violent gale that had erupted when he’d brought his bastard son by Bellebelle, an Anglo-Saxon whore, into the royal household. Eventually, though, Eleanor had come to accept the situation and was now quite fond of the boy. After Bellebelle, Henry did not want to tempt fate a second time.
Then there was the question of where he would house Rosamund if she did come to London. She was, after all, the daughter of a noble family and delicately bred, thus it must be a respectable dwelling. There were too many difficulties to even seriously consider the matter. By the time he returned to England in early February, Henry had put the whole thing out of his mind.
It was Rosamund herself who changed everything.
A sennight after his return, she had arrived without warning at Westminster in a state of near collapse. Cloak filthy from the mud of the winter roads, her face streaked with dirt, hair covered in dust, Rosamund had resembled some wild woodland creature. But she still managed to look so lovely, so exquisitely fragile, that Henry was once again enthralled. Exhausted and barely coherent, she poured out a garbled tale of having to leave Bredelais in the dead of night, traveling with a wheelwright for a wretched ten-day journey.
She was so distraught it was impossible to question her further, and unthinkable to send her back. Filled with misgivings, Henry took her to Woodstock merely as a temporary measure, knowing he must get her away from London’s prying eyes and wagging tongues. Although Woodstock was frequently used for meetings of his council, it was far less busy than Westminster and would provide a safe haven until he decided what to do with her. He had never intended to keep her there, but she was ecstatic when they arrived.
“Oh, you remembered,” she’d cried, bursting into tears.
“Remembered?” Henry had been mystified.
“How much I love Godstow, which is only a few leagues away. How can I ever thank you for bringing me here!”
On this mild April morning Henry was walking in the enclosed deer park that surrounded the palace at Woodstock with several members of his council, having returned only the previous night from an extended journey to Canterbury and points south.
“What will you do with the maid?” His co-justiciar, Robert de Beaumont, earl of Leicester, leaned heavily on a stout oakwood stick.
“I must find her a suitable dwelling.”
“You said that, as I recall, when she first arrived.” De Beaumont raised his thick gray brows. “Seven weeks ago.”
“I have hardly been here since February, my lord.” Henry shot the earl a testy glance. “What time have I had to seek an alternative?”
“Send her back to Bredelais, Your Grace,” said John the marshal. “A fair wench, I cannot deny, but she should not be openly housed at Woodstock.”
“The marshal is right, my lord king.”
Henry glowered. Did they think he was a fool? “I have no intention of keeping her here. Nor can I send her back to Bredelais.”
Although he was not sure why. Whenever he asked Rosamund about the events that prompted her departure from Bredelais, she shook her head, refusing to speak about her family at all except to remind him to send her mother the money he had promised. Once he had mentioned Sir Walter de Clifford, and Rosamund’s face closed up like a flower folding its petals for the night. One day, Henry promised himself, he would find out what lay behind the strange relationship between Rosamund and her odd family.
“Well, send her somewhere else, then.” The marshal shrugged. “You must have taken your pleasure often enough that you will soon tire of her. In the end, all cats are gray by night, eh?” He gave a brutal laugh.
Henry felt his face stiffen. He wondered what the marshal would say if he told him that Rosamund was still a virgin. Every time he made a tentative advance in that direction, her pleading look of reluctance restrained him, and he would never take her against her will. Certainly this was not a response he had encountered with other women, and Henry was not sure how to deal with it. Rosamund aroused all his protective instincts, as well as a sense of pity whenever he observed her wandering forlornly around Woodstock, not knowing what to do with herself. He had been gone much of the time, but now that he was back for a few weeks, perhaps he needed to be more persuasive?
“This problem is easily solved, I would think,” continued the marshal.
“One would think so,” replied de Beaumont with an arch smile, “but this maid seems to have cast some sort of spell over His Grace.”
A spell. Henry had thought himself that some sort of enchantment held him in thrall. Or was it merely that forbidden fruit looked to be sweeter than that readily available? That night, he decided, he would breach the wall of Rosamund’s chastity, overcome her squeamishness, and seduce her so artfully that she would be filled with gratitude. That might be just what he needed to break this spell. A surge of unexpected desire gripped his vitals, even as some remote part of him wanted, inexplicably, to keep her virgo intacta.
“Spell or whatever you choose to call it,” said the marshal with a leer, “I wouldn’t want to be in Your Grace’s boots should the queen come to hear of the whore’s presence.”
“She is not a whore, by God, but the educated daughter of an able and honored knight,” Henry shouted, feeling the blood rush into his head. He drew his sword from its sheath and stabbed it violently into the damp earth. “If you cannot speak of Mistress de Clifford with the respect she deserves, Marshal, then hold your tongue—lest you feel the want of it.”
In all their years together he had never had occasion to speak to John the marshal in such a forceful manner. The marshal was a loyal servant of the crown; everyone knew he had a foul mouth and meant nothing by what he said. Jesu! What was the matter with him? Henry pulled his sword out of the ground and sheathed it.
“I meant no offense, Your Grace.” The marshal was white as new milk.
“Yes, all right. Let us leave the matter.” Suddenly, Henry did feel like a fool. “I spoke out of turn.”
De Beaumont tactfully asked what had transpired at Canterbury and the conversation moved on to the hostility among the clergy over Thomas’s continued banishment and his vacant See.
“A new archbishop must be appointed,” said de Beaumont. “Over time the clergy will accept it. The pope, I hear, is currently at Sens in France. He must be convinced to remove Thomas officially from Canterbury instead of blowing this way and that like a weathercock.”
Henry nodded. “When I return to the Continent, I will see His Holiness.” In truth, he was in no hurry to fill the vacant See. While there was no archbishop in residence, all revenues that would have gone to Canterbury could be diverted to the royal coffers. Naturally, the Church was displeased.
The discussion continued but Henry’s attention returned to the marshal’s comment, as it reflected his own fears. If Eleanor should learn about Rosamund . . . Across the park, outside the enclosed wall, his gaze fell on a thickly wooded area, passed on, then slowly moved back. Within that stretch of woods, he recalled, lay a stream, and several old buildings in need of repair. This was an area no one ever used, there were deer to hunt, and from the palace it was invisible.
“What is the name of the place located in those woods?” he asked, interrupting de Beaumont.
“What place, my lord king?” The justiciar looked puzzled.
“There.” Henry pointed. “There are several dilapidated structures hidden in that thick stretch of forest. You can’t see them from here.”
“A residence, you mean? I never knew one existed.”
“Nor did I,” said the marshal.
“Everswell. That’s it.” Henry’s gaze again swept the park and returned to the wooded area. In his great-grandfather the Conqueror’s day, a manor house had stood on the site of Woodstock. His grandfather, the first King Henry, had rebuilt it into a large hunting lodge, surrounding it with a deer park and enclosing it within a great stone wall, where he collected rare animals: lions, lynxes, and the like—long since gone. The buildings in the forest could well have been there since Saxon times. Obviously few knew of its existence. In the early days of his reign, Henry himself had only stumbled upon it by following a recalcitrant peregrine out of the park and into the woods. A tenuous idea began to take form. Perhaps, it might just be possible . . .
The bells sounded for sext. Henry walked thoughtfully back to the castle to attend the noon mass in the chapel.
At supper in the dark and smoky hall, Rosamund moved her food about the trencher, unable to eat, her belly in knots at the prospect of what was to come. She knew that later that night Henry would come to her bed. Up till this moment she had managed to put him off by telling him she had a flux that would not go away, then pleading for time to adjust to the situation. Henry had been kind and patient, but that afternoon he had made it clear that he had kept his part of their bargain and it was now time to keep hers. Rosamund did not disagree. He had provided her a refuge, sent money to Bredelais; he treated her with unfailing courtesy and consideration, and if her life at Woodstock was not a happy one, that was not Henry’s doing. While she was relieved to be away from Bredelais, still she missed the sense of belonging somewhere and being of use. In Woodstock, her days were empty and meaningless. Henry was rarely present and when he was, he appeared distracted with affairs of the realm, totally unlike the boyish monarch whom she had first met. People were polite but, uncertain of her status, did not know how to treat her. Bored and lonely, she had been afraid to visit Godstow; in truth, she was not sure the nuns would want to see her under her present circumstances as the king’s leman.
There was also an unaccustomed tension at the table, which Rosamund assumed was due to the unexpected arrival, at vespers, of the bishop of Oxford. Henry introduced her as a guest at Woodstock, the daughter of his vassal, Sir Walter de Clifford, with no further explanation. The bishop gave her a hard look from disapproving eyes and thereafter ignored her.
She wondered if he had come to verify rumors he must have heard, but the nature of his visit turned out to be quite different, as he and Henry spent the meal rehashing an ongoing debate about the trial of a parish priest accused of rape.
“It is an outrage, my lord king,” said the bishop. “The sheriff must be reprimanded for his officious behavior.”
Henry tore off a leg of guinea fowl. “What is an outrage, Your Grace, is that Holy Church still insists that clergymen are above the king’s law. It is this kind of gross inequity that lies at the root of my quarrel with the archbishop. Do you take Thomas Becket’s side in this?” He stabbed the leg at the bishop.
“I did not say so, my lord king,” the bishop protested. “I merely wish to point out that canon law is one thing and civil law another—”
“There should be a common law for all men,” Henry interjected. “Noble or yeoman, priest or clerk, knight or foot soldier. If we are all the same under Christ Jesus, as Saint Paul has said, then why not under the king’s law?” He threw the gnawed bone under the table to the hounds foraging there. “That is my goal, and I mean to achieve it.”
Why not indeed, Rosamund wondered, who had never thought about this before. It certainly made sense. She glanced at Henry’s flushed face and flashing gray eyes. Here was the man she remembered at Bredelais, and her heart warmed. The bishop of Oxford, his nose clearly twisted out of joint, did not pursue the argument, and the discussion moved on to other matters.
After the evening meal, two attendant women escorted Rosamund to a small solar aglow with light from a profusion of wax tapers. She looked wonderingly at the wooden tub of steaming water, polished oak tables set with silver candelabra, cushioned stools embroidered with gold thread, and ornately carved chests. A small tapestry in jeweled colors of crimson, green, and azure blue covered one wall, but it was the wide blue-canopied bed that dominated everything else. She slowly removed her clothes and stepped gingerly into the perfumed water. One of the women scrubbed her body with a wet linen towel, washed and dried her hair, then polished her skin with a pumice stone. Another attendant patted her dry before rubbing oil scented with rose petals into her skin, and then led her to the bed. Rosamund slid under the linen sheet, previously heated by hot bricks, and pulled the fur-lined coverlet up to her chin. The women blew out all but two candles then withdrew. Was this how all Henry’s new conquests were treated?
The tread of heavy footsteps outside the door caused her heart to leap. But the steps passed by. Rosamund reminded herself that she liked Henry, and was grateful to him, but she shrank from the knowledge that yet another sin would be added to her already crushing burden of guilt and shame. Yet what else could she do? Where else could she go with no money and no prospects? When she had left Bredelais she knew what lay in store, and now she must face the consequences.
Her gaze roamed around the chamber and settled on a pitcher of wine and two silver goblets studded with lapis lazuli, rubies, and sapphires that stood on the table by the bed. Rosamund sat up and, picking up one of the goblets, carefully examined it. Holy Mary Virgin, it must be worth a king’s ransom. There were so many beautiful pieces about the castle: carved ivory boxes, ornate silver cups and bowls, any one of which would amply contribute to maintaining Bredelais and help reduce the debt. It was an unworthy thought, and she hastily put down the goblet. She tried to console herself with the realization that the price of her virginity was the survival of her ancestral home and a dowry for her sister, Anne. Perhaps it would also help atone for her sins. That would make anything bearable. Her sister’s parting words echoed again her ears. Was she really the source of trouble as her mother claimed? Sometimes, unwittingly, she felt as if she exerted an unnatural spell, like a Welsh sorceress from the old tales Gwennyth used to tell her.
Rosamund sank back against the bed cushions and stared up at the deep blue of the canopy. Suddenly her father’s face appeared above her, the comely features ravaged by pain and rage, and she pressed her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming aloud. She closed her eyes tightly, willing his invisible presence to be gone.
“You are meant to be awaiting me in transports of expectant delight, and here I find you sleeping. Not very flattering, I’m bound to say.”
Startled, Rosamund’s eyes flew open to see Henry smiling down at her. She had been so caught up in her thoughts that she had not heard him enter.
“I wasn’t asleep,” she said.
“Never mind.” Henry was wearing a long red robe, lined with vair, from the look of the turned-back gray fur cuffs. Freshly barbered, his skin looked smooth and rosy, his face shining, his eyes warm and expectant. He perched on the edge of the bed and stroked the hair back from her forehead. “How fair you are.” He picked up a silver-gilt strand. “Such an incredible hue, not quite real. Like a nymph out of legend. And your eyes! As if someone had poured the whole of a blue August sky into them. Extraordinary.”
Before she could stop herself, Rosamund moved her head from his grasp. Henry looked down at her. “Are you still apprehensive?”
“Yes.”
“I have tilted my lance in these lists more times than I can remember. Trust me to behave in a chivalrous manner.”
She gave him a tremulous nod. He slipped out of his robe and climbed into the bed. Rosamund steeled herself for what would come next, but to her surprise all he did was to gather her into his arms. Gradually she began to relax, a feeling of safety stealing over her. When he gently kissed her lips she was not alarmed, although she could not respond. Slowly his hands began to caress her body. She continued to feel numb but not frightened. If what lay ahead was to be no worse than this, she could bear it, she realized with relief.
All went well until he settled his weight on top of her and tried to part her legs gently. Terror rose like a wave, clutching at her throat, stifling her so that she felt as if she were going to suffocate. She shrieked in horror, thrashing out with her arms and legs, twisting her body from side to side, desperately trying to escape. Henry quickly rolled away from her.
“What is it?” His voice was filled with alarm. “Sweet Jesu, what is the matter?”
She tried to respond but could only make strangled sounds. Then the chamber reeled and she lost consciousness.
When she opened her eyes her head was against Henry’s arm and he was attempting to pour wine from a goblet down her throat. Rosamund sputtered and choked, but after a few moments the intense feeling of suffocation lessened and her limbs stopped twitching. Henry pulled her up to a sitting position then held the goblet to her lips so she could take small swallows. After a few seconds she felt steady enough to hold the goblet in her own hands.
“What a fright you gave me.” His gray eyes were wide with concern. “But I do not understand what happened. I could not have hurt you.”
“No. I—can’t explain it. One moment I was fine, the next I was overcome with terror. As if I would die from lack of air. It has never occurred to me before.” She felt so embarrassed. Henry would think she had lost her reason. “Forgive me.”
Henry smiled and patted her hand but there was a baffled expression on his face. “Nothing to forgive. The situation was obviously out of your control. We will take this one step at a time. After all, there is no hurry.”
“Thank you,” Rosamund whispered, fighting back tears. “I am sure that it won’t happen again. I will be able to—”
“Of course you will. Better now?”
She nodded and took another sip of wine.
“Do not look so fearful.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek “As you must know from your own experience, some fillies are more skittish than others, and need greater patience.” He crawled into the bed, well away from her, and turned on his side. “God rest you, Rosamund. Blow out the candle when you are ready.”
“Henry.” She laid the goblet down on the table. Regardless of consequences, even if he thought her mad, Rosamund knew she must tell him of the fear that festered within her. Surely she owed him that much. “I do not carry good fortune with me.”
Henry turned over and propped himself up on his elbow. “What do you mean?”
“I—I bring trouble wherever I go. Like a leper. Except when I was at Godstow. It did not happen there.” The words poured out before she could stop them and she could hear the wild urgency in her voice. “Please, please let me return to the abbey, I beg of you. There I cause no ill to anyone.”
“Of course you do not cause ill. What wild talk is this?” Henry frowned. “You may visit Godstow whenever you wish, but—” He gave her a searching look. “You are, quite naturally, distressed. Not yourself.” He yawned. “The world will look brighter in the morning, sweeting.” He spoke reassuringly, like a father quieting a child. “There is nothing to fear.”
He turned over on his side. Rosamund blew out the candle and, her body trembling, laid back against the pillow. Holy Mary Virgin, she had tried to warn him, but he did not understand: The fear was not for herself, but for him.