AFTER A ROUGH CHANNEL crossing from Wissant, and several hectic days in London, Henry arrived at Beaumont castle on a wild wet morning in early March, his cloak dripping with rain, his boots caked with the mud of the roads.
“Where is this latest sprig on the Plantagenet tree?” he asked, walking briskly into the solar, a wriggling greyhound puppy in his arms.
Eleanor and her attendant women were sewing on a large square of tapestry in front of a glowing copper brazier. Six candles burning in their silver holders were placed on an elmwood table next to her; a troubadour softly strummed his rebec against a chamber wall. Eleanor rose from her cushioned stool to greet him, elegant and willowy in a blue tunic under a surcoat of paler blue. What a fine-looking figure of a woman she still was, Henry thought. Impossible to believe she had borne him seven live children. Looking at her, he could almost forget how deeply she had displeased him in the autumn, recklessly leaving Angers during her pregnancy without so much as a word. But in truth, he realized how much he had missed her. That night he would show her how much. Desire stirred his blood in expectation.
Little Eleanor, four years of age, and Joanna, age two, all smiles and big blue eyes, sat on the floor playing with wooden dolls. Henry dropped the puppy between them, watching them crow with delight.
“My favorite bitch whelped last month at Westminster. Six pups, this one the prize of the lot, and I’ve carried him under my cloak all the way from London just to please my pretty little poppets.” Henry looked affectionately down at his young daughters then bent to hug them.
“How are you, my beauties?”
He was rewarded with gap-toothed grins and damp kisses. He rose, and with a welcoming smile opened his arms to hug Eleanor fiercely.
“You’re very wet,” she said, giving him a gentle hug in return. “And there’s mud all over the rushes that were laid fresh this morning.”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize—” Feeling like a small boy rebuked by his mother, Henry sat down on a stool, picked up a handful of rushes, and began to clean the mud from his scuffed sable boots.
“There’s no need to clean your own boots, the boy will do that for you.” She beckoned to a small page standing in a corner of the solar.
The boy ran over to Henry and, removing a small bone-handled knife from his belt, knelt in front of the stool and began to scrape the mud from the sole of one boot.
“Where is Matilda?” Henry stretched out the other boot.
“With her tutor, practicing German for the betrothal ceremony. She is determined to surprise the duke of Saxony with her command of the language.”
“That will please him.” When the page had finished, Henry stood up. “Well, my boots are clean. Now may I see young John?” It occurred to him that Eleanor, always a proud mother, seemed in no hurry to show him her latest offspring. Fear clutched at his heart. Was the babe deformed in some way? Had she withheld this from him? “He is—perfectly natural, isn’t he?”
She made no reply, and he followed her over to a beautifully carved wooden cradle, half hidden by the canopied bed. Henry stared down anxiously. “God’s eyes!” He cautiously picked up his son, barely visible in white bonnet and silken robes, and held him aloft. “Ugly little brute, isn’t he?”
“He certainly doesn’t resemble our other children, who were all beautiful. In truth he looks like a changeling.”
There was something in Eleanor’s voice. “Come, that is going a bit far, isn’t it? The runt of the litter would be more apt. Perhaps—” He had been about to say that perhaps childbirth in women past a certain age was more hazardous for both mother and babe. Thank God he had stopped himself in time.
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps—he takes after my grandfather, the first Henry, who also had dark hair and black eyes, my mother told me. Let us hope John proves as cunning and able as he.” Henry kissed his new son, then carefully laid him down in his cradle, covering him with an embroidered white wool blanket.
“I’m relieved to hear the creature resembles someone. It is hard to believe he’s any relation to me.”
Henry gave her an incredulous glance. Eleanor’s beautiful face, framed in a blue wimple, was filled with distaste; her eyes were as warm as the North Sea in winter as she gazed down at the baby. This violent reaction to one of her own children was so unlike her that he did not know what to make of it. The infant uncurled his fist and Henry put a finger into the tiny palm. The fragile little fingers closed over it. Moved by this helpless creature, he felt a sudden rush of tenderness, an urge to protect him. The only other babe to evoke this reaction had been his first child, the bastard son Geoffrey.
“Isn’t it usually the father who complains the child does not look like him?” Henry asked, in an effort to lighten the tension that had been developing since he entered the chamber.
“I suppose it is.” Eleanor walked back to her stool. Seating herself, she picked up a corner of the tapestry. “What is the latest news from Poitou?”
“Sporadic rebellions as usual. Nothing has changed since I wrote you.” He paused. “I think I mentioned that Harry made a good impression on the Poitevins in our progress through Poitou last fall. Not that their attitude toward me has improved.”
“Did you think they would like you any better because Harry was there?” Eleanor’s voice was tart as she bent her head over the tapestry. “And Thomas Becket? We have heard very little since he was given sanctuary once again at the French court.”
She sounded like one of his council members asking official questions. Henry stared bleakly at the back of Eleanor’s wimpled head. Was this what he had to look forward to? His lands were in turmoil, Aquitaine a veritable tinderbox, far worse than he had let on. And he had crossed the Channel to see his newborn son and try, once again, to make peace with his wife. He knew she had suffered through this last birth—had nearly died, to his great distress—but there was no reason for her to be as warm and welcoming as a porcupine. One foot over the threshold and she was complaining about the mud on his boots! Jesu! Underneath her cool manner, Henry sensed she was still upset with him, still nursing her jealous grievances over Rosamund—which no longer seemed as justified as they had initially—as if they were something too precious for her to release. Admittedly he had erred in his installing of Rosamund at Woodstock, bungled the whole matter from start to finish, but he had tried—Sweet Jesu, he had tried and was still trying—to make amends. Despite his intention to oil these troubled waters, her air of mingled martyrdom and hauteur was beginning to provoke him.
To calm himself, Henry walked over to a small oak table and poured himself a goblet of wine from a silver pitcher. “Rumor says Thomas is seething with impatience to take further action against his enemies, but as a result of my visit to the Holy Father at Sens, all such actions are forbidden him.”
“Really!” She turned her head. “You mean Thomas may not issue any more sentences of excommunication?”
“None.” Henry sipped the wine. “And the pope has authorized the absolution of those he has already excommunicated. A legatine commission has been appointed to settle the differences between Thomas and myself, which suits me well enough.”
“So, our former archbishop is reduced to scribbling acrimonious letters as an outlet for his injured pride.” A smile of satisfaction crossed Eleanor’s face. “He must be beside himself with frustration.”
Henry smiled in return. “I have it on good authority that Thomas wrote His Holiness complaining that, ‘There is no suffering to equal mine. No grief like unto my grief.’ Even his supporters grow weary of this everlasting self-pity.”
Eleanor laughed, and for a moment there was a tenuous connection between them, before she again bent to her sewing, her long slender fingers white as alabaster against the dark green wool. Was it his imagination or had a tiny crack formed in the ice? Henry allowed himself to hope that matters might yet be put to rights.
“Well, I must go over my accounts with the steward.” He downed his wine and strode out of the solar.
Some hours later, as the bells were ringing for nones, Henry returned to the solar, the steward trotting at his heels. Eleanor was seated on a stool with their eleven-year-old daughter, Matilda, beside her. The castle chaplain, Father Anselm, was in the process of delivering a lecture on the subject of marriage, and for an instant Henry was brought up short. Matilda looked far too resplendent in crimson velvet, with a gold circlet around her head, and gold and silver thread twined into her russet braids.
“. . . always bear in mind, Mistress Matilda, that the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies. Thus you must take great care with your dress and person. What says Holy Writ? ‘Strength and honor are her clothing . . .’ Never use artifice on your face, or let your mantle drag disgracefully in an effort to be stylish, lest you seem like a vixen whose glory is in her tail.”
“Sound advice, Father Anselm, but to be continued later. Out.” Henry jerked his thumb at the door, and the chaplain left.
“Why did you dismiss him?” Eleanor rose to her feet. “He was instructing Matilda in the etiquette of how to behave at the court of Saxony.”
“The kind of instruction Matilda needs at the moment is how not to displease her husband by emptying out the treasury at a single stroke. An extravagant wife is the worst liability a ruler can have!”
Eleanor’s face turned pink. Thumbs tucked into his black belt, Henry rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots. “I have just been reading the recent pipe roll entries, Madam.”
“Well, what of it?”
“What of it? Sixty-three pounds’ worth of clothing, and you ask what of it?” He counted off on his fingers. “Two large silken cloths, three tapestries, another cloth of samite, and twelve sable skins. Twelve!”
“There is—”
“I’m not finished! In addition, there are listed twenty pairs of saddlebags, twenty chests, seven gilded saddles covered with scarlet, an order for forty packhorses—”
“Thirty-four.”
“Mea culpa, thirty-four. Well, of course that makes all the difference.” Henry took a deep breath. “Have you lost your reason?”
Eyes shooting green sparks, Eleanor crossed her arms over her chest. “On the contrary, my lord. Has it never occurred to you that a princess of England must arrive in her new country in a style that reflects the power and might of the empire she represents? Anyone but a parsimonious miser would know that! Do you want to make us the laughingstock of Europe?”
Henry clapped his hands to his head and stalked the solar. “By all that’s holy, no one suggests she go as a beggar. But this expense is outrageous! Who will pay for it, eh? Who will pay for it?”
“Your subjects, who else? The last princess of England to be wed was your mother when she married the German emperor. Your grandfather saw to it that his daughter was accoutered as befitted her rank.”
Matilda jumped to her feet and burst into tears. “If it were your precious heir, Harry, being knighted, you wouldn’t begrudge that mealymouthed blockhead a single penny!” She stamped her feet, her face twisted into a mask of delicate fury. “How dare you deny me a proper trousseau when you have the royal privileges to cover all the wedding expenses!”
Henry, completely taken aback by this unheard-of display of personality, held up placating hands. “Control yourself, my child. Who told you about the royal privileges?”
“I’ve been educated, remember? And I retain what I learn.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Unlike your stupid heir who cannot even read or write properly, or that brute Richard who thinks only of war and how to kill people, or even sweet little Geoffrey who is a liar and a toady.” Tears rolled down Matilda’s flushed cheeks. “In case you’ve forgotten, a king can exact special aid from his barons for certain occasions: One is the knighting of his eldest son, another is the marriage of his eldest daughter.”
“Stop this tantrum, Matilda, at once!” Unable to believe this outburst from a daughter who had always been—or so he thought—compliant and respectful, Henry glared at Eleanor. “If this virago is your idea of a suitable consort for the duke of Saxony, I shudder to think of the kind of education she must have had. The only thing worse than an extravagant wife is one who cannot hold her tongue. ‘She openeth her mouth with wisdom and in her tongue is the law of kindness.’ This will be of more use to her than knowledge of the royal privileges of England.”
Eleanor returned his glare with a look of triumph. “I have no intention of raising my daughters to be fools.”
Matilda was now sobbing uncontrollably. “I can’t wait to leave this horrible place where no one cares about me. My future husband will never begrudge me anything and he will never be an—an adulterer!”
Speechless, Henry felt his cheeks burn.
Eleanor closed her eyes then held out her arms to Matilda. “Come, ma petite, do not upset yourself.”
“You care no more than my father. Do you think I don’t know that Richard is the only one you truly love? I wish I could leave tomorrow, tonight!” She ran out of the solar.
“Go after Mistress Matilda,” Eleanor said in an unsteady voice to one of her ladies. “Make sure she does not do something foolish. Give her a soothing potion, put her to bed, and do not leave her alone for a single moment. I will come to her shortly.” She pressed a hand across her mouth.
Henry, deeply shaken, tried to hide his embarrassment. “Well, there is no doubt whose daughter she is.”
“Ours,” Eleanor replied bitterly.
Their eyes met and Henry gave a brief nod. After a long pause, he added, “I dare say that by assessing my tenants, and extracting a tax as well from every town and city, and invoking the royal privileges, we shall manage the expense. I really do not like to see her so upset when she is to leave us so soon.”
“No. Nor do I.” Her voice sounded stricken.
Henry cleared his throat and strolled aimlessly about the solar. “I wonder what the duke will make of Matilda. She will hardly be a submissive wife who knows her place.” He shook his head. “Perhaps we should not have encouraged her to be educated, if this is the result. Such willfulness—”
Eleanor stared at him then sat down on the stool. “Education is never wasted on a female. It was certainly not wasted on me, was it? I remember that when my grandmother made me learn Provençal she said that knowledge was power. Do you deny that Matilda’s education will be an asset to the duke?”
“No, of course not,” said Henry, remembering what he had told Rosamund. “I am all in favor of it. Matilda’s behavior came as a shock, that is all. I know full well that is not the cause of her upset.”
Henry walked over to John’s cradle and started to rock it back and forth. Without warning, his pretty little love of a daughter, who was supposed to submit dutifully to her fate and become a credit to his dynasty, had snapped at him with the sharp fangs of a wolf bitch, as her mother sometimes did. In truth, Matilda had revealed herself to be someone he, her own father, hardly knew at all, with thoughts and feelings he never dreamt existed. Was it possible that all his children possessed similar feelings and hid them away? Richard, of course, openly flaunted his resentment, but the others? Henry had always believed his sons looked up to him in admiration, love, and respect, while his daughters adored and worshipped him. He no longer knew what to believe.
He left the cradle and walked thoughtfully over to Eleanor, who was once again working on her tapestry. “Who told Matilda I was an adulterer?”
The words seemed to have come from someone else’s mouth. It was not what he meant to say at all and he instantly regretted having spoken so impulsively.
Her face was slightly flushed. “I wonder that you ask. Do you imagine such tales are not whispered about in corners? That everything you do is not observed and known?” She pursed her lips as she pulled out a green thread.
“Did you tell her?” Suddenly he was sure of it and felt as if she had kicked him in the belly.
Eleanor bent her head and he could not see her face. “Matilda may have asked if you kept a leman at Woodstock.” She held up a corner of the tapestry to the glow of the silver-branched candelabra. “I do not remember. But if she had asked, what would you expect me to say? Richard saw Rosamund de Clifford, didn’t he?”
“I would expect you to keep matters from our children that are neither relevant nor easily understood. It is important to present them with a favorable image of their father. Someone they can respect and want to emulate.”
“Perhaps if you behaved in a such a manner you would be represented as such.” Two spots of color now flamed in Eleanor’s cheeks and her voice sounded close to tears.
In the absolute stillness that followed, Henry was aware of the blood rising to his face, the sudden jump in his heart, the wimpled heads of the attendant women bent low over their sewing, pretending not to have heard, the troubadour pressing his back against the tapestried wall trying to make himself invisible. Nothing had changed since morning.
Eleanor lifted her head and her suddenly challenging gaze met his across a chasm as wide as the Channel. Henry hesitated. She was still hurt, not long out of childbed, wanting to strike back at him. He understood all of this, but . . . He took a step toward her then stopped. No, by God and all His saints. It was enough. The distance was too vast to bridge, and he had gone as far as he was prepared to go. With a quick bow, Henry turned on his heel and left the solar. Behind him, he thought he heard her call out his name but he could not be certain.
The next morning, after prime, Henry pulled his black stallion to a stop in front of the convent walls. An equerry who accompanied him tugged at the bell before the iron gate of Godstow.
The portaress answered the summons.
“Tell Reverend Mother that His Grace wishes the girl Rosamund de Clifford to leave,” said the equerry. “Her belongings are to be packed and a litter will call for her before vespers.”
The portaress bowed her head in acknowledgment and closed the gate.
Henry spurred his horse and began to gallop down the narrow road to Woodstock. Work on the buildings at Everswell had been going on for quite a while, and by this time must be almost ready for habitation. He had dismissed the idea of ever bringing Rosamund to live in this new dwelling, certainly not in the near future, and had even considered giving it to Eleanor as a show of good faith, once their fences were mended. But he no longer cared. That afternoon his once-beloved queen had behaved like a stranger. No, not even a stranger. Worse. She had behaved like an enemy.
And that is how he would treat her.