IN AUGUST OF THE year 1167, the empress Maud died. Eleanor, who had been very fond of her formidable mother-in-law, felt a great sense of loss, although the empress had been ill for some time and she was now delivered from her suffering. And despite Eleanor’s anger toward Henry, her heart went out to him, she knew he would be inconsolable. His mother had had a powerful influence on his life, shaping his thoughts and consequent actions to an unusual degree, and was, perhaps, the only person whom he unreservedly loved.
Eleanor sailed across the Channel to attend the obsequies and to deliver her daughter, Matilda, into the safekeeping of her betrothed, the duke of Saxony. Henry, red-eyed and grieving, seemed pleased to see her, apparently unaware of her coolness. The event was particularly memorable due to a conversation Eleanor overheard between Henry and the duke of Saxony.
“Matilda is very well-educated, my lord duke, and has a sense of herself. She is not timid and can be quite outspoken.” Henry fixed the duke with his unblinking gray gaze. “I do not expect that to be a problem.”
“No, no,” replied the duke in his German-accented English. He was tall, broad-shouldered with curly flaxen hair, and very charming, Eleanor thought. “Already I am noticing these qualities and find them most engaging. I consider myself most fortunate in having your daughter as my future wife. Your mother, may she rest in peace, was very much like Matilda, yes?”
“Yes, she was. And do not think that because Matilda will be part of your household she will be forgotten by her family. On the contrary, we will be following her life most carefully to see that she is well treated.”
The duke looked shocked. “Naturally, I will treat Matilda with the same respect and courtesy and—ah, tender care, as I do my mother and my sisters, indeed as I treat all women. We are not barbarians here, after all. Saxony was a civilized land when the Britons were covered still in blaue—in blue wode.” He clicked his heels, bowed, and stalked away, obviously affronted.
Henry grunted and Eleanor, oddly touched as well as amused, could not imagine what had prompted him to say such things. Still, it did not soften her heart toward him.
She returned to England in time for Michaelmas, and by early December was in Winchester castle surrounded by coffers, boxes, roped bundles, and saddlebags, ready for another crossing. Ten-year-old Richard and nine-year-old little Geoffrey were jumping from box to bundle followed by barking greyhounds. Little Eleanor, now six, ran between coffers crowing with delight, while two-year-old Joanna screamed in frustration, tugging at her nurse’s hand in an effort to join her siblings. Oblivious to the noise, one-year-old John slept peacefully in his cradle.
“Outside, all of you,” said Eleanor. “I cannot hear myself think.”
When children and dogs and nurses had left, Eleanor held up a wax tablet and ran her eye over the list of items, checking them off against the mountain of baggage around her. Clothes, toilette accessories, iron-bound money chests, chapel equipment, caskets of jewels hidden away in saddlebags—yes, all accounted for and marked accordingly. Now, where was—ah, there it was, the carved oak chest holding a small library of precious manuscripts, including the copy of Wace’s Brut, a rare priceless treasure, carefully packed under her direct supervision. In truth, Henry would be furious when he found the Brut gone, but that was no concern of hers. After all, Master Wace had dedicated his work to her, hadn’t he?
“Everything looks in order. You can begin loading now,” Eleanor told the steward.
A small army of servitors and grooms carried the baggage through the open doors of the keep into the courtyard, with Eleanor bringing up the rear. Outside, the skies were overcast and the weather unseasonably warm. The carts, already stacked with hogsheads of brown ale, were grouped in one corner of the courtyard; in another the sumpter horses waited to be loaded. Their destination was the quay at Southampton, where seven ships rode at anchor ready to transport the entire lot across the Channel. She hoped seven would be sufficient.
For the past two months Eleanor’s time had been spent traveling between Oxford, Westminster, and Winchester, collecting and packing every movable object she could call her own. Fortunately, except for his treasured manuscripts, Henry had very little idea of what was actually hers. One trinket looked very much like another to his disinterested eyes. She doubted he would even notice that several rather valuable objects—among them a hammered silver drinking cup engraved with fantastic winged creatures and a silver oblong reliquary casket—were missing. Henry did not appreciate them; she did. The gray misty air seemed to cling to everything and Eleanor went back inside the hall. While she dried her hands over the central fire, the steward ran in from the courtyard followed by Geoffrey Plantagenet, Henry’s bastard son.
“Madam, here is—” began the steward.
“Yes, I can see who it is.” Eleanor surveyed the boy warily, then nodded to the steward. “Thank you. Will you bring us some ale and honey cakes?”
She wondered why he had come. She had not seen Geoffrey since shortly after John’s birth a year earlier, and he had grown. He must be almost thirteen by now, about eleven months older than her son Harry, though he appeared older and far more mature. Perhaps it was the clerical training. On the other hand, Geoffrey had always had an air of self-containment and gravitas even as a young child.
“This is a surprise, Geoffrey. Aren’t you a long way from St. Paul’s?”
“I heard you were leaving for the Christmas court at Argentan, madam, and asked for permission to come and wish you Godspeed. The monks sent a groom with me. I also wanted to bring you this.” He held out a bulky parcel wrapped in coarse cloth.
Eleanor took the parcel. “What is it?”
“A silver-and-gilt chess set with ivory figures that my father gave me six years ago. I felt he should have it back as I have little use for it now.”
“Not the chess set the Holy Roman Emperor gave the empress Maud as a child!” One of the few valuables her mother-in-law had cherished, and Henry had given it to the son of his whore? “No one knew where it had got to, and the empress accused Henry of losing it,” she added resentfully.
Geoffrey flushed. “Had I known, I would have returned it sooner.”
Eleanor reminded herself that Henry was the true culprit and Geoffrey was the empress’s grandson, after all. “Do not blame yourself.” She laid the parcel on an oak table.
“I was sorry to hear of the empress’s death, may she rest in peace.” Geoffrey signed himself.
“What is he doing here?” Richard, red-faced from his outdoor exertions, gold hair matted with sweat, ran into the hall.
“He has come to pay his respects to me, Richard, and return something of your father’s.”
“Something he stole?” Richard glared belligerently at his half brother.
“Mind your tongue and your manners. Now please leave us.” Eleanor’s voice held a warning note that she hoped Richard would not ignore. Heaven forefend that there should be a repeat of the violent physical quarrel between the two.
Richard scowled furiously and stomped out of the hall.
“I must apologize, Geoffrey.”
“It is quite all right, madam.” His face had gone very pale and a muscle in his jaw twitched.
An uncomfortable silence followed, and Eleanor could think of nothing to say. A servitor offered them a wooden tray carrying two pewter cups of foaming ale and a platter of golden honey cakes still warm from the bake oven. Eleanor helped herself to a cup of ale. Geoffrey took two honey cakes.
“It looks as if you will be gone for some time,” he said at length.
Eleanor stiffened. “Why would you think that?”
Geoffrey swallowed. “There is such an unusual amount of baggage in the courtyard, I simply assumed it.”
“As a matter of fact I do plan to be absent for an indefinite period.” Eleanor kept her voice steady as she sipped her ale.
“Under the circumstances I can hardly blame you—” he began, then stopped, a look of horror on his face.
Mortified, Eleanor glanced away. So even Henry’s bastard, an oblate at St. Paul’s and supposedly removed from the world, knew about Rosamund de Clifford. Was there anyone, on either side of the Channel, who was not privy to her humiliation? The knowledge was like gall and wormwood in her throat, and she longed to fling the cup of ale to the floor. Was Geoffrey also aware that the de Clifford strumpet was now cozily installed on the grounds of Woodstock, despite all Henry’s attempts to keep it secret? Of course Eleanor had heard almost at once since she had spies posted at Woodstock who sent her regular reports on all that transpired there. Henry may have thought he was being clever, and perhaps he had deceived others, but did he really think he could pull the wool over her eyes? As the late empress was fond of saying, when that day comes, you can dig my grave and bury me.
“I did not mean to offend you,” Geoffrey said, bowing his head.
“I am not offended.” His face, so like his father’s, was a study in distress, and his gray eyes radiated compassion. Henry’s bastard pitied her. She, Eleanor of Aquitaine, duchess of Normandy, countess of Anjou, queen of England, and a tart’s whelp pitied her! For a moment her rage was so great she almost choked. Quickly she downed her ale, gripping the cup with iron fingers.
“Truly I do believe that my father’s infatuation will pass,” he said in a low voice.
“My own lands require immediate attention and that is why I am leaving England,” Eleanor said coolly. “My vassals have never been happy under the rule of foreign masters. It is time I saw to their weal myself.”
“I understand, “ Geoffrey replied. “I only wish there was something I could do.”
The fervor, the heartfelt emotion in his voice could not be denied. All of a sudden, her anger drained away. Eleanor walked over to him and touched his warm cheek with her fingers. “Yes, I can see that. And I am grateful.”
Geoffrey fell to the floor on one knee and grasped her hand in his own. “I will serve you in any way I can, madam, excepting that I do not hurt or betray my father.”
“Far be it from me to burden you with a conflict of loyalties.” Moved, she gently withdrew her hand. “I must see to the loading now.”
Geoffrey scrambled to his feet and bowed himself out of the hall. Eleanor found she was trembling. She was laying her empty cup on the oak table next to the chess set when she heard an uproar coming from the courtyard and ran outside. Geoffrey, his face pale, blood coming from a scratch on his cheek, sat on the ground next to his horse while one of the sergeants let out a stream of oaths and threatened a terrified groom with a large knobbed stick.
“What is it, what has happened?” Eleanor ran to Geoffrey and helped him to his feet. “Did you fall from your horse?”
“Fall?” The sergeant glowered. “This whoreson, ham-fisted blockhead of a groom, begging your pardon, madam, his wits a-wandering, loosens the girth so that the saddle must slip and topple any rider. It were only by the blessing of God that the youth were not galloping along the road when it happened.” He cuffed the groom about the ears. “Ye might ’ave killed him.”
“It weren’t me, I swear it,” whined the groom, holding up his arms to protect himself. “I never touched the saddle o’ Master Geoffrey’s horse since we left London. It were fine then and we had us no trouble on the road, did we, Master Geoffrey?”
“None.” Geoffrey wiped his cheek. “No harm has been done and I’m not badly hurt. It was an accident, nothing more.”
Eleanor frowned. “Let me see that.” She examined the scratch. “It doesn’t look deep, and the bleeding has stopped. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Fine, madam.” Geoffrey seemed embarrassed by all the attention. He tested the saddle himself to see that it was now fastened securely. Then, with his groom’s help, he carefully mounted his palfrey.
“Very well.” Eleanor stepped aside. “A good journey. Thank you for coming to see me.” She watched Geoffrey and his groom walk their mounts out of the courtyard.
“Accident, me arse, begging your pardon, madam,” said the sergeant. “Naught but plain carelessness. And if that groom didn’t loosen the girth o’ that saddle then who did, eh?” He shook his head in disgust. “No one else about, was there, except Master Richard playing here for a bit. ’T’were that groom, mark me words.”
Richard? Eleanor’s heart suddenly contracted. Richard was incapable of such an act. She looked around the courtyard and saw a golden head peering out from behind one of the carts. Thinking himself unobserved, Richard had a satisfied smile on his face. Sweet Saint Radegonde! Eleanor marched over to him, roughly grabbed his arm, and dragged him to a deserted corner where they would not be overheard.
“Did you tamper with the girth of Geoffrey’s saddle?”
“No.” Richard’s face was flushed.
She shook him. “I always know when you’re lying.”
“It was only meant as a jest.”
Eleanor remembered her uncle, Ralph de Faye, calling Richard a monster. And Henry had echoed this view. She recalled her son’s face as he sat astride Geoffrey in the turret chamber, punching him again and again.
“A jest? You could have killed him.” Richard gave her a sullen look and shrugged. “That any son of mine could be so vicious and underhanded!” She shook him again more vigorously. “Sweet Marie, why do you hate him so much?” It was a foolish question, for she knew the answer only too well: Henry loved his bastard son and did not love Richard, who now twisted his arm free and ran off.
The cathedral bells rang for sext and the steward approached her. “Everything is loaded, madam. Have a safe journey and return soon.”
Eleanor gave him a faint smile. Return soon? It was her intention never to return to this land again. Not so long as Henry had anything to do with Rosamund de Clifford. Geoffrey had guessed at only half the truth. Until her errant husband came to his senses, if he ever did, it was not only England she intended to leave—but Henry as well.
Rough seas and booming winds marked the Channel crossing from Southampton. Children wailed, nurses and attendants lay prostrate on pallets on the ship’s deck. Eleanor weathered the gale with no ill effects, and one and a half days later her ship, Esseneca, as well as all the others, landed at the port of Le Havre, having been blown off their intended destination of Honfleur. After one look at the battered Normandy coast, Eleanor thought it a miracle they had landed at all, and offered up a prayer of thanks to the Holy Mother. The night was spent at a port inn and by the following morning the winds died, the skies turned a clear slate-blue, and a pale sun rose falteringly over the far horizon.
“I suggest we start at once if we hope to arrive at Argentan before nightfall, madam,” said John the marshal, who had sailed from Southampton in one of the other ships, accompanied by an escort of knights. “If we can find sufficient carts for all this—this—” He jabbed a disapproving finger at the mountain of baggage spread out on the quay.
“As I do not intend to move without my belongings, transport had best be forthcoming, my lord marshal.” Eleanor forced a smile. “The hogsheads of ale are half the problem and these come at King Henry’s request.”
It was an effort to be civil toward him but she dared not be otherwise. John the marshal was Henry’s man and would repeat everything she did or said that appeared even slightly suspicious to him.
The marshal’s men gathered up carts, sumpter horses, suitable mounts and litters, and soon Eleanor, children, nurses, and attendants were on their way to Argentan. Despite the fact that everyone had survived, Eleanor could not shake off the feeling that the storm was not a good omen, connected in some obscure way to her future plans. A ridiculous notion, she told herself, and unlike her to read signs and portents into such a commonplace event as a Channel storm in December.
Still the doubt remained: Was her decision to leave Henry and return to Aquitaine an irresponsible one? Would the world condemn her as they had sixteen years earlier when, with her connivance, her marriage to Louis of France had been annulled? Bitch, whore, lust-ridden virago, sorceress—all were among the epithets hurled at her. In truth, had there ever been a time and place, Aquitaine excepted, when she had not been regarded with censorious eyes? Sweet Saint Radegonde, what had she not been accused of? Wanton dalliance, adultery, failure to give France an heir, inciting rebellion in her own duchy of Aquitaine, and heaven only knew what other perverse acts.
During her thirteen-year tenure as queen of England there had been almost no gossip concerning her behavior, but still Eleanor knew she was not really accepted by the English-Norman population. Despite having produced four sons! Not to mention her tireless efforts on England’s behalf—signing charters, hearing cases, dealing with the dull day-to-day chores of Henry’s administration when he was absent from the country. And what thanks did she get for this? Her belly tightened, and her head throbbed as she recalled that many in England still referred to her as Henry’s “foreign queen,” whispered about her scandalous past, and accused her of putting the good of her own duchy before that of England. Of course, Thomas Becket had been responsible for spreading at least some of this calumny but others were only too eager to believe it.
If the English remained distrustful of her, she thought them little better than a country of ale vats, uncultivated and boorish at heart. She would be glad to see the back of them, and Henry as well. He had dealt her a wound that still festered, from which she might never wholly recover, and she intended to make him pay. If, as a result, his world was turned upside down, so be it.
The wind was blowing again in gusts, bowing treetops, rattling branches as the procession approached the castle of Argentan. When the litter came to a shuddering halt, Eleanor emerged to dark clouds scudding across a star-filled sky and the sound of bells ringing for compline. She had never been to this Norman castle before. Under a sweep of moonlight she gazed curiously at the lichened walls, projecting towers, and an immense stone keep. Even at this hour the courtyard was bustling with the arrival of guests, scullions carrying buckets of water, grooms tending to horses, and servitors holding aloft flaring torches.
She was greeted by the harried steward of the castle, who informed her that Duke Henry and Prince Harry were on their way back from the Vexin border and were expected the following day. But Harry’s wife, Marguerite, had arrived.
“Is there trouble?” she asked in alarm. “The duke did not take his son into danger?”
“There is always trouble in the Vexin, madam,” the steward interjected with ill-concealed impatience. “Louis of France’s troops invaded a fortnight ago. The sixth time in as many months. My lord duke soon put them to rout. Prince Harry was never in any danger, I assure you.”
Eleanor thought it unconscionable of Henry to expose their eldest son and heir to any real fighting, and she intended to say so.
“Is something amiss here?” she asked, noting that the steward seemed distracted.
“Not amiss, madam. But how I am expected to cope with the flood of people arriving for the Christmas court and tomorrow’s event as well is beyond me.” The steward glanced in dismay at the string of loaded carts. “No one told me you intended so long a stay on the Continent, madam. Where we shall find room for all this . . .” He threw up his hands.
What event was occurring? Eleanor had not expected such a to-do about the baggage, and decided she must send some of the carts directly on to Poitou, the part of Aquitaine where she intended to live, without attracting attention. Pretending she had not heard the steward, she ushered everyone into the keep. Once inside, the children were immediately taken to their quarters. Eleanor went into the great hall and walked straight over to the central fire, warming her icy hands while a servitor passed around a tray of pewter goblets filled with hot mulled wine. Most of the guests, she noted, were men, with only a sprinkling of women. All were strangers—ah, there was a man she recognized, the chamberlain of Normandy.
“Good to see you again, Lady, Marshal.” The chamberlain, a bluff hearty man with a large paunch, greeted them with a warm smile. “You brought a welcome change in the weather. I had persuaded the king to hold a tournament and now, God be thanked, it looks as if we shall have a fair day tomorrow.”
John the marshal downed his goblet of wine. “God’s teeth, nothing to stir the blood like a good tourney, I always say.”
The chamberlain nodded. “You’ll be pleased to know that your son William will be an entrant, Marshal, and is sure to win a prize. He has been performing ably in various tournaments ever since I knighted him last summer.”
“Done well, has he?” The marshal gave his brutal laugh and slapped his thigh with a broad fist. “And why not, eh? How far does the apple fall from the tree?”
The man was so full of himself, Eleanor could barely conceal her disgust. As a rule, Henry disapproved of tournaments, calling them a waste of good men and horseflesh. If he had agreed to this one it must be for political ends, to encourage the goodwill of his Norman barons. Perhaps she could avoid attending by pleading illness. She yawned openly, suddenly exhausted, and the chamberlain tactfully suggested she be escorted to her quarters.
Eleanor slept through the night and was awakened by the bells ringing for prime. She lay on her back staring up at the faded blue canopy, too drowsy to rouse herself and attend morning Mass, wishing she dared spend the day in bed and miss the tourney. But Henry might well be upset, expecting her, as duchess of Normandy, to attend to his guests and join in the festivities. Under no circumstances must she give him cause to find fault with her. When she voiced her intention to go to Poitou she wanted him to be receptive, assuming it to be a brief visit not a permanent stay. Once ensconced in her duchy it would be far more difficult for him to remove her.
Perhaps this was a hasty decision on her part but what did it matter? What mattered was that she could no longer tolerate this feeling of being powerless, and she was desperate to return to her roots, the place she had always believed to be the source of her own power: Aquitaine. Eleanor rolled over on her stomach and screamed silently into the pillow. All of his sins notwithstanding, against all sense and reason, she still loved Henry. The silent screams rapidly turned to tears.
The door to the solar opened, letting in a brisk draft of cool air. One of her female attendants, Lady Sybil, entered with a silver basin of water and a towel draped over one arm, followed by a female servitor carrying a tray with a cup of ale and a wheaten loaf. Eleanor quickly dried her eyes with a corner of the linen sheet and raised herself slowly on one elbow.
“Is King Henry here yet? When is the tourney?”
“The king has not yet arrived, madam.” Lady Sybil laid the tray on the bed. “The tournament will begin right after sext.” Plump and determined, she bustled about the solar like a clucking hen, shaking out gowns and tunics, shooing out the servitor. “And you should see the great hall this morning! Knights, heralds, squires underfoot everywhere. I have never seen the like. Oh, and the steward wants to know if everything in the carts should be brought inside.”
Lady Sybil held up several tunics and Eleanor chose one of a dark-green hue, which Henry once said made her eyes look like emeralds. After slipping on the tunic and fastening a gold filigreed girdle around her waist, Eleanor sat on a cushioned stool while Lady Sybil coiled her mane of chestnut hair under a pale-green barbette. Over this she carefully fitted a gold chaplet.
“You look dazzling, madam.” Lady Sybil stepped back to survey her handiwork. “Not that anyone in this backwater will notice, mind. At least not today.” She gave a tart sniff. “Swords and lances and knights are all anyone is looking at today.”
In the silver mirror held up for her inspection, Eleanor was not displeased with what she saw: Her face looked more rested than she felt. After John’s birth it had taken her some months to lose the excess flesh from her stomach, but hours in the saddle and loss of appetite over the distress of Rosamund de Clifford had done its work well. Still, something wasn’t quite—
“Give me the box of crushed pomegranate, Sybil, I look a little pale right here.” Eleanor began to rub a tiny bit of the paste just above her cheekbones. “And the charcoal.” She rubbed a finger against a piece of charcoal and smudged her eyelid. The effect widened her hazel eyes. “Much better. And the purple cloak, I think, with the special brooch.”
“Wasted on this company, madam.”
Eleanor took one last look in the silver mirror. Yes, she would do quite nicely.
When she arrived in the great hall, Eleanor told the steward to arrange for certain carts and sumpter horses to be sent on to Poitou under the care of trusted grooms. He did not question her instructions. Indeed, the poor man was so harried, she doubted he would even remember what she had said once the orders were carried out.
The tournament was held outside the castle in an enclosed field fifty yards long called the lists, guarded at both ends by heralds and men-at-arms. By the time Eleanor arrived, the enclosure was already filled with hopeful young knights eager to try their skill, as well as seasoned veterans, all clothed in light chain mail and carrying brightly painted shields. In a large field beyond the lists, Eleanor could see the contestants’ striped tents, grooms currying horses, squires polishing swords and lances with sand. Common folk from local villages crowded around the edge of the field for a good view of the proceedings.
Under clear blue skies the stands were rapidly filling with the castle mesnie, visiting noblewomen from around the countryside, and the older knights and barons. It had been a long time, Eleanor noted, since she had seen such a display of ermine and vair, samite and sendal in bold colors of scarlet, azure, and green. Overhead a scarlet banner emblazoned with the gold lions of the House of Anjou swung in the breeze. In the center of the stand was an empty chair for Henry, then a long bench for his guests where Richard, Geoffrey, and Marguerite perched on red cushions. Seated next to John the marshal, Eleanor felt herself the cynosure of every eye and congratulated herself on having had the foresight to wear the sumptuous purple cloak lined with white ermine, fastened at the throat with the jeweled brooch worn only for very festive occasions. Her efforts had certainly not been wasted.
“I hope the duke arrives soon,” said the chamberlain, seated beside the marshal. He craned his neck searching for Henry. “We’re losing the best of the day.”
Several jongleurs turned handsprings across the field; a minstrel wandered through the stands strumming his rebec and singing a chanson de geste. As she shaded her eyes with the back of her hand, Eleanor saw a tall young knight with wide shoulders and a swath of walnut-brown hair come loping around the side of the stand obviously late for the lists. Helm tucked under one long arm, shield in hand, he was followed by a scruffy-looking youth carrying a sword and lance. Browned by sun and wind, the knight’s face sported bold cheekbones and a determined chin marked by a cleft. Passing just below where she sat, he glanced up and his mouth fell open. At the look of heartfelt admiration in his deep-set brown eyes, Eleanor could not help but smile. The knight turned crimson, swallowed several times, and in his confusion dropped his helm. He hastily picked it up then rose to his feet on long heronlike legs and began running toward the pavilions.
“There’s the marshal’s son, William,” said the chamberlain proudly. “He’ll take all the prizes, I’ll warrant.”
Trumpets blared and the heralds led a procession of squires and knights through the gates. Swords and lances flashing in the sunlight, the cavalcade paraded around the lists to lusty applause and shouts.
Suddenly little Geoffrey shouted, “Look, there’s Father!” and began to bounce up and down on his cushion.
Eleanor turned and saw Henry striding toward them, followed by Harry and several nobles. Unexpectedly, her heart began to pound and the breath caught in her throat. Purposeful, radiating immense energy, Henry leapt onto the stand, a whirl of black boots, russet cloak, and blue cap sporting a sprig of golden broom. He held up his arms and the crowded stands rose as one body, the jousters lifting sword and lance in homage to the most noble and puissant duke of Normandy. Henry nodded to the chamberlain, who gave the signal that the joust could now officially begin.
As he sat, Henry’s gaze locked with hers, and he winked and gave her a loving smile. Eleanor felt such a rush of affinity that it threatened to overwhelm her resolve. Enraged and despairing at her own weakness, she wondered how she would ever find the strength of heart, or the courage of will, to leave him.
On the twelfth day of Christmas in the New Year of 1168, Henry brooded over the remains of the noon meal in the great hall of Argentan castle. He picked his teeth with the point of a dagger while Lord Patrick, earl of Salisbury, his lieutenant in Aquitaine, informed him of the latest mishaps in that turbulent duchy.
“. . . and, in truth, since you left, my lord king, virtually all the lands south of the Loire are once again raging out of control. I can no longer contain the uprisings, not with the troops I have now. The barons threaten they will pledge their allegiance to King Louis of France and . . .”
Henry stifled an impatient sigh. How often had he heard this familiar tale? One hundred times? Two hundred? It often felt as if his entire reign revolved around the never-ending unrest in Aquitaine, the skirmishes with Louis of France, and the Becket controversy. God’s eyes! He was heartily sick of all of them.
While Salisbury talked on, Henry’s gaze moved restlessly around the hall, flooded with light from torches sputtering in wall cressets and candles flickering in silver holders. Smoke coiled beneath the rafters, unfurling in blue spirals through a hole in the roof. Wind blew through the cracks in the stone walls, fanning the tapestries depicting the Lord’s entry into Jerusalem so that the figures appeared to be moving.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes, yes, I heard you, my lord of Salisbury. What can I do except raze the entire duchy to the ground? It is like that monster out of myth, what is its name? Seven-headed hydra.”
“Nine,” interjected Eleanor in a soft voice. “Nine heads.”
“Seven or nine or twenty! However many there were, the point is that when you cut one off two new ones appear! Blood of Christ, if the duchy of Aquitaine had one head I’d hack it off.” Henry thrust his knife into the wood of the table, where it quivered back and forth.
“But not all of Aquitaine is involved,” said Eleanor. “Only a handful of barons are at the root of the trouble.”
“Only? This ‘handful’ holds the most power in the duchy.”
Henry could feel tension stirring like a wind gust. Men cleared their throats, scraped their feet against the rushes, busied themselves with goblets of wine, and threw scraps to whining hounds. Henry’s gaze searched the faces at the table: Lord Patrick of Salisbury, a sound man but out of his depth in Poitou. His nephew, William Marshal, John’s son, was seated beside him, a likely looking lad who had won all the prizes in the tourney. Then the chamberlain of Normandy; John the marshal, scratching his blue-stubbled jaw; the bishop of Rouen, conferring with John of Oxford, foremost Latinist in England; Richard de Lucy, co-justiciar of the realm, a frown between his brows; barons of the exchequer; and council members.
Henry’s eyes continued to pass on and then suddenly returned, surprised by a strange countenance. No, of course it was not strange, just unexpected. Instead of the calm face and benign blue gaze of Robert de Beaumont, earl of Leicester, who had been with Henry since the beginning of his reign, there was the earl’s son, also Robert, who had replaced his father as co-justiciar. De Beaumont the Elder was in England, reportedly on his deathbed. First Henry’s mother had passed away, God keep her, now de Beaumont was dying. A sense of bereavement filled his heart, as if all his allies were abandoning him.
“Who are the culprits that foment rebellion in Aquitaine?” John the marshal was asking.
“They defy number,” replied Salisbury. “But the main instigators seem to be the counts of Angoulême and the Lusignan family.”
Henry suddenly banged his fist on the table. “I’ve just spent two months in Poitou trying to deal with those whoresons! The moment my back is turned they start again!”
“Perhaps you should return to the duchy, Your Grace,” said the marshal.
“Ah. As to that—” Lord Patrick toyed with the stem of his pewter goblet. “If I may speak plain?”
Henry leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand. “I trust never to hear you speak any other way.”
“Your Grace is disliked and distrusted in the duchy. Your return could well incite further insurrection. Furthermore, as your representative, I am equally detested.”
Henry felt as though he had been dealt a physical blow. Not that he was ignorant of how his subjects in Aquitaine felt about him, but it had never been put to him in such blunt terms before. Why should these Southerners hate him so, when, from the very start, his only desire had been to enforce the law and see justice done so they could prosper in peace? Which he desired for all his subjects. Yet the rebellious Aquitainians with their quarrelsome natures and arrogant assertions of independence had, over the years, forced him to take on the guise of a petty tyrant in order to control them.
“What do you suggest, my lord of Salisbury?”
“The rebels must be put down, Your Grace, like the mad dogs they are.”
“Perhaps I can help.” It was Eleanor’s voice.
Henry, along with everyone else, turned his head to look at her. She was certainly a feast to look upon in that becoming green, which turned her eyes to emerald. And she had been singularly accommodating and pleasant throughout this Christmas court, Henry noted, except for chiding him about Harry’s safety. Only natural for a mother protecting her cubs. For the first time in two years, he felt able to communicate with Eleanor without fear he was going to tread on a nest of wasps. She could not possibly know of Rosamund’s presence at Everswell, Henry thought in relief. He gave her an encouraging smile.
“How can you help, Nell?”
“I thought that perhaps my presence in Aquitaine—oh, only temporarily, of course—might help to soothe the turbulent waters.” Wide-eyed and smiling, her voice was soft as silk.
John the marshal pounded the table. “God’s teeth, that’s an excellent suggestion.”
“Indeed,” echoed Lord Patrick of Salisbury. “The queen, that is to say the duchess of Aquitaine, is highly regarded in her duchy. Her presence there may be just what these faithless Southerners need.”
“It would, on the face of it, appear to be a solution not without merit, and one possibly to consider,” added the ever-cautious bishop of Rouen.
God’s eyes! Taken aback by such concerted agreement, Henry hesitated. He had no concrete objection, of course. On the face of it, it was a good suggestion. He stroked his chin and tapped his finger against his teeth. Yet he had a suspicion that Eleanor was up to something. Perhaps she knew more about Rosamund’s whereabouts than he supposed? Although even if she did, why this would prompt her to go to Aquitaine was beyond him. Henry felt as if he were beginning to suspect plots and intrigue around every corner.
“Give me time to reflect on this matter, my lords.” Henry reached across the table and broke off a piece of marchpane.
“There is very little time to reflect, I fear,” said Lord Patrick. “I cannot sufficiently stress the urgency of the situation.”
Henry turned to Eleanor. “Affairs in your lands look to have gone beyond negotiations, madam, yet you truly believe you can do something?”
“I hope so, my lord. I pray so. But, of course, it is for you to say.”
This submissive attitude was so unlike Eleanor that Henry grew even more suspicious. But she returned his gaze with a serene countenance. Perplexed, Henry nibbled on the marchpane. All his instincts were against her going and he did not know why. After all, what harm could she do? Eleanor was a skilled diplomat, especially in Aquitaine, far better than he was. And when he did crush the rebels, as he fully intended to do—although there was no point in telling her this now—diplomacy would be sorely needed to help restore order. Indeed, if Eleanor was in Poitou while he exterminated the rebel leaders, the populace might well assume it had her blessing. He did not relish the spilling of blood, he never had and he never would, but there were times when there was no other way to make a point.
“So be it then. We will escort the duchess to Aquitaine and ensure her safety there. We leave within the sennight.” Henry rose to his feet.
There was a chorus of approval.
Eleanor, her cheeks flushed, also rose. “Well, my lords, let us hope my efforts meet with some success, and I do not disappoint you.”
She was looking extremely pleased with herself. Too pleased? Henry’s speculative gaze followed her as she left the hall.