ON A GRAY MORNING in mid-October, Eleanor was in the solar of the Maubergeonne Tower, going over her correspondence. Copper braziers warmed the chamber; tall ivory tapers in silver candelabra filled it with light. In one corner Alais and Joanna sewed together on a large square of tapestry, the soft murmur of their voices occasionally broken by muffled laughter. There was only one missive of interest, from Louis of France. Eleanor quickly broke the green wax seal. As your overlord, Louis wrote, France is ready to stand behind Aquitaine, should the need arise. She was interrupted by a knock on the door and the sound of William Marshal’s voice.
“The young king is ready to leave for the coast, madam.”
Eleanor quickly slid the parchment under a stack of writs awaiting her signature. “Come.”
When Harry, Bertran de Born, and William Marshal entered the solar, Eleanor rose from her wooden chair to greet them. “A good journey, my boy.”
She kissed her son on both cheeks, noting the bright-green cloak, dark-blue tunic embroidered with gold thread, and the blue cap tilted forward on his golden-brown hair. His raiment looked dazzling—and oddly familiar.
“Give my greetings to King Henry when you reach England.” She paused before adding, “You will bear in mind what we discussed?”
“Yes, Maman.” An impatient expression crossed Harry’s face. “I am to keep hold of my temper and try and persuade my father that I am ready for more responsibility. Something small to start with, then, as I prove myself, more can be added.”
She nodded approvingly. Harry and Marguerite, having returned from their crowning in England barely two months earlier, had been summoned by Henry once again. Eleanor was not sure what was in the wind this time but wanted her son to be prepared for any eventuality. To that end she had been trying to teach him the most politic way to behave.
“How you comport yourself with your father is crucial if you wish to be taken seriously.”
“Yes, yes, yes! So you’ve told me a hundred times.”
“And I will tell you a hundred times more if need be, until I know you have it firmly in mind.” She frowned her displeasure. “And judging by your tone I see no evidence that you do. Did you learn nothing from your last visit to England?”
“I learned that my father has no regard for my opinions, retains total control of all the lands designated to me, and that his vassals—”
“Your vassals, my lord,” interjected Bertran de Born in a soft but steely voice. “Not just Duke Henry’s. In England, Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine, all have sworn homage to you as well.”
Eleanor glanced sharply at the troubadour, who gave her a honeyed smile. Decked out as usual in his favorite shades of blue and green with a blue cap perched on top of his crisp curls—Sweet Saint Radegonde, Harry was dressed almost exactly like him! No wonder his garb seemed familiar. A close companion to Harry, Richard, and Geoffrey, she knew de Born exerted considerable influence on her sons. Not that she discouraged this—on the contrary—but when Bertran’s advice conflicted with her own . . . What mischief was he up to now?
“Yes, Bertran, thank you for reminding me.” Eleanor saw Harry give the troubadour a grateful look. “But they are my vassals in name only. Will any of them comply with the simplest order from me? I cannot bribe a single vassal to do my bidding for I am kept so short of funds I must resort to borrowing from the Jewish moneylenders—when they let me. There is no land whose income comes to me, thus I have nothing but royal ornaments to pledge for security.” He threw up his hands ringed on every finger.
Eleanor withheld a mocking retort, poured a goblet of wine from a silver pitcher, and seated herself in the armchair again.
“At the same age as myself, seventeen,” Harry continued in a whining voice, “my father was ruling Normandy without interference.”
Do you compare yourself to your father? Eleanor was tempted to ask. There were times she wanted to shake Harry until his teeth rattled. How could the boy forget so quickly? Only the past August, he and Marguerite had returned to England so they could be crowned together by a new archbishop of Canterbury whom everyone in Poitiers had assumed was not yet selected. Soon after Harry’s arrival, he had written her an angry letter complaining bitterly that his father continued to deny him both money and authority. His primary grievance seemed to be that when he arrived in London Henry had already appointed an archbishop of his own choosing, the prior of Dover. I am the king as well as he, Harry had written, yet my father acted on this matter without either asking my opinion or even informing me until it was all settled.
Eleanor had been outraged on her son’s behalf, and had had an exchange of words with her secretary, Peter of Blois, over Henry’s high-handedness.
“This turn of events was only to be expected, madam,” Peter had explained. “I am sure the prior of Dover was also the pope’s choice, and, from all I hear, an acceptable choice to the clergy in England as well.” He shook his head. “If you will forgive my saying so, how would the young king have any idea who was a suitable candidate for Canterbury? He is not familiar with English politics, canon law, or anything else concerning Britain.”
“While that may be true, it is beside the point. Canterbury is the most valuable piece of patronage in England; the power of the archbishop is second only to the king’s. It is now disposed of for years to come, and my son, the joint ruler, was not even consulted. Everyone complains of Harry’s ignorance but under such circumstances how is he expected to learn how such decisions are made?” She had felt quite put out on Harry’s behalf.
There was nothing to be done as far as the Canterbury situation was concerned, but Eleanor had written a letter to Marguerite—one sent to Harry could well be read by others—suggesting, quite casually, that on their way back to Poitiers she and Harry might consider breaking their journey in Paris to visit her father, King Louis.
Her advice had been taken. When William Marshal, Harry, and Marguerite had returned to Poitiers, after stopping off in the Île-de-France, Harry had told her that the French king was shocked to hear that his son-in-law was unfamiliar with the problems that often befell a ruler because his father allowed him no authority. Louis had urged him to assert himself and demand from King Henry that he be given more authority. Refuse to take no for an answer, Louis had advised. I will back you in all that you do; after all, I am your overlord. Eleanor had been counting on Louis to say just that. Harry needed to hear this firm viewpoint from someone other than his mother and his hotheaded companions in Poitiers and England.
William Marshal, clearly disapproving, had taken another view of Louis’s advice. “I believe the French king may be trying to suborn my young master, madam. Louis would like nothing better than to foment rebellion by setting King Henry’s sons against their father.”
“What a far-fetched idea,” she had replied. “Perhaps Louis only wishes to help Harry right a grave wrong.”
“Or gain control of the whole Plantagenet empire,” William had added.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor saw Alais staring at Bertran de Born and this distracted her from her thoughts. The French princess quickly bent to her work again but it was obvious she was listening with care and missing nothing. Abruptly, Eleanor rose and walked over to the window casement to glance outside at the swirling gray mist. Another day of rain.
“Your father, Harry, was bred to his task since birth,” she said finally. “At seventeen he knew how to rule.”
With a pang of regret, Eleanor realized how differently from their father her sons had been raised. Both she and Henry had been catapulted into responsibility at an early age. They had decided to make their children’s lives easier and less demanding than their own, postponing the onerous duties of rulership, indulging and even spoiling them. Were her sons better off as a result? Richard and Geoffrey, she sensed, whatever their flaws, would, in time, do reasonably well. But it was Harry who would inherit the bulk of the Plantagenet holdings, and in his case she felt less certain.
“Even your father knew that he would need advice and guidance at the start, Harry. Understand that you still have much to learn.” With a sigh, and unwilling to mention Thomas Becket, Henry’s mentor at Harry’s age, Eleanor turned from the window.
“Let it be also understood, Your Grace,” Bertran de Born said, his eyes flicking back and forth between her and Harry, “that should Duke Henry still treat his son as he has done in the past, the young king would be justified in striking a blow for his rights.”
William Marshal shot de Born an incredulous look. “‘A blow for his rights’? By my faith, what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means all Aquitaine stands united behind the duchess Eleanor and her sons, ready to crush the Norman intruder.” The troubadour lifted a clenched fist in a flamboyant flourish.
Eleanor saw William Marshal’s body stiffen in shock. “Is this how you speak of your lawful duke, de Born, the liege-lord who commands your loyalty?”
“Loyalty, like love, cannot be commanded, Englishman. It must be freely given. As I give it to the duchess and her sons, not Duke Henry.”
“I take exception to such words as ‘crushing the Norman intruder,’” William said between clenched teeth. “And may I remind you that over the years there have been many attempts, within the duchy and certainly from outside its borders, to depose Henry Plantagenet. All have failed.”
De Born’s lip curled in scornful acquiescence. “Sporadic revolts accomplish nothing. But now that France and Brittany are allies of Aquitaine and can be counted upon to aid our cause, there will be a concerted effort.”
William shook his head impatiently. “Allies of what cause? Concerted effort to do what?”
“You mean you do not know?” De Born’s voice was laced with an exaggerated innocence.
“That will do, Bertran,” Eleanor interjected in a loud voice.
In the tense silence that followed, she wished she could muzzle the volatile troubadour who, subtle as a serpent when he wished, now seemed compelled to openly bait William. She stalked the length of the solar, stopping to peer at Alais and Joanna’s tapestry work.
“Look, Alais, you have used scarlet thread for the leaf of that tree. Leaves are green, as you well know. Pull out the thread and redo it. Be more attentive to your work, my child.”
Her face stained with color, Alais looked up and nodded. To conceal her irritation with both her son and the troubadour, Eleanor bent down to kiss the top of the girl’s glossy black head.
William, obviously sensing something out of the ordinary, turned to her with a frown. “Madam, what is it I should know? Why am I kept in ignorance?”
“What Sir Bertran means, William, is that I have been in contact with Louis of France, but only in his capacity as overlord of Aquitaine and the holdings of my sons.” Eleanor gave de Born a scathing look. Harry, Geoffrey, and Richard might be inflamed by his rhetoric, but if the troublemaking troubadour thought to goad her into some rash action or statement before she was ready, he was very much mistaken.
“As usual, this songbird exaggerates,” she continued, knowing she must put the matter as delicately as possible. William was devoted to her and Harry, but when all was said and done he was English and his first loyalty would be to Henry. “But if Duke Henry continues to deny Harry his inheritance, he will have only one recourse: to turn to his overlord, King Louis.”
William Marshal grew pale. “De Born’s threats turn on treason, Lady, and I cannot ignore them.”
“Treason? Treason?” Bertran made a hissing sound. “After the way the duchess and the heir to the English throne have been treated? What would you call the duke’s flagrant adulteries, his miserliness with money, his cavalier treatment of his son and heir, and gross interference with the duchess’s rights in Aquitaine? He has shorn her of respect, independence, and power!”
Although Eleanor would never have described her situation in quite such dramatic terms, still his words held an underlying truth that was both painful and humiliating. The only thing de Born had omitted to say was that Henry had broken her heart, and worse, she still loved him nonetheless. She could see that everyone present was embarrassed by the troubadour’s boldness. Harry was biting his fingernails, William’s face was crimson, and Joanna had tears in her eyes. Only Alais retained her composure.
“Is our beloved duchess to bear these indignities without retaliation?” Bertran threw up his hands.
“That is enough. Not one more word.” Eleanor took a deep breath and laced her fingers tightly together. “This hothead’s tongue wags dangerously and one day he shall feel the want of it. Be reassured, William, there is no concerted plot here to overthrow Duke Henry. In some quarters feelings run high against my husband. They always have. More so since the martyrdom and failure to punish the guilty knights. It is no more than that.”
Which was not strictly true. There was certainly a growing intention among loosely banded allies that something would have to be done.
William wiped his hand across a forehead beaded with sweat. “I am relieved to hear it, madam. I know there is resentment against the duke on the Continent—”
“In Aquitaine, France, and Brittany it is more than resentment. Also in England, Sir William,” Bertran broke in. “There are those in England who would gladly overthrow the Plantagenet tyrant and establish Harry as the true ruler.”
“That is a lie!” William’s hand fell to his sword hilt. Before he could withdraw his blade Eleanor saw him look down, disbelieving, at the point of de Born’s short sword aimed at his heart.
Eleanor looked directly at her son, willing him to act. Why did he not take command of this situation? William was his man.
Harry anxiously cleared his throat. “Put up your weapon, Bertran. I agree with my friend de Born, William. There are many nobles in England who would support me, should it come to that. And if I continue to be treated as a child by my father . . .” He shrugged.
Bertran sheathed his sword and gave William a pleasant smile. “Tiens! We can discuss this in a civilized manner. We are not barbarians here, after all.”
After a moment’s pause, William removed his hand from his sword. “So long as it is understood that Duke Henry is the consecrated lord in Aquitaine, and there is no more wild talk of overthrowing him.”
Eleanor let a breath of relief escape her. “Wild talk is all it is, and as such none of it bears repeating, does it, William?”
There was a longer pause before William gave a reluctant shake of his head.
Praying that he would not report any of this conversation to Henry, whatever his suspicions, she turned to her son. “Harry, you will behave as we have discussed.”
Harry bit his lip and Eleanor could see him swallowing an angry retort. He bowed his head and marched out of the solar without another word. Eleanor’s heart ached for her beautiful boy. He was obviously not ready to rule yet must be given the opportunity.
“Look after him, William,” Eleanor said.
He bowed and followed Harry out the door. Surprised to find herself trembling, Eleanor resumed her seat in the armchair.
“He has a good heart, the English giant, but with all the wit and subtlety of a boarhound.” Bertran began to strum a few merry chords on his lute.
Eleanor sent him a cool glance. “I think I prefer a hound’s wit to a serpent’s tongue. You have done enough. One day you will go too far.”
“Too far, Madam? Do you say that enough is as good as a feast?” He rolled his eyes. “I have put some spine into your son and given his watchdog something to think about. A good day’s work, I should say. One that will bear fruit.”
In late November, Eleanor received an official letter from Henry in Rouen summoning her and Richard to attend the Christmas court at Chinon. Built on the banks of the Vienne River where it joined the Loire, this was a rambling, cavernous castle that Eleanor had not visited in several years. Prince Geoffrey would travel with him from Brittany, Henry wrote, and young John would be picked up at Fontevrault. Almost as an afterthought, he added that the young king and his wife would hold their own court in Normandy.
Her eldest son holding his own court? Had Harry finally convinced his father to allow him some authority? On the face of it this seemed like good news. But there had been no word from Harry himself since leaving Poitiers six weeks earlier, or from William Marshal, and this was worrisome. Not knowing what to expect, Eleanor left the Maubergeonne Tower in mid-December, in company with Richard, Alais, Joanna, and a large entourage.
Chinon was situated in Angevin territory just across the Poitevin border, and Eleanor arrived there on a chill blue afternoon a sennight before Christmas. The great circular hall was decked with green boughs, mistletoe, and red holly berries; dried rushes mixed with sweet-smelling herbs were spread on the floors and torches burned in cressets set into the wall. A large tapestry depicting Christ’s entry into Jerusalem had been cleaned and brushed for the occasion, and a huge tree trunk burned in the central fire. But despite all attempts to make Chinon hospitable for the Christmas court, in Eleanor’s eyes the castle remained grim and cheerless. From the very first time she had entered its outer walls shortly after her marriage to Henry, Chinon had exuded an underlying air of melancholy, as if it carried a dark secret.
Duke Henry, she was told, and her son Geoffrey, were out hunting, but John, who would turn seven within the sennight, was already in residence with his tutor; she went up to his chamber but he was fast asleep. Two years had passed since Eleanor had seen Henry at Argentan when they received news of Thomas Becket’s murder. In requiem pace. Eleanor crossed herself. It seemed a lifetime ago.
For weeks she had been steeling herself to meet her husband, wondering how she would feel, how she would react. Disappointed at his absence, she examined the chamber prepared for her and her women. It was sparsely appointed but serviceable. After supervising the unpacking of boxes and saddlebags, she put on a cream-colored gown and blue tunic, covered her hair with a blue barbette, and slipped on a black cloak lined with white ermine. Then, restless and on edge, she made her way up the winding staircase to the battlements. The crisp winter air was bracing. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to catch the last rays of pale sunlight.
Rowdy laughter mingled with hoarse shouts and blaring horns startled her. When she opened her eyes it was to see an unruly cavalcade wending its way through the streets of the town. Men spurred steaming horses; huntsmen in dark-green livery trotted beside them, barking hounds at their heels. The carcass of a huge red stag was slung over an empty saddle. At the procession’s head rode Henry, his face as bright as his russet hair topped with a green cap.
As the cortege neared the drawbridge, he looked up and saw her. Their gaze collided and the effect was such that Eleanor felt a bolt of lightning shoot through her. His face sobered as he stared at her with unblinking eyes in a look she knew only too well. Storm clouds brewing. What was Henry displeased about this time? Had William spoken out of turn, she wondered, had Harry angered him, or was his nose twisted out of joint because of his failures in Ireland, which all Europe knew about? Eleanor delayed on the ramparts, allowing time for the fuss of Henry’s arrival to die down, waiting until the pounding of her heart should abate. By the time she descended the staircase and reached the hall, a number of guests were already in evidence, with servitors passing around trays holding goblets of mulled wine. Henry was perched on the edge of a trestle table near the central fire, swinging one mud-splattered boot, gulping down the contents of a pewter goblet. Mud also stained his short brown cloak; brambles and burs stuck to his tunic. Blue stubble covered his face.
“Eleanor! Lovely as ever.” Henry smiled but his eyes were wary. “The years continue to deal kindly with you. How do you do it?”
“Magic potions, my lord. You look fit and healthy, may God be thanked,” Eleanor said, deciding it might be wiser not to mention Ireland.
Geoffrey, now officially count of Brittany and doing well there, approached her and she kissed him dutifully on both cheeks. “You also look well, my son. Your little bride is not with you?”
“I left Constance in Brittany, Maman.” Geoffrey bent his knee to her, then went off to join Richard.
“A new cloak?” Henry asked. “Very becoming. Although green suits you better.”
“So you always said.” Their eyes met in a look of remembered intimacy so brief it was gone in the instant.
Henry reached out a freckled hand to touch the white fur lining of the cloak. “God’s eyes! Ermine is it? That must have cost the Poitevin treasury a few centimes.”
“Revenues in Poitou are up. This is a Christmas court after all. You can hardly begrudge me a new cloak.”
Henry hunched his shoulders and then stretched one arm up over his head. “When have I ever begrudged you anything, madam?” He grimaced. “I wrenched my shoulder drawing a bow too tightly strung. But I bagged a mighty stag. You never saw the like.” He shouted, “At least seven branches today, Constable?”
“Eight, my lord,” a voice, presumably the constable of Chinon’s, responded from a cluster of men standing in a corner of the hall.
“Geoffrey, how many would you say?”
“I thought nine, Father.”
“That’s my observant boy. There you are then, nine.”
Eleanor, who had seen the dead stag slung across the saddle, thought that six branches was more accurate. “Whatever the number it is a most impressive kill. You were always a veritable Nimrod with a bow.”
Henry looked at her suspiciously but Eleanor met his glance head on. She had not lied to please him. He was a highly skilled hunter, an ability she had always admired. His face relaxed and he yawned.
“I believe I tire more easily than I used to.” He sighed, sipping again from his goblet. “There was a time when I could hunt all day and bounce back within hours. No longer.”
There was a brief silence.
“How fares Harry?” Eleanor saw Henry’s face darken at the question.
“God’s eyes, don’t remind me of that perpetually complaining prince.”
“King, I believe.” Eleanor raised a hand and a servitor came running with a goblet of wine. “Of what does he complain?”
“His grievances defy number. Why don’t I have Anjou, Normandy, or England to rule? I should have more money, more horses, more retainers. On and on.” Henry looked down at his goblet. “Harry has become much worse since his recent stay in Poitiers.”
So the boy was starting to assert himself in earnest. Not before time. Eleanor had not intended to confront Henry with this issue quite so soon, but since he had brought it up—“If our son had authority of his own in an area, perhaps he would complain less.”
“If I gave the young scoundrel even half what he wished, the whole of England would soon be pledged to Aaron of Lincoln, who already holds the boy’s note for a sum that would take your breath away. It is only out of deference and friendship to me that the moneylender has not pressed him for what he owes.” Henry slid off the table and faced her. “Harry wants only to attend tourneys, spend as if there were no tomorrow, and surround himself with unfit companions who flout the laws of the land. You cannot enjoy the fruits of your labor without first doing the hard work involved.”
Eleanor knew that everyone in the hall was listening while pretending not to hear them. She lowered her voice.
“Give him something, Henry. Let him make mistakes, even as you and I did.”
“And do you think our Harry cares for his people?” Henry continued, as if she had not spoken. “I see no sign of it. I tried to explain that a ruler’s main duty is to serve his subjects. Do you know what his response was? ‘Surely it is the other way ’round; a king’s subjects serve him.’”
Eleanor looked away. Although loath to admit it to herself, she sensed that Henry was in the right. Their son seemed only to care for the idea of being a king, not the duties that accompanied the title. But that would change, she assured herself. If his father took him seriously, he would grow into the king she knew he could be.
“Our latest dispute merely confirms how unready he is to rule,” Henry continued.
“Which dispute?”
Henry gave her a speculative look. “I am thinking of betrothing John to the daughter of the count of Maurienne. It is an advantageous match, but as John is without property of his own, the count will not consider the proposition.” He took another goblet of wine from the tray held by a servant. “I offered to give John three castles: Chinon, Mirebeau, and Loudon on the Loire. The count accepted this.”
Now she understood. “But these castles are the usual appanage of Anjou and part of Harry’s inheritance.” Eleanor could almost hear her son screaming his outrage at this suggestion.
Henry nodded. “I tried to explain to Harry why I needed these castles—God knows he has enough without them—but the boy shouted that I could not do this without his consent and he refused to give it. Blood of Christ, the daughter is still an infant, so none of this is imminent.”
“It is the principle, Henry! Just as it was when you appointed the new archbishop of Canterbury last summer. You should have at least consulted the young king before arranging John’s marriage portion. You might even have had the courtesy to consult me.”
“Since you have shown no interest in John or his future, why would I ask your opinion?” Henry gave a dismissive shrug. “Harry also talked about the ‘principle’ involved, and how he should have been ‘consulted.’”
His eyes were suddenly like flint and Eleanor felt her face grow warm. She could not deny what he said.
“Negotiations concerning the marriage are still in progress.” Henry paused. “When the Christmas court adjourns, you and the boys, including the young king, will journey to Limoges, where I hope to settle the matter. Count Humbert will join us there.”
“You did not say you were going to Limoges.” Caught off guard, Eleanor could hear the note of dismay in her voice.
“Didn’t I?” Henry scratched his stubbled cheek. “I have not been to Poitou for some time.”
Eleanor bit back a sharp retort.
“Did you know that Maurienne, a small mountainous country, controls the approaches to the Tuscan provinces and beyond? Or that it borders on Provence?”
Taken aback she shook her head, embarrassed to admit she had never heard of this place or its count.
Henry raised his brows. “Considering the advantages of this match, I wonder why you would object to it.”
“I didn’t say I objected to the match.” He was making a fool of her.
Henry thrust his thumbs into his black belt and rocked back and forth on the heels of his mud-splattered boots. “Then what do you object to? With all that Harry will inherit, why should he—or you—begrudge his little brother, who has nothing, three paltry castles? Look what we get in exchange!”
Eleanor felt a rush of blood to her head. “When your father tried to leave Anjou to your brother Geoffrey, knowing you would have England and Normandy, you raised such a hue and cry the whole world knew of it. Surely you can understand your own son’s feelings.”
It had been an unwise response, but he was behaving so insufferably!
“What I understand only too well is where these feelings come from.” Henry was watching her as a cat watches a mouse. “When I asked Harry what he felt he had accomplished that would warrant turning over even one of my lands to him, do you know what your precious son had the effrontery to tell me? That he had revived chivalry on the Continent. Blood of Christ! Tourneys, troubadours, courts of love?” He stabbed an accusing finger at her. “He has no sense of what is important because his mind has been warped and corrupted!”
“I take exception—” she began.
“Idlers and mincing courtiers steeped in vice,” he roared, setting his goblet down on the table with such violence that ruby-colored wine splashed over the rim. “Degenerates who think only of their next amusement. These are to be found at the court in Poitiers! Your court, madam. Yours! This is the decadent influence that lies behind all that Harry says and does.”
Trembling with rage, Henry pounded the table with his fist. Eleanor winced as she let the storm break over her head, knowing that if she was at fault so was Henry. After all he had done, how could he have the gall to talk to her of vice? It was all she could do not to claw at his face until she drew blood.
“For too long I have closed my eyes to what goes on in your duchy. No more! Now I shall make it my business to take an active interest once again.”
One of Henry’s seizures, usually set off by extreme anger, seemed imminent. There was no point in trying to reason with him when he was like this. No point in even listening to more verbal abuse. Eleanor knew she had to get out of his presence at once lest she say or do something she would later regret. Head held high, she marched from the hall.
“Where are you going? Madam, how dare you leave before I am finished? I command you—” Then she was out of the hall and could hear only the echo of his rage growing fainter and fainter as she almost ran down the passageway to the staircase leading to her quarters.
Now, at last, all was out in the open. The doubts, hesitations, and delays were over. Battle lines had been drawn, swords unsheathed. The enemy was in plain view.