IN EARLY MAY, ELEANOR made the unpleasant discovery that she was going to have a child. Filled with shock and resentment, she could not believe it. This was the last thing she needed, what with the strife in Poitou and Aquitaine, and her relations with Henry strained over the Rosamund de Clifford affair. No matter how hard she tried, she could not wholly forgive him.
When Henry arrived back in England for a short trip, he was pleased at her news. Which only made her more resentful.
“Another child will be most welcome, why are you so upset?”
“Why? Sweet Saint Radegonde, I’m not a brood sow! My health will not stand up to another child. I’ve given you enough children to rule every duchy in Europe.”
Henry smiled. “True enough. And if I have another boy, God knows where I will find the lands to give him. But your body has always served you well before, why should there be a problem now?”
She was forty-three and her body, though still hardy and strong, was far from what it had been even eighteen months earlier when Joanna was born. Eleanor wanted to scream this aloud, but dared not. Folly to remind him of her age. Not with a sly vixen like Rosamund de Clifford biding her time at Godstow. Just waiting for some misfortune to befall Henry’s queen.
“Come back to Anjou with me,” he said in a cajoling voice. “I must be on the Continent and you will be in Angers when the child is due. All will go well, I know it.”
For the next few days Henry continued trying to reassure her, but she rejected every advance, every affectionate gesture, every attempt to fully reconcile. This babe growing in her womb, conceived in despair and rage, was a constant reminder of Henry’s betrayal. Pride made it impossible to explain, and besides he should be perceptive enough to discern this for himself.
Less than a sennight after Henry had arrived at Beaumont, the bishop of Oxford appeared just as she and Henry were leaving the chapel after prime.
“My lord king,” the bishop began in an agitated voice, his face flushed. “I have just received word that the pope has given Thomas Becket leave to excommunicate all who are guilty of taking property that belonged to the See of Canterbury.” The bishop signed himself. “Naturally, Your Grace was not included.”
He did not add “yet,” but the unspoken word rang as clear as if he had shouted it aloud. Henry turned dark red, his eyes blazed with fury, and a strangled oath came from his throat. Eleanor was sure he was going to have one of his seizures, but after a moment he gained a measure of control.
“We leave for London, Nell. At once.” He took the bishop forcefully by the arm and they disappeared down the walkway leading to the great hall.
Eleanor barely saw Henry again before he and his entourage left Beaumont. Two days later she followed with Richard, Matilda, and little Geoffrey in tow, leaving the younger girls behind. She had hardly settled in at Tower Royal when Henry, who had quartered himself at Westminster, came to see her, bringing with him their eldest son, Harry. Eleanor was in the solar still unpacking saddlebags and boxes.
“I plan to leave for Dover tomorrow, and intend to take Harry with me.” Henry prowled about the chamber, all his attention on this current crisis. “God’s eyes! I should have seen the pope again when I was in Anjou, I fully intended to do so but simply put it off. Now I pay the price for my folly.” He smote his hand into an open palm. “I must persuade His Holiness to revoke the papal permission he gave Thomas. The Holy Father cannot realize he has given that firebrand a torch to set alight my whole empire.” He ran a hand distractedly through his russet hair as he looked around at the garments and caskets strewn around the chamber. “Why are you unpacking? I expect you to join me in Angers as soon as possible.”
Eleanor, an arm around her eldest son, withheld a sigh of frustration. “We are just airing everything before the journey.” She paused. “Have you ordered the confiscated lands be returned to Canterbury yet?”
Henry refused to meet her gaze. “I will not be threatened by that ingrate! Who does Thomas think he is? In my own good time—”
The royal tutor burst into the solar in an obvious state of extreme agitation. “Your Grace, Madam, there is an altercation between Master Geoffrey and Prince Richard. The door is locked”—he paused to catch his breath—“and they are shouting at one another and will not let me in.”
“Good Christ!” Henry pushed the tutor aside and ran out of the solar, Eleanor and Harry at his heels. Richard and little Geoffrey? This was unheard of, thought Eleanor! No, Sweet Marie, the tutor must mean the bastard Geoffrey, who was due to leave shortly for St. Paul’s. Henry turned a corner and by the time she and Harry caught up to him, he had reached the chamber used as a schoolroom for the children.
“Your mother is a slut, a harlot, and a filthy whore!” Richard’s raised voice could be heard clearly through the heavy nail-studded door.
“Stop that, brother! Leave Geoffrey alone!” Matilda’s pleading voice.
“Be quiet. I can say what I like to this bastard.”
“I’d rather be a bastard than a—than a blockhead with muscles like you!” came Geoffrey’s loud rejoinder.
“Richard!” Henry pounded on the door. “Geoffrey! Open this door! At once!”
There were shrieks from Matilda, the sound of scuffling, and something heavy falling to the ground.
“Richard,” Eleanor called out in alarm. “Do as your father bids. Please.” She also began to pound on the door.
“Brother, stop or you’ll kill him!” Matilda began screaming.
“If a guard has to break the door, someone will pay dearly for it!” Henry was flushed, kicking at the stout oak with his boots.
Finally the door was unlocked and wrenched open. Matilda, her face streaked with tears threw herself into Eleanor’s arms. Behind her came the sound of blows. Geoffrey lay on the ground, Richard astride him, raining blows upon his half brother with such savage fury that Eleanor was terrified he would do him a serious injury. Two stools were overturned, sheaves of parchment, quills, and two leather-bound manuscripts lay on the floor.
“Stop it! Now!” Henry’s voice thundered across the chamber.
Ignoring his father, Richard drew back an arm to deliver one more blow when he suddenly gave a howl of pain as Henry grabbed a fistful of golden hair, pulled him off Geoffrey, then picked him up and threw him bodily into a corner of the chamber. Richard lay gasping for breath. Eleanor started to go to him then stopped herself.
“I tried to tell you he was a monster,” Henry growled at her. “Who began this? I want the truth.” He was breathing heavily as he picked up the manuscripts and handed them to the ashen-faced tutor, who stood trembling in the doorway. “And where were you, Master Sebastian?”
“I swear to you, my lord king, I only left the chamber for a moment—”
“One moment too long! Well? Who is going to tell me what happened or must I beat it out of both of you?”
It was typical of Henry, despite what he had heard, to make an attempt at a fair judgment. It was just possible that Richard had been sorely provoked, though Eleanor knew this was unlikely. She patted the sobbing Matilda on the back, noting that Harry was looking at his brother in disbelief.
Henry turned to his third son, little Geoffrey, seated on a stool. “Well, my boy, you were here. Who started it?”
Little Geoffrey’s sly green gaze flicked from Richard to his bastard half brother with the same name. “He did.” He pointed a chubby finger at the misbegotten Geoffrey.
Eleanor was not surprised. After all, the boy had far more to gain by being loyal to Richard. Even at eight, little Geoffrey was quickly learning how to turn events to his advantage.
“Father, that is not true,” Matilda said indignantly, withdrawing from Eleanor’s arms. “Richard started it by calling Geoffrey names—”
Henry silenced her with a dark look. “You and Richard have never gotten on, my girl. Are you an impartial witness?”
Matilda burst into fresh tears and ran from the room. Eleanor bit her lip in mingled compassion and exasperation.
“Geoffrey started it,” said Richard in a sullen voice, rising to his feet and holding his head.
“Liar. You started it. You called my mother a whore and me a bastard.” Geoffrey, one eye closed, blood spurting from his nose, staggered to his feet but could barely stand.
Eleanor turned to the tutor. “Master Geoffrey is hurt. Find the physician.” The tutor ran from the doorway.
“It is Geoffrey’s fault.” Richard glared at his half brother. “Why is he allowed to be here with the royal family? Some old whore’s whelp doesn’t belong here with us.”
Henry strode across the chamber, picked Richard up by the scruff of the neck, and shook him like a dog with a rat.
Eleanor gave little cry. “Henry, be careful!”
Jaw clenched, his face crimson, Henry let Richard drop to the floor. “Geoffrey is my son as much as you or Harry or little Geoffrey. Do you understand that? And I love him—just as much. This is his home until he leaves for St. Paul, where he will be trained for a future in the church. From then on your lives will have little in common. Meanwhile, Geoffrey will be treated with civility and courtesy.” He stared down at Richard. “If I hear of one more instance of this kind of boorish behavior, it will be the worse for you, my boy. Have I made myself clear?”
Fearful now, Richard quickly nodded. But Eleanor knew he must be seething with inner rage and something more—a deep hurt. That tiny pause after “I love him” had revealed more than Henry intended. Like her, Richard could not have missed it. In time, her son might forget the upset over Rosamund, but would he, could he, ever forgive his father for loving his bastard son more than his legitimate one?
Henry left for the Continent a few days later, taking Harry with him. Eleanor followed shortly thereafter with Richard, little Geoffrey, and Matilda. By the time she arrived in Angers, Henry was already gone, ravaging the castles of the rebellious barons in Maine. Then she heard he had ridden to Le Mans, from there to Chinon, and on the first of June was campaigning in Brittany. Miserable, her body growing more unwieldy with each passing day, Eleanor waited for him to return to Angers. There was not even anyone to talk to, as her uncle Ralph had returned to his lands in Poitou in a huff when Henry had replaced him as regent.
Then, on Whitsunday, Thomas Becket preached a fiery sermon in Vezelay, a famous shrine where the relics of St. Mary Magdalene were housed. The bishop of Angers, who had heard the sermon firsthand, told Eleanor that a huge crowd of pilgrims was usually to be found at this shrine and that Thomas had counted on their being present. Trust Thomas to pick his time and place, she thought bitterly, where he was sure to command a wide audience.
“After expounding his differences with the king, Thomas publicly excommunicated the five men he held responsible for the ‘desecration of Canterbury’s lands,’” said the bishop, obviously still shocked by the momentous event as he sat in the solar with her. “Thomas even threatened to excommunicate the king and place all England under interdict if he did not mend his ways and give satisfaction to the Church for the wrongs done to her.”
Eleanor, fearing she might void the contents of her stomach, put a hand to her abdomen. Thomas’s threat to excommunicate Henry would make it impossible for him to reconcile with the primate.
“This will create a sensation both here and in England, Lady,” said the bishop, signing himself. “The bishops of London and Salisbury; John of Oxford, England’s foremost scholar; and the king’s new justiciar, Richard de Lucy! All excommunicated! Thomas Becket has gone too far this time. He is already an embarrassment to his friends and this will cost him supporters.”
“Henry will be on his way to the pope at this very moment,” Eleanor assured him.
“Duke Henry has already seen the Holy Father once.” The bishop of Angers spread his hands. “What is the point of seeing him again when the pope bends with each new wind? At the moment Thomas has his ear.”
Eleanor hoped that Thomas would choke on his own bile.
When Henry returned in September, he was tight-lipped, his suppressed fury so intense that sparks seemed to fly out of his pewter eyes. Everyone kept well out of his way. He was cordial, seemingly glad to see her, anxious about her health, but even more distracted than usual.
“I didn’t see the pope for obvious reasons. The only piece of good news I have is that I’ve managed to betroth young Geoffrey to the six-year-old heiress of Brittany.” He counted on his fingers. “Harry is married to Marguerite of France; Matilda will wed the duke of Saxony. Now, if I can persuade King Louis to betroth his youngest daughter, Alais, to Richard, that will leave only our two youngest girls to be accounted for.” He gave a grim smile. “My progeny will rule half Europe. That should give the Holy Father something to think about.”
Whatever the crisis in his domains, Henry never lost sight of his goal to expand his empire through his children. He did not mention Thomas directly, and Eleanor did not ask. When Henry was ready, he would tell her.
On a brisk morning in early October, she and Henry were walking along the ramparts of Angers castle when he brought up the matter. “The moment has come to see the pope again. A schism threatens Rome and now he needs my support as well as my money. Perhaps gold will do what reason has failed to accomplish.” He tucked his thumbs into his black belt. “Thomas must be restrained and the excommunications revoked. After I see His Holiness at Sens, I go to Poitou and will take Harry with me.”
“An excellent idea. I will join you there.” Eleanor’s spirits lifted at the thought of returning to her beloved Aquitaine. “I could have the babe in Poitiers. All the children have been born in either Anjou, Normandy, or England. I would like at least one to be born in my duchy.”
Henry put a hand on her arm. “I plan to meet with the rebellious barons of Poitou at Chinon. You know what they can be like with their threats of violence, cries of injustice, and God alone knows what else.”
“All the more reason for me to be there. They are my barons, let me remind you.”
“As if I needed reminding. You can be just like them sometimes: headstrong, self-willed.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “A woman big with child does not belong at such a conference. Suppose matters were to get out of hand? You could be in danger.”
“From my own people? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No, no, it is out of the question.” Henry leaned against the stone railing and gazed broodingly out at the sparkling blue waters of the Loire and Maine rivers. “After the conference I intend to travel south with Harry, as I said. Perhaps if he sees my empire with his own eyes, with me there to guide him, he will start taking the business of being a sovereign more seriously.”
Stung, Eleanor replied, “But Aquitaine is my duchy and I should go with you and Harry. It is not only my right, I know my barons far better—”
“Your presence there will only create more disturbance than already exists. Your unruly vassals need to know once and for all who is master.” He turned to look at her. “They already know who is mistress. Surely you can see that Harry will make a better impression without his mother in tow?”
She repressed a sharp retort. The trouble was, she could understand his point. “All right. But Richard should go too. After all, he will be duke of Aquitaine and living there.”
“All in good time.” She could see Henry’s whole body suddenly tense at the mention of Richard. “He is young and quick to anger. That hothead needs training and discipline. Then we will see whether he is fit to be duke.”
Eleanor let the matter go for the moment. Still, by the time Henry left Angers with Harry, she was filled with so much suppressed anger, so many things she wanted to say to him but held back, that she was barely civil. Henry had been pleasant if somewhat distant toward the end of his stay, and had done nothing—except refuse to let her go to Poitou, for her own safety—to warrant her violent reaction. But she could not seem to help herself these days.
Her loneliness and sense of isolation increased. Henry had put both Richard and young Geoffrey entirely under the care of tutors and the sergeant-at-arms, and Eleanor hardly saw them. Matilda was absorbed in preparations for her upcoming wedding to the duke of Saxony, and already detaching herself from her family. Only to be expected, Eleanor reasoned, with a pang of regret, knowing she would miss this pert, pretty daughter when Matilda left for her new home.
A sennight later, prompted by mingled feelings of revenge and defiance, she left Anjou for the coast and set sail for England, despite the hazards of crossing the Channel in her seventh month. It was the second time within the year she had behaved so impulsively. Henry would be livid when he discovered what she had done, she thought almost gleefully, wishing she could see his face when he heard the news.
Two months later, on the thirty-first day of December at Beaumont Castle in Oxford, Eleanor was feeling far from gleeful.
“Push down harder, my lady.”
Through the haze of pain and the savage spasm that gripped her belly, Eleanor felt one of the midwives knead her abdomen with greased hands while the other rubbed her flanks with oil. The odor of sweat and sickly-sweet crushed rose petals was so overpowering that she wanted to retch.
“I am pushing,” she whispered. “I—can do no more.” In a moment the spasm passed.
After five hours of pain, she knew there was something wrong. Her tortured gaze roamed the solar, transformed into a birthing chamber, the oak table stacked with white linen cloths, stone jars of oil, flagons of wine, and an array of little knives. Warming beside one of four charcoal braziers stood a cauldron of water, and next to it the wooden birth stool with its crescent cavity. One of two female attendants, Lady Agnes, hovered near the head of the bed with a piece of wood in her hand, ready to slip into Eleanor’s mouth if requested. Earlier she had been given a draught of dried mandrake soaked in hot water to inhale, but what effect it had was wearing off. The midwives were afraid to give her too much as her help was sorely needed to push the baby out.
No labor she had experienced had been so agonizing, and this was her tenth child, after all, if one included her two daughters by Louis of France. For a moment her thoughts turned to little Marie and Alix. It was only because she had given Louis daughters instead of the sons he needed that a papal annulment had finally been granted on the grounds of consanguinity—she and Louis being too closely related despite the fact they were third cousins; the price of that freedom had been the permanent loss of Marie and Alix. She still thought of them as little girls but of course they were married women now, free to see her if they so wished and they had made no effort to contact her.
A ripple of pain passed through her, jolting her into the present moment. Was she having such difficulty because her body was too old, worn out from her many births? Or was it because she had not wanted this babe, conceived when she was still raw from the wound of Henry’s betrayal with Rosamund de Clifford? Henry had written her a furious letter when he found out that she had left Angers, accusing her of risking both her life and the babe’s. . . .
Another spasm seized her and a tortured cry was torn from her throat. She gripped the rope of sheets that lay on either side of her and pulled at them as hard as she could.
One of the midwives whispered audibly into the other’s ear. Eleanor caught snatches of her words: “. . . may not live if it continues . . . call for priest . . . blame us . . .”
Lady Agnes wiped the sweat off Eleanor’s face with a linen cloth; the other attendant, holding a silver basin, hovered anxiously at the foot of the bed. The fearful expressions on the four women’s faces sent a wave of terror through her. Who did they think would die? The babe? Certainly not the queen of England, she who had borne her other children with almost indecent ease? Strong as a bull, Henry used to boast with pride, nothing daunts my Nell. A woman in a thousand. The chapel bells and the church bells in the town of Oxford, which had been ringing incessantly since her labor began, increased in intensity.
“Stop the bells,” Eleanor said, through gritted teeth, “lest I go mad.”
“Lady, the bells be rungen to beg the saints to ease ye labor. We can’t stop them.” The midwife paused. “Especially now.”
Too weak to argue, Eleanor again drifted off. Would death matter so very much? a voice inside her head murmured. Henry no doubt still loves you, but it is evident he is tiring of you; after all, he is a man in his prime and you are well past yours. What is there to look forward to? A bleak future as an ignored queen, relegated to the background, royal mother of a great brood of children who are already in the process of leaving the nest. There are worse ways to die than in childbed, the voice continued. You have served your purpose well. Indeed she had. Eleanor could hear Henry say, as he often did about knights dead in battle, “She died in the service of England.”
Her head felt like iron. How easy it would be to just let go, allow matters to take their course, insist upon a heavy draught of mandrake or poppy and sleep forever. For the first time in her life Eleanor felt weak enough to allow life to slip through her fingers. So easy to just let it all go. She felt herself drifting further and further . . .
“No!” she screamed. To die because of Henry? Before she was ready on her own account? She struggled for breath. No. Not yet. The voice in her head vanished.
She heard the midwives clucking like hens. With a supreme effort she forced her eyes open. “What is the matter with this birth? Give me—give me the truth now.”
The two midwives exchanged glances. One of them took a deep breath and said, “Lady, it be a breech. The babe be not coming forth in the manner it should. We cannot move it.”
Another spasm and Eleanor gasped in pain. A breech meant feet first. Few women or babes survived it. “Mother of God, surely you can do something? Turn it the right way or some such.”
“It do be beyond our skill,” one of the midwives said, crossing herself. “The matter rests in God’s hands, me lady.”
Eleanor stared at her through a mist of sweat and despair. She must have been mad to have this babe in Oxford instead of Anjou or Normandy, where the midwives were more skilled than in England.
“The matter does not rest in God’s hands, but yours. You cannot let me die,” she whispered.
The two midwives whispered together. One cleared her throat. “There be a woman just outside Oxford, who be skilled at healing and midwifery.”
“This woman can heal, me lady, she do have the power of magic and spells,” said the other midwife. “But the priests not approve o’ such things.”
“A witch!” Lady Agnes crossed herself. “Heaven forefend that such a person should attend the queen.”
“Get this woman!” Eleanor tried to scream, raising her head. “I don’t care if she’s the devil’s mistress, or the devil himself!”
“But madam,” said Lady Agnes in a voice filled with terror, “if the priests disapprove . . .”
“Do you see any priests here? Just—just find her, and quickly, else . . .”
Eleanor sank back, exhausted. She must have slept, for it seemed like only a few moments had passed before she heard someone enter. Eleanor opened her eyes; the chamber and everyone in it looked faraway, hazy and unreal. Approaching the bed was a tiny bent figure clad in a shapeless gray gown leaning on a stick, a straw basket over one arm. Her lids dropped and she felt herself slipping away. In the next moment someone wrenched her neck from the pillow, forced open her lips, and poured a warm draught down her throat. She coughed and sputtered, the taste was so vile, but immediately she felt stronger. When her eyelids fluttered open again, she was looking up at a brown, wizened face with a sharp chin sprouting white hairs. Beady black eyes, strangely compelling, looked straight into hers.
“Now then, Lady, we’ll see what old Aude can do, eh?” The witch’s voice was strong and reassuring.
Over the gray gown, Eleanor could now see, Aude wore a white smock; a black coverchief hid her hair. Her gaze darted around the solar.
“All be open? Crack the door a wee bit. No knots now, nothing tight, hair loose? Hot water?” She nodded, apparently satisfied all was in order.
When she examined Eleanor, the touch of her fingers, though painful, felt warm and alive. Entirely different from that of the two midwives.
“Breech, right enough.” Old Aude bent to rummage in the straw basket at her feet. She took out a stone jar and began to apply an evil-smelling thick paste to both hands up to her wrists. The fingers were tiny like the claws of a bird.
“What is that salve?” Eleanor asked in alarm.
“Flaxseed and chickpeas. Very useful for turning a breech. Now then—”
As Aude’s fingers moved inside her trying to turn the child, Eleanor screamed in agony. She was still screaming when the old woman stood up with a triumphant smile, her hands covered in blood.
“Hush, lady. Not long now, I reckon. And it do be a boy, coming out the way he should.”
A quarter of an hour later Eleanor was lifted onto the birth stool and the baby was born. The midwives carried her, half fainting, back to the bed, and began to wash the blood and sweat from her body. Mercifully the bells suddenly stopped. Moments later they began again but with a different peal, celebratory, joyous, proclaiming the birth of another Plantagenet son.
“Cut the cord four fingers long and tie it into a strong knot,” she heard Aude say.
The infant gave a faint cry and Eleanor knew he was being rubbed down with salt and his gums moistened with honey to give him an appetite. The door of the solar opened and she glimpsed the wet nurse enter, ready to feed her charge.
“A lot of blood be lost,” Aude said, putting a warm hand on Eleanor’s stomach, then on her head. “And hot, too.” She held up some packets. “I leave some herbs for the lady: ivy berries for fever, primrose and devil’s bit for cleaning the wound.”
Eleanor managed a weak smile. “Thank you. You saved my life and that of my son—John.” Henry had wanted to call another boy John, although it was not a name she particularly liked.
As one of the midwives carried the babe, now wrapped in a blanket, over to Eleanor, old Aude stopped them, peered at him closely and muttered, “Will ye have cause to thank me in times to come, I wonders?” She hooked the basket over her arm and, leaning on her stick, hobbled toward the door.
Despite the intense heat of the chamber, Eleanor felt a chill spread through her body.
“Here he be, Lady.” The midwife put the infant into her arms.
A patch of black hair topped an ugly little face with a squashed nose. When the eyes blinked open for an instant, Eleanor saw they were dark as mulberries. Who was this changeling? He bore no resemblance to any of her other children. Wordlessly she handed John back to the midwife. Holy Mother, forgive me, she prayed. It was not her fault she felt as she did, nor was it the fault of this hapless babe.
But she hated him on sight.