“WHY DO WE HAVE to go to Woodstock?”
Eleanor looked down at Richard, half-asleep in the litter swaying between two Flemish horses. She had not intended to take him to Woodstock, but as they approached London the previous evening she realized that if she left him at Westminster with his eldest brother, Harry, it would alert members of Henry’s administration to her presence in England. That was the last thing she wanted. But only an hour earlier they had passed Beaumont Castle on the outskirts of Oxford, and still she had not stopped. Everything else, even Richard’s welfare, was subordinate to the burning drive to reach her destination.
“Why?” he asked again.
Eleanor hesitated. “Your father is there. We’re going to surprise him.”
Richard rubbed his eyes. “I still wish we didn’t have to go.”
“There is no point in whining, Richard. We are almost there.” Eleanor settled back in the litter with a stab of guilt. “Are you very tired, sweeting?”
“Yes. And hungry, too.”
“You’re a wonderful traveler, my son.” Eleanor pulled up the fur-lined gray blanket and gently covered him. “Not long now.” Richard’s head lolled against her shoulder, his eyes closed.
She had only slept in fits and starts herself since leaving Boulogne five days earlier, eating barely enough to maintain her strength. Curiously she felt no fatigue, although she knew her body must be exhausted, and was not even sure what day it was. The twenty-first day of April? The twenty-second? Church bells sounded for vespers and she opened the leather curtains of the litter. Dusk was approaching. An orange ball of sun hung low in a darkening blue sky; purple clouds hovered over the Oxfordshire downs. The road climbed a gentle rise, skirting a dense forest on one side and a stubbled field where sheep grazed on the other. The litter lurched and her heart with it; she closed the curtains and sank back against the cushions.
Soon she would know.
Henry galloped across the park on his black stallion, Rosamund behind him on a brown mare with a white star on its forehead. He slowed his mount, allowing her to catch up. She looked especially lovely with the hood of her blue cloak billowing in the wind, silver-gilt hair blown in charming disarray, and her usually pale cheeks pink from the ride. When she came abreast, he stretched out his hand; laughing, she caught it in one of hers.
She was so different from the distraught maid he had attempted to bed the night before, almost as to be unrecognizable. He had tactfully brushed aside the incident, but he knew that Rosamund’s violent reaction was no virgin’s squeamish reluctance but a soul tormented by some deep-seated fear. He leaned over and brought her hand to his lips.
“Oh, look. You have a visitor.”
Startled, Henry dropped her hand and turned to see a litter approach the open gates, followed by two packhorses and four Angevin knights. “Wait here while I see who it is.”
With a frown at this unwelcome intrusion, Henry trotted toward the litter. God’s eyes! Was he to be given no peace? His council members had left just that morning and he had hoped for at least a day’s respite before leaving for London. No one was expected from Anjou unless some new crisis had developed. Suddenly he pulled so sharply at the reins that the stallion whinnied and lifted his front hooves off the ground. God’s splendor, sweet Jesu, it could not be, it was not possible . . . yet even before he saw her he knew.
The litter curtains were abruptly pushed back and Eleanor, eyes blazing in a face the color of death, was staring past him. Henry did not have to turn to know at whom she was staring. Shock and pain contorted her face almost beyond recognition as she pressed her hands against her mouth. Henry’s heart turned over. He shut his eyes, unable to bear the sight of his own handiwork.
“Turn back. Now. We go to Beaumont.” Henry heard her anguished call.
When he looked again, the curtains were shut. The litter made a wide turn and retraced its path. Stunned, Henry sat frozen in the saddle, his mouth dry, his belly churning so violently that he feared he would be sick. Instinct told him to ride after the litter as it disappeared around a bend in the road, but he could not move. He did not know how long he sat there—hours or moments—before Rosamund’s voice penetrated his stupor.
“Henry? Are you all right?”
No. He was not all right. But the harm is not irrevocable, he told himself. After he had collected his wits, he would follow Eleanor to Beaumont and undo the damage he had done. At the moment he did not know what he would tell her, but he would think of something. Very possibly the truth. He loved her and she knew that. There had never been a time when he could not talk his way around her anger, persuade her to see reason, and cozen her into accepting his explanation of things.
Eleanor knew Henry would come to Beaumont and had no idea what she was going to say. Or do. Although at some level of understanding she had known what she would find, nothing could have prepared her for the impact of seeing Henry kissing the hand of the young and beauteous Rosamund de Clifford. The tormenting image was branded so firmly in her mind, she doubted she would ever be free of it. Never, in all their time together, had she experienced so agonizing a reaction to one of Henry’s amorous encounters. Not even with the little Anglo-Saxon bawd. She had resented Henry’s bringing the bastard Geoffrey into the royal household, but the girl herself had never been a real threat. Not like this. None of his women had. Why should she feel so threatened now? Was it because she was older now? A woman in her forty-first year was considered well past her prime. What was there about this de Clifford girl that filled her with such a terrible jealousy and fear?
As she waited in the solar at Beaumont, her whole body shivered uncontrollably despite the warmth of a copper brazier heaped with burning coals.
“Who was that girl with Father?”
Unfortunately, Richard had awakened in time to catch a glimpse of Henry and Rosamund, and ever since had been pestering her with questions. “I told you, I don’t know her. A friend.”
Richard scowled. “A friend? You mean the daughter of a friend? She can’t be much older than Harry, and he’s only eleven.”
“Yes, yes that is what I mean.” It was impossible to sit still. She rose and poured herself a goblet of wine from a pitcher left by the steward.
Richard knelt on the rushes at her feet. “Why are you crying?”
Eleanor tried to swallow, but her throat ached too much and she could not control the tears that gushed from her eyes like a waterfall.
“Is it because of something Father did? To do with that girl?”
“No. Please, Richard, do not question me any more.”
“Is she one of Father’s bastards like my half brother, Geoffrey? Is her mother a whore too?”
Eleanor drew back, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Sweet Saint Radegonde, what a way to talk. You don’t even know what a whore is.”
“I do know. A bad woman. That’s what Harry told me. He said that Geoffrey was a bastard because his mother was wicked and sinful, a snare of the devil, and he was con—conceived in mortal sin. Thomas Becket told that to Harry, so it must be true.”
Before Eleanor could respond, the door of the solar was wrenched open. Henry stood on the threshold. A black cloak swung from his shoulders, his face was pale and set. She started violently and rose to her feet.
“Richard?” He paused in surprise. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” He looked past Richard and held out his arms. “Nell. Is Joanna here as well?”
She looked away, suddenly feeling so faint she had to sit down again. “No.”
“Leave us, Richard. Your mother and I wish to be alone.”
“You made Maman cry,” said Richard accusingly. “Because of that girl I saw you with. Is she your bastard like Geoffrey? Is her mother a whore too?”
Henry flushed. “No. And mind your foul tongue.” He glanced sharply at Eleanor. “What have you told him?”
“Nothing. Nothing! How could I tell him what I didn’t even know myself?” Eleanor could hear her voice rising, going out of control.
“Leave us, Richard,” Henry said again. “At once.”
Richard stared at his father with that air of challenging insolence that Eleanor knew drove Henry wild.
“I expect obedience.” Henry grasped Richard firmly by an arm and dragged him to the open door. Richard tore himself away, drew back his teeth in a snarl, and for one dreadful moment Eleanor thought he was going to attack his father.
“Do as your father says, my son,” she pleaded.
Richard, fighting back tears, gave Henry a look of such hatred that Eleanor recoiled. She had never seen the boy so openly hostile. He kicked at the door, then walked sullenly into the passageway. Henry banged the door shut behind him.
“God’s eyes! You were mad to bring the boy here. I’ve never seen him so upset.”
“I must have been mad? Richard being upset is my fault?”
“Who said anything was your fault?” With a sigh Henry leaned back against the door and briefly closed his eyes. “I am sorry you had to find out in the way you did, although there is an explanation. Whoever told you will rue the mischief he has caused. God’s blood, I would have told you myself, in fact I tried to tell you . . . although there was nothing to tell then.” He opened his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “It would have been wiser if you had not come to England. Who is acting as regent?”
A spasm of rage gripped her and for a moment she could not speak. “You dare speak to me of behaving unwisely?”
“No. Forgive me. I have no right to cast stones.” He took a deep breath and began to pace. “Before you leap to wrong conclusions, will you let me explain?”
“There is no explanation I care to hear and only one obvious conclusion.”
He stopped in front of her. “Please. I cannot bear to see you so hurt.”
“Your sudden concern is touching.”
“Nell. You’re my wife, my queen. And I love you.”
“But you have installed this creature at Woodstock where everyone will know of it,” she cried, her body trembling with anguish and fury. “It is a public humiliation, a complete disregard of my feelings, not to mention my position! How can you, how dare you ask me to believe anything you say?”
“I do ask you. On my knees if that will help. This is not what you think, what it appears to be. I did not ask Rosamund to come here.”
“Then why is she here?” She could hear herself screeching but did not care. “I turned the other cheek when you brought your doxie’s son to be raised with our own children. Not this time.”
“Yes, and I owe you a debt of gratitude for that. Please, Nell, if you will only let me explain.” He held out his hands in supplication. She rose to her feet and slapped his face as hard as she could.
“I won’t listen,” she shouted, holding her hands over her ears. “I won’t!”
Henry put a hand to the red mark across his cheek. “Nell—”
To her horror Eleanor burst into sobs. She cried and cried, rocking back and forth, unable to stop. Through the mist of tears she saw Henry turn and rummage in one of the saddlebags lying on the bed. He held out a linen towel and gently wiped her face. Then he began to talk.
Her mind blurred with pain, Eleanor sank back down on the stool and forced herself to listen to Henry’s halting explanation of how and where he had met Rosamund de Clifford.
“. . . then, while I was in Normandy, the girl ran away from her family. In February, a sennight after I had come back, she turns up at Westminster in dire straits. I did not know what else to do with her so I brought her to Woodstock.”
“But that was two months ago! Why is she still here?”
Henry flushed. “I don’t know, it defies all reason—” He swallowed. “But she is not my leman. As God is my witness, she is still a virgin.”
Incredulous, Eleanor looked at him. But he met her gaze without flinching and she saw that he was telling her the truth. But it did not ease her outrage. On the contrary, if he had bedded this girl, followed his usual pattern, she would have been somewhat relieved. In truth, she had expected him to assert himself and defend his behavior. He was doing none of these things. Her head began to throb as she realized that there was something—something different about Henry and his relation to this maid. She would rather have seen him stomping about the solar in a fury of righteous justification. Icy fingers clutched at her heart.
Henry brought her hand to his lips. “Forgive me. I acted foolishly. You have every reason to feel as you do.”
“It was Thomas who told me about this creature,” she said suddenly, knowing that in her mind Thomas and Rosamund de Clifford had become inextricably linked. “Who else has he told by now? And the tales that must be spreading across the Continent! The duchess of Aquitaine and queen of England has been humiliated by her husband’s outrageous behavior, he has made a fool of her—” She could not go on.
Henry’s face turned pale with suppressed anger. “He has made a fool of me as well.” He bent and drew her to her feet. “Believe me, he will pay for it. Tell me, Nell, what can I do?”
“Get rid of her.” Eleanor held her breath.
“Of course. Just give me time to make—make other arrangements.” His eyes shifted briefly away from her.
“Send her back to her family.” She searched his face for a sign of how he really felt and was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding.
Holy Mary Virgin! In an instant of heartbreaking revelation she saw that Henry, although he still loved her and was filled with remorse for her pain, might not be able to relinquish Rosamund de Clifford as easily as he claimed. Fearful of losing her love and approbation, of creating an unwanted scandal in his already contentious realm, he believed what he said. At this moment. But he was trapped.
“I cannot send her back to Bredelais. Let me think.” He passed a shaking hand across his eyes.
“Send her anywhere you wish. To a nunnery, to the devil, for all I care! But she must be gone from Woodstock tomorrow if you expect me to believe one word you say!”
“A nunnery?” He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. There is the convent, Godstow. Yes. I will arrange it, I swear by God and all His saints.”
Henry took her stiff body into his arms. “Let us put this behind us, Nell.” He began to kiss her neck and with an arm about her waist led her to the bed. “I love you, you know that, and I promise that this matter will not trouble you further.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen. What difference does it make?”
The eleven-year age difference between Eleanor and Henry suddenly seemed a hundred years.
“Can you let it go, Nell?”
Eleanor allowed him to draw her down onto the bed. Her heart felt leaden, even as she recognized that her reaction to this incident was excessive, out of all proportion to the facts. She and Henry were bound to each other with a band of steel, their lives and goals forged together like chain mail. She still loved him, still wanted him. . . .
“I do not deserve you, Nell. Say you forgive my foolishness.” Henry’s cheek was wet as it pressed against hers.
Although he would never be satisfied with one woman, Eleanor knew that he loved her, and would always return to her in the end. She was his wife, his queen, mother of his children. Aquitaine was the most affluent of all his possessions, the brightest jewel in his continental crown. She knew perfectly well that he could not hope to survive without her.
“Forgive me, Nell,” he murmured in her ear.
Henry kissed her passionately on the mouth, forcing her lips open. She felt the strong sinews of his thighs against hers, and her treacherous body returned his ardor as if she were drowning and he had thrown her a spar. Beneath her mingled excitement and anguish, deeper even than her love and need, she half-sensed something else, a dark shadow stirring in the primeval depths of her being. While Henry wrung unwilling gasps of pleasure from her, a voice whispered that she would never forgive him, that one day she would pay him back. Her hour would come. Then there was silence. She wondered if she had heard the whisper at all.