IN LATE APRIL, ELEANOR had a message from Harry with the latest news from Paris. His support was growing daily, he claimed, even in England. The counts of Champagne, Blois, Boulogne, and Flanders, allies of France, were mounting attacks against the Plantagenet empire on the Continent, joined now by many of his father’s vassals in Brittany and Anjou. As Aquitaine had long opposed their Plantagenet duke, a full-scale war seemed inevitable. Harry urged her and his brothers to join him as soon as may be.
Eleanor called Richard and Geoffrey into the solar of the Maubergeonne Tower.
“If it is war between France and your father’s forces, where will you stand?” She had never before stated the case in such bold terms.
Richard did not hesitate. “I am a liegeman of Louis of France. My oath of homage demands that I support him. My father himself arranged this at Montmirail.”
“Then in my name and yours, as future duke, I will officially call out the full knight service of Aquitaine. We must be prepared to defend ourselves.”
Geoffrey was more cautious. “The Aquitainians have sworn to serve our father, who is their lawful duke. Not all will turn against him.” He gnawed at his lip. “You believe he cannot win against France and her allies?”
“With so many of Henry’s own vassals opposing him, it is unlikely,” Eleanor said, pushing aside her own reservations.
“You swore homage for Brittany to our brother Harry, who is your direct overlord as the young duke of Normandy,” said Richard with a scowl. “Since Harry remains loyal to France, you must do likewise.”
Geoffrey reflected for a moment and Eleanor suspected he was trying to determine which course would best serve his interests.
“The Bretons have no love for the Plantagenet tyrant, as they call him,” he said finally. “But I am husband to their duchess, Constance, and the knight service of Brittany has sworn homage to me. Not all will support me against my father, but I am prepared to take that risk. As Richard has said, Louis commands my loyalty.”
Loyalty to their father did not appear to have occurred to either of the boys, and Eleanor found this oddly disturbing. “If Henry is successfully deposed, I suggest he be allowed to keep Normandy; England can be divided between himself and Harry. It is understood, of course, that he is not to be hurt,” she added in sudden concern. “Parricide is a foul crime and has no place in our plans. You are to ensure that not one hair of his head is harmed. By anyone. Swear to me you will abide by this.”
She was thankful to see the shocked expressions on their faces. “Except for the loss of his empire, our father will come to no harm through us, I swear upon my immortal soul,” Richard assured her.
A fortnight later in early May, a guard posted on the battlements rushed into the solar to warn Eleanor that a troop of knights, archers, and men-at-arms carrying the Plantagenet colors had been seen approaching Poitiers. She barely had time to warn her sons and Bertran de Born to leave immediately through the postern gate and make their way to the Île-de-France. Although she had been expecting an official visit from one of Henry’s men ever since she and the boys had ignored a summons to attend the Easter court at Rouen, it still caught her by surprise. In the wake of Harry’s flight to France she knew Henry’s suspicions would be aroused by their absence, but wild horses would not have induced her to leave the safety of Poitiers.
When William Marshal was announced, Eleanor was relieved. She had little to fear from him. She was also fully prepared, seated in her armchair in the solar reading an official document. Peter of Blois, quill pen in hand, stood beside an elmwood writing desk littered with sheets of parchment, wax tablets and styli, and a pot of black ink.
“William! How good to see you. Just a moment.” She took the pen from Peter and made rather a show of signing her name to the document, then rose to her feet in alarm. “Sweet Saint Radegonde, I can see from your expression you bring bad news.” William looked drawn with fatigue, his cloak and boots muddy from the wet spring roads. For a moment her heart leapt in terror. “My husband? He fares well?”
“I would not say well, under the circumstances.” A grim expression crossed his face. “King Henry is facing fearful odds, Lady, what with skirmishes and attacks springing up like brush fires from Brittany to Touraine. But he confronts them with his usual fortitude.”
His manner was distant and his voice cool, quite unlike his usual gracious self, and Eleanor immediately became wary. “I am sure he does. We have experienced similar unrest in Aquitaine.”
William gave her an enigmatic glance. “Only to be expected here, where all the trouble started, but now it is widespread. Every noble with a petty grievance is up in arms against him.”
Eleanor kept her face impassive.
“King Henry believes that the young king’s defection to Paris may have acted as a signal for a general uprising,” William continued, “not only on the Continent but in England as well, where a faction of hot-headed nobles want the young king to rule instead of his father.” He paused. “Rest assured that such treachery will be dealt with at the earliest opportunity.”
The note of righteousness in his voice irritated her. “Treachery? Henry’s vassals on both sides of the Channel have paid homage to the young king too, remember.” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “If the English grow weary of King Henry’s ruinous taxes and iron-handed rule, if they are outraged at his failure to punish the four assassins, or offended by his refusal to undergo the penance that would remove the threat of excommunication that still hangs over him and England as well, it is their right to choose Harry instead.”
A servant entered the solar and passed around a tray of pewter goblets filled with Gascon wine. To gain a measure of control, Eleanor took a goblet and sipped.
“No one has either the legal or the moral right to depose an anointed sovereign,” William said as soon as the servant had left. “King Henry believes that Louis of France is the prime instigator behind the young king’s flight to Paris, although it is evident that others have betrayed him as well. And the king has let it be known that until his son returns to Normandy, France and the Plantagenet empire are virtually at war.”
Was it her imagination, Eleanor wondered, or had William given her a suspicious glance when he said “others”?
“Where do your loyalties lie, Lady?” The stern expression on William’s face was starting to make Eleanor uneasy. “It is rumored that you have turned out various castellans and other officials King Henry appointed.”
“Some may have been replaced by better men, as I saw fit.” She swallowed. “Although not in Poitiers.” The castellan was a Poitevin and out of a sense of prudence she had kept him on although she was not certain if his sympathies lay with her or with Henry. “Is this why you have come? To question my loyalty?”
“I come with a message from King Henry, who commands that you, and his sons Richard and Geoffrey, join him in Rouen,” William replied without answering her question. “Your absence from the Easter court was conspicuous and not well received. This time my lord wishes you to comply.”
“If the king commands, all must obey. Unfortunately, Richard and Geoffrey are off on a hunting party and it is not possible for me to leave Poitiers at the moment.” She hoped her voice sounded natural as she sipped from her goblet.
“Where do the princes hunt?”
“They intended to go north, I believe.” She set the goblet down on the table.
Two spots of color appeared on William’s cheeks. “I have a writ with me, Lady, that compels the princes to return to Rouen. If you glance out the solar window you will see that I do not come unescorted, and can enforce the writ if I must.”
Eleanor threw up her hands, which, she was vexed to notice, were slightly trembling. “But they are not here, William. I think they may have mentioned Chinon.”
She willed herself to walk casually over to the enlarged window slit. Her heart surged and she was barely able to conceal a gasp as her gaze fell on the large troop of armed knights and men-at-arms crowding the courtyard. As if this weren’t enough, there was also a band of mounted Yorkshire archers clad in Lincoln green and armed with light yew bows. Henry had brought them across the Channel many years earlier, but they were still a shock to the eye.
“I have just come from Chinon, Lady, where I broke my journey to gather letters for the king that had accumulated over the past few weeks. There was no sign of your sons between Chinon and Poitiers.”
Eleanor turned from the window slit. “Perhaps they made a detour to Châtellerault, to visit their great-uncle Ralph.”
“I stopped by Lord de Faye’s castle, as it happens. According to the seneschal your uncle left his lands only days ago. In some haste, I gather, and headed for the Île-de-France.”
Ralph gone without a word to her? This was indeed alarming news and she could feel her whole body tighten.
“I would speak with you alone, Lady,” William said when she made no rejoinder.
“I have no secrets from my chaplain.”
William glanced at the secretary. “Touching upon the subject of Master de Blois, he was at one time in King Henry’s train, and the king has asked for his return. As I must leave again almost at once in search of your sons, he will have little time to gather his belongings. I suggest you make yourself ready now, Master Peter.”
Eleanor’s heart plummeted into her belly. Why was Henry removing Peter from her court? To remind her who was master? Or was something more sinister afoot? Patience, she cautioned herself. Patience. Soon the boot would be on the other foot.
“He will comply, of course. Take what you can comfortably carry now, Peter, and I will send the remainder of your things on later.”
Peter of Blois, obviously disturbed by these orders, bowed in acquiescence. “Let me remind you, Madam, that my assistant clerk, Arnoud, is familiar with all pending petitions, charters, and writs, so there will be no difficulty in replacing me.”
Eleanor walked over to Peter and kissed him on both smooth cheeks. “No one can replace you, my friend. You have served me well.” When he had gone she turned angrily to William. “I think it unconscionable of Henry to remove Peter in such high-handed fashion.”
“Were you aware, Lady,” William began in an urgent voice, “that the counts of Flanders, Blois, Champagne, and Boulogne have been summoned to Paris to attend an urgent council meeting? Or that leaders of the opposition in England, along with the king of Scotland, have secretly set sail for France to ally themselves with Louis and the young king?”
“These events have not been made known to me.” This was true. Matters were moving even faster than she had anticipated.
“Your daughter Marie is married to the count of Champagne; your daughter Alix is wife to the count of Blois, and your niece, Isabella, is wed to Philip of Flanders. All these lords are avowed enemies of King Henry. Not long ago these ladies were in Poitiers attending the courts of love. And yet you claim to know nothing of any plots and conspiracies against your husband?”
William’s disbelieving tone and the icy unwinking expression on his face, made it perfectly clear that he thought she was lying.
“If Henry bid you ask these impertinent questions, William, then tell him from me that it is not uncommon for wives to be ignorant of what their husbands may be up to. In truth, they are often the last to know!” She could hear the rage in her voice and made an effort to curb it. “If King Henry now finds himself besieged by enemies on all sides, he has only himself to blame.”
“Because I owe you my life, Lady, I must warn you that King Henry suspects you are among these enemies. Look to yourself and go to Rouen. Urge your sons to do the same.”
“I do not know my sons’ whereabouts, so I cannot urge them to do anything. Pressing matters make it impossible for me to leave Aquitaine just at the moment.” She paused. “Unless you wish to carry me off in chains.”
William’s lips tightened and his face reddened. “I cannot force you to leave, only try and persuade you to act with circumspection. My writ specifically covers your sons, who are still of an age where they must obey their father.” He rummaged in the scrip at his belt, which was stuffed with rolls of parchment. “I have here a letter for you from the bishop of Rouen.” Some of the rolls fell to the floor. Eleanor bent to help him retrieve them and noticed one roll that showed a seal that looked vaguely familiar. Curious, she reached down to pick it up but William quickly covered the roll with his hand.
“This is a personal message for King Henry that was waiting at Chinon.”
Eleanor suddenly snatched the roll from his fingers and stood up. William tried to take it from her and for a moment they both tugged at the parchment. Finally Eleanor forcefully seized it, walked swiftly to the table, and broke open the wax seal before he could stop her. She drew closer the seven-branched candleholder with its flickering tapers and unrolled the parchment.
“Before God and all His saints, you have unlawfully broken a seal on the king’s private correspondence!” William’s voice was aghast.
“Do you know this seal?”
“Only—only that it is from someone in England,” he stammered. “It was sent first to Rouen then onto Chinon.”
“It is the seal that Godstow uses. I was in frequent communication with the abbey when I resided at Beaumont castle and it still receives benefices from me.” Eleanor began to read aloud.
“‘Rosamund de Clifford to her lord, Henry, by the grace of God, king of England. I hope this finds you in good health and calm spirits, and that the fearful tidings of unrest and rebellion on the Continent that reach us at Woodstock are exaggerated. In England there have also been attacks and outbreaks of violence, but here they are quickly suppressed by the sheriff and his men. We have had a harsh winter and my services are much in demand both at Woodstock and at Godstow—’” Eleanor looked up. “I did not realize the whore serviced others besides my husband.”
William’s body stiffened. “She is a skilled healer, particularly with ailing animals. Do you suggest that the abbey would countenance anything unlawful?”
How dare this strumpet have the gall to write to Henry? Eleanor’s whole body trembled in outrage. All the suppressed pain, the ache of loss, the fury that she had thought under control came back in such a forceful surge that she felt as if she were going to choke on her own bile.
“Do not read further, Lady, the letter was meant for King Henry’s eyes only. This action is unworthy of you.”
William moved to grasp the parchment and Eleanor held it away from him as she continued to read: “‘Oxfordshire is covered in snow, and many have died from the cold due to lack of wood to warm their hovels and cots. I persuaded the steward at Woodstock to spare some logs from the royal woodpile and distribute it to the poor. Thus, by Our Lady’s grace, some families have been saved.’” Eleanor paused.
“As you can see, Mistress de Clifford has a kind heart,” said William in a tight voice. “She is well regarded for her charitable actions to others.”
“A partner in adultery is hardly a charitable act, is it?”
William reddened and looked down at the floor.
Eleanor continued: “‘I visit Godstow often and have not wavered in my decision to make my profession. If you agree, but only then, I believe Reverend Mother will accept me as a lay novice.’” Stunned, she stopped reading. No one had told her that Rosamund still wished to become a nun. After a moment she resumed: “‘My sweet lord, I pray daily for your welfare, hoping that God will smile upon your endeavors. I look to see you return safely to England within the year. May Our Lord keep you and yours. Written at Godstow Abbey, on the twenty-fifth day of January, in the year of Our Lord, 1173.”
“Written three and one half months ago.” Eleanor laid the parchment down upon the table.
There was a quality of innocence about this missive that had caught her by surprise. Although intimate in tone, it was, in truth, something that an affectionate sister might have written to a beloved brother, not a passionate love letter at all. Still, if Rosamund de Clifford thought others might read it, the vixen was certainly devious enough to make the contents appear innocent.
William took the parchment and rolled it up again before putting it in his scrip. “I will find a reason to explain why the seal was broken.” He handed her another roll. “From Routrou, bishop of Rouen.”
Eleanor, the fury passing now, felt an unexpected sense of shame as she broke the seal of this new missive and unrolled it.
“Sweet Saint Radegonde!” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “His Grace urges me and my sons to return to my husband lest Duke Henry distrust us. Listen to this! ‘By canon law we shall be compelled and forced to lay the censure of the Church upon you.’” Eleanor violently threw the roll of parchment onto the table. “How dare he take such a tone with me! Am I responsible for Harry’s behavior? Or the revolt against my husband’s authority? Let King Henry look to his own actions for the cause, not elsewhere. What says Matthew? ‘Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?’”
William bit his lip. “If you and your sons were to join King Henry in Rouen, it would put an end to the rumors of a serious estrangement between you and your husband, and quiet the talk of ill will and strife within the bosom of his family. Your presence would also quell my lord’s suspicions of any involvement on your part, and possibly lessen the number of uprisings.”
“I can no more stop what is happening in King Henry’s empire than I can turn back the tides of the sea.” She seized the parchment and waved it in his face. “As for the bishop, I will not deign to answer his threats, much less comply with his orders. Routrou has no authority outside of Normandy and well he knows it. That is all I have to say to him or—my husband.” She paused to gain mastery over her rage. “I assume you go straight back to Rouen?”
William, his face like alabaster, nodded. “After I detour to Fontevrault to pick up Prince John and bring him to his father. Then, as I am officially attached to the young king’s train, I am bid to join him in Paris. Louis has given his permission.” He hesitated again. “Despite everything, King Henry is anxious that his errant son comes to no harm. He loves him, you see. And, if I may make so bold, his wife as well.”
“He has an odd way of showing his love then.” Eleanor turned away, determined to ignore a sudden wave of remorse.
“You are behaving foolishly, Lady, which is most unlike the sagacious duchess I have come to respect and admire. In truth, you are putting yourself in acute danger. Pray reconsider your actions.”
“Danger from whom? What actions?”
He stared at her for a moment then bent his knee in a formal bow. “God keep you, Lady.” William marched out of the solar, leaving Eleanor in a turmoil of conflicting emotions.
Trembling, she poured another goblet of wine. This encounter had shaken her, and for a moment Eleanor wondered if the course she had set for herself would end as she had envisioned. She knew well enough that once something was set in motion, like the ripples made by a stone cast into a lake, the ultimate outcome was often out of anyone’s control. In February, after the violent argument with Henry at Limoges, Harry had asked her if she would help him place horses and men along the route between Chinon and the Normandy border. He had decided, he said, to appeal to his overlord, Louis of France, and seek redress against his father. Understanding the bitterness he felt, Eleanor had agreed and sent two couriers on ahead with specific instructions from Harry to his own knights in Touraine and Anjou. But, as her son was mercurial, she could not have predicted with any certainty that he would actually follow his own plan. He might have changed his mind at any time and, in truth, if he had remained with his father, Eleanor doubted there would have been such a widespread increase in the rebellion against Henry. For the successful overthrow of a tyrant, there had to be a figure for the discontented to rally around.
Doubts assailed her then as they did now, but in her own mind she was convinced of the ethical justification for her actions. Her personal grievances aside, Eleanor felt certain that Henry would never grant his sons autonomy to rule on their own. And in the name of establishing justice and order, he had grown oppressive and unreasonable, with little regard for the feelings of his subjects on either side of the Channel. If his empire was all-powerful but those who lived in it felt totally powerless, wretched in fact, something must be done. Henry had to go, she told herself. In any case, it was far too late to turn back.
There was a knock on the door and Arnoud, Peter’s plump assistant clerk, bustled into the solar. “I have come to tell you that your sons have escaped in time, may God be thanked. I took them myself to the postern gate, and I am certain they were not observed leaving. Messire Bertran de Born accompanied them, but once they are out of the city the young princes head north and he rides south to Altafort to raise more men.”
Thank the Holy Mother. She let out a long sigh of relief.
“When next you see your sons they will be seasoned warriors, Madam, think of that!” Arnoud’s dimpled face beamed.
She stared at him in sudden consternation. “Seasoned? But they are young and inexperienced in battle.”
“So are all men before they have blooded their swords. They will do you proud, Madam, I doubt not, and acquit themselves well against their opponents.”
Why had the possibility of danger to her sons not occurred to her before? Eleanor’s fingers trembled as she crossed herself. Should anything happen to them through her doing—Holy Mary Virgin. She would not allow herself to think the unthinkable.
Over the next four months news reached Eleanor at sporadic intervals, mainly in secret messages sent to her by Peter of Blois, her daughter Marie, and her niece Isabella of Flanders, whose husband, Count Philip, was Louis of France’s most powerful ally. In Paris, she heard, a brilliant gathering had been assembled. Along with the counts of Champagne, Blois, Flanders, and Boulogne, rebel vassals from both England and the Continent swore fealty to the young king and declared they would help him secure possession of his kingdom.
In early July she heard that the count of Flanders had invaded Normandy and captured Aumale, north of Rouen, while her sons laid waste Duke Henry’s lands with fire and sword, the boys’ first taste of true warfare. Eleanor had a funny little ache in her breast at the realization that it was against their own father. This news was followed by an unexpected message from her daughter, Marie, suggesting that she come to Champagne “with my half sisters where you will all be safe from harm.”
Louis of France also wrote, urging her to come to Paris with his two daughters and the young duchess of Brittany. At least send the three girls to France, he suggested, where they would be out of harm’s way. Eleanor, who had no intention of letting Marguerite, Alais, or Constance out of her sight, replied that she and her charges were in no immediate danger. Though William Marshal had left a contingent of Henry’s men behind when he’d come for her sons, troops were being mustered throughout Aquitaine and Eleanor and the girls would be well protected. After all, she had her own administration to oversee and her people to care for; she could not just abandon the Poitevins. In any case, from all reports, the duke of Normandy’s forces would be stopped long before they came anywhere near the borders of Poitou.
William Marshal sent a letter from Paris, where he had joined the young king, and where Lord Ralph de Faye was very much in evidence, he informed her. The clerk, Arnoud, read this missive aloud one afternoon at the beginning of August in the solar, where Eleanor and the girls had gathered. After formal greetings, William wrote that he had knighted the young king at the boy’s request, and that he had also been present when the young king had lavishly handed out deeds to his new allies of Flanders, Blois, and Boulogne, as well as to the king of Scotland.
“‘It broke my English heart to see your son give away the county of Kent to Philip of Flanders, bestow Lincolnshire on the count of Boulogne, and promise his father’s enemy, King William of Scotland, half of Northumberland. Lands that have belonged to the young king’s ancestors since the Conquest.’”
Joanna began to cry. Eleanor, initially pleased at Harry’s success at the French court, was greatly disturbed to hear that he was handing out portions of England willy-nilly in order to buy the loyalty of his father’s opponents. Suppose Richard were to do that to Aquitaine? The prospect made her feel faint.
“‘The count of Flanders is readying a fleet to invade England. In Paris it is said openly and with glee that Duke Henry’s days as ruler are virtually over,’” continued the clerk. “‘Although Normandy remains loyal, I hear Duke Henry’s ministers there fear for designs made upon his life. With his sons so iniquitously turned against him, his friends abandoning him, his allies drawing away—”’
“I think it is horrible of Harry to do this to our father,” cried Joanna, tears streaming down her face. “Horrible. And I hate him. And Richard and Geoffrey, too.” She ran from the solar.
“Oh, my poor sister, I must go to her.” Marguerite, always sympathetic to those in difficulty, rose from her stool and went after her.
“Aren’t you going to finish?” Alais, cool as ever, looked questioningly at Arnoud.
“I think we’ve heard quite enough for the time being.” Severely disquieted, Eleanor gestured to the clerk, who put down the parchment.
She did not feel as elated as she had anticipated. On the contrary, William’s missive had upset her; not only were her sons laying waste to Normandy—though this was no more than could be expected—but the image of Henry, alone and isolated, fearing for his life, was deeply distressing. None of this had crossed her mind when she first envisioned her sons asserting their rights. Though Henry deserved no less, she reminded herself fiercely. Hadn’t he betrayed her trust and theirs? Behaved like a tyrant in his own lands and hers? She must steel her treacherous heart against any sign of weakness.
Bits and pieces of news continued to arrive at Poitiers, each bringing with it tidings of fresh disasters for Henry. It was only a question of time now, Eleanor reasoned. Then, in September, a courier arrived from Rouen clad in the livery of the dukes of Normandy. A prey to sudden anxiety, Eleanor left the Maubergeonne Tower and met him in the courtyard even before he had dismounted. Joanna ran after her.
“Is my father all right? Has anything happened to him?”
The courier, gray with fatigue, forced a wan smile. “Duke Henry is well and fit, little mistress. I do not come with a message from him but from Master Peter of Blois.” The man swung himself from his mount and pulled a parchment from the saddlebag strapped to the horse’s back. “He bids me tell you look to yourself, madam, and leave at once for France. You may be in grave danger if you delay.”
Fear clutched at Eleanor’s heart. “I don’t understand. By all accounts my husband fares badly.”
“The situation has changed. The war still rages against Duke Henry, but the tide is turning in his favor.”
In Henry’s favor? It was the last thing Eleanor expected to hear. With shaking fingers she broke open the scarlet seal and glanced through Peter’s letter. Obviously written in haste, the gist of it seemed to be that when the king of Scotland returned to his own country he thought better of his bargain with Harry, whom he called ‘an incautious stripling.’ Now he was offering up his Highlanders for hire to the highest bidder, including King Henry himself. Shocked, Eleanor could hardly credit such dishonorable conduct. Meanwhile, Peter went on to say, King Henry had hired routiers from Brabant and agreed to pay them more than either King Louis or the earl of Leicester in England, who were both openly competing for their services.
The hated Flemings who, unlike knights, had no scruples about massacre, pillage, or desecration were to be set loose in England and on the Continent! Suddenly sick to her stomach, she could not go on reading.
It was a warm afternoon, the surrounding countryside drowsing peacefully under a brilliant blue sky, the far-off hills a dark-green blur against the horizon. From inside the Maubergeonne Tower came the strains of a lute, and the courtyard was filled with the normal comings and goings of courtiers, troubadours, servitors, clerks, and prelates. With the exception of the courts of love, which had moved far to the south, everything in Poitiers seemed as usual. It was impossible to believe that she was in any danger. When Eleanor started to read Peter’s letter again, her heart thudded wildly. Worse and worse.
“What does it say, Maman? Why are you in danger?” Joanna pulled at her tunic. “Read it to me.”
“Shh. Let me see . . . ‘The count of Flanders has lost his brother, the count of Boulogne, who died as a result of a battle wound.’” Sweet Marie! She crossed herself. “‘Count Philip has retired to Flanders with his army and fights no more this year.’” Eleanor felt as if she were going to suffocate. Flanders was essential to France. And to her! Without Count Philip’s help . . . “‘King Henry,’” she continued in a trembling voice, “‘has retaken Vernueil. At Dol in Brittany, where the earl of Chester had joined your son, Count Geoffrey, the castle was besieged by King Henry. Unprepared, Chester surrendered almost at once. Brittany is now under your husband’s command once more. King Louis has retreated to Paris in defeat and it is rumored he will ask for a truce.’” Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face as she read on. “‘I beg you, Madam, to leave immediately for Paris, as the dreaded routiers are already on their way to Tours and will soon be in Poitou. I fear King Henry now suspects you of grave complicity in this business.’”
“What does it mean, Maman?”
“Go inside, poppet, and I will explain later.”
She sank down on a stone bench and reread twice what Peter had written, unable to believe the evidence of her own eyes. That Henry should have rallied so quickly was beyond her comprehension. That she had underestimated him, although William had tried to warn her, made her feel like a fool. As for that craven Louis of France, she should have known better than to trust that fearful monarch when it came to military ventures! But to ask for a truce because of a few setbacks . . . Suddenly, the peril she was in hit her with the force of a lightning bolt. Peter was right. She must leave Poitou right away—which meant within a fortnight at the earliest. It would take at least that long to prepare herself and her charges, to arrange her affairs in Poitiers, and to leave some semblance of a governing body behind her.
During the next two weeks, Eleanor made frantic preparations for her journey. Reports reached her daily that the Brabantines were moving in a southerly direction. Terrorized refugees, seeking safety behind Poitou’s walls, recounted tales of horror: In Touraine and Northern Poitou castles had been captured, walls razed, vineyards burned, and crops uprooted. Those who resisted were killed outright or thrown into local dungeons and either raped or tortured. Beside herself with worry, she did not see how she could bring herself to abandon her duchy to the fury of her husband’s barbarians.
On the morning of September 21, the Feast of Saint Matthew, she had an unexpected visitor. Henry’s half sister, Emma of Anjou, who had been staying with the countess of Narbonne, had heard that routiers and troops were on their way south. Greatly alarmed, she immediately left for Poitiers to offer her assistance. Eleanor wept when she saw her and hugged her so hard she gasped for breath.
“You should have been gone long since, madam. Why do you delay?” Emma asked. “I fear you may have left it too late as it is.”
Eleanor arched her neck and shoulders. She had barely slept for days and her whole body ached. “I know. Within the sennight I should be ready. It is the preparations for the French sisters, Constance, and my daughter that have delayed me.”
She was in the chamber that Joanna shared with Constance and Alais, supervising the packing of boxes and saddlebags. Gowns, headdresses, cloaks, and stockings were strewn about the beds and on the floor. Ivory boxes with jeweled rings, bracelets, and brooches spilling out of the covered oaken chests.
“Madam, if I may make a suggestion?” Alais, on her knees on the floor sorting out shoes, looked up at Eleanor. “If you were to leave us here—Marguerite, Joanna, Constance, and myself, that is—your flight to my father’s court would be easier, wouldn’t it, Mistress Emma?”
“Poppet, I wouldn’t dream of leaving any of you behind—” Eleanor began.
“Alais is right,” interrupted Emma. “You could be gone that much sooner, traveling with only a few attendants. I will remain here to look after the girls.”
Eleanor was tempted to protest but knew that she could not afford to risk any other course of action. With Emma of Anjou at the Maubergeonne Tower, and the castellan to keep an eye on Poitiers—he might be Henry’s man, but he was also a Poitevin and would protect the city with his life if need be—Eleanor realized she could make her escape within a few days. She hated to desert her duchy as much as she hated seeking protection from her ex-husband, Louis, but as virtually all her allies were already in Paris what choice did she have?
“In truth, you could be ready very soon, Madam,” said Emma. “Under no circumstances must you—that is to say—I believe you understand my concern.”
Only too well. What Emma had no need to say was that under no circumstance must the duchess of Aquitaine, a prime instigator of the insurrection, fall into the hands of her husband.