ELEANOR OPENED HER EYES with a start. Gradually her surroundings took on a familiar shape and with a sense of despair she recognized the large chamber in the south wing of Salisbury: her prison for the past thirteen months. There was a rustling sound and she turned her head to see her attendant, Amaria, shaking out clothes for the dawn Mass. Wisps of barley-colored hair had escaped from her wimple, and her plump face was red from her exertions.
“The bells will ring for prime any moment, madam.”
Eleanor’s gaze lingered affectionately on the young woman from Bordeaux who had served her for several years in Poitiers. Never complaining, she was now proving a bulwark in this time of travail and misery.
“If we survive this—this ordeal, I will find a hundred ways to show my gratitude to you,” Eleanor said for the hundredth time as she sat up with a yawn.
Amaria smiled. “Of course we will survive, madam. It cannot be long now. One day soon the gates of this prison will be unlocked and—” She looked expectantly at Eleanor.
“And Richard will ride through on a magnificent black destrier with the young king Harry and Count Geoffrey just behind, and they will carry me to the coast where we will take ship for the Continent and thence back to Poitiers.”
They told each other this tale so often they had it by heart, although the details often varied. Sometimes Bertran de Born was also present; at other times powerful Poitevin lords made an appearance. Even Marie of Champagne played a role in their rescue. But it was always Richard who rode first through the gates of Salisbury. The expectation of rescue kept her spirits alive, and Eleanor was determined to stay alive if for no other reason than to get back at Henry. Only the prospect of vengeance and the unvarying practice of established daily rituals enabled her to get through one more dreary day.
With a sigh she rose and, clad only in her threadbare linen chemise, walked over to the silver basin, resolutely determined to ignore her surroundings, although this was far from easy. The curtains and canopy of the wide bed, once crimson, had faded to an ugly reddish-pink. The fur-lined, moth-eaten coverlet was of a brownish hue, the same color as a dog’s mess, and the worn hangings covering one wall were in dire need of refurbishing. There was a trundle bed for Amaria, two scarred oak chests, several lumpy cushioned stools, and an oak table that had one leg shorter than the rest. Dented charcoal braziers kept the chamber warm—Eleanor was thankful for that, at least—and pewter candleholders, with a large bundle of wax tapers at hand, kept it light. Tarnished silver basins and cracked pewter pitchers completed the other necessities.
“Mustn’t grumble, madam,” Amaria said whenever Eleanor complained, pointing out that the window slits had been enlarged to allow air and sunshine into the chamber, which was clean and reasonably comfortable regardless of its hideous furnishings.
Grudgingly, Eleanor had to admit that efforts had been made to provide her basic needs—even parchment, quills, and an inkwell had been supplied at her request.
“Food is plentiful, madam, if not always to your taste,” Amaria frequently reminded her.
“Is it to anyone’s taste? Anyone civilized, that is? The cuisine in this country has always been atrocious,” she had replied. “Despite my attempts to introduce southern recipes.”
And, like almost everything else she had attempted to improve in England, this too had failed. Henry’s foreign queen meddling with the good old customs that had served the land since time out of mind. She remembered a scene from—oh, it must be well over ten years ago, when she and Henry had been staying at Winchester.
“We don’t need none of that outlandish French food over here, madam,” one outraged chef at Winchester Castle had told her when she tried to persuade him to attempt something new.
“This is not a French recipe, but Provençal, quite different I assure you,” Eleanor had replied.
“Begging your pardon, madam,” the chef had sputtered, “but it still be from foreign parts. All the same to me.”
Henry had been amused, but in the end supported the chef’s viewpoint. “Stop complaining about the food, Nell. It’s plain but wholesome.”
“Henry, that poor excuse for a chef told me that he’s been following recipes used in King William Rufus’s reign!”
“What’s wrong with that? My great-uncle had a very discerning palate. If you went back to the time of Ethelred the Unready, now, there was a reign for dreadful food. I think he got the name because the meals were never on time.”
She had started to laugh. “Be serious. I was only trying to explain—”
“In truth, madam, no one wants to hear your explanations. Not about this subject.” They had been sitting in the great hall at the high table and he had reached down to slide his hand under her skirts.
“Henry! This is a public place. What will people think?”
“That I’m trying to take your mind off the food.”
The memory of that minor incident echoed down the years, the pain of loss assailing her with such savagery it was all she could do not to cry out.
“We’ll have to hurry, madam, if we don’t want to miss the service,” Amaria said.
She held the silver basin of water while Eleanor began the first of her daily rituals: she washed her face and neck, then pulled on a blue gown and over that a darker blue tunic with red embroidery on the hem and turned-back cuffs. She knotted a gold belt around her waist, pulled up thick wool stockings and slipped into black leather shoes. Next she sat on one of the stools while Amaria coiled her hair around her ears, threads of silver plainly visible in the chestnut strands, then covered her head with a white wimple and fitted it with a gold coronet. Regardless of circumstance, Eleanor had vowed to keep up appearances. She was still queen of England and duchess of Aquitaine. No one must ever forget it.
When she was first captured by Henry’s forces in October of the year 1173—Sweet Marie, two years ago this month!—and taken to Chinon, she had no idea of what was to come. It was not until she was brusquely ordered to make ready for a long journey, to England in fact, that the horrifying truth finally began to penetrate. Henry intended to send her to a place where the chances of rescue were virtually impossible, and where he could keep her for as long as he pleased. Even then she could not have imagined that two years later she would still be his prisoner.
“What is today?” she asked Amaria.
“The Feast of Saint Luke.”
Only the eighteenth day of October. How slowly time passed, as one monotonous day merged into another like successive gray waves that ebbed and flowed against a barren shore. Amaria handed her the black cloak lined with ermine, still serviceable fortunately, and pinned a gold brooch studded with rubies to one shoulder. Thank the Holy Mother she still had her own clothes and ornaments to wear. A few months after she had arrived in England, an assortment of boxes and roped bundles were carried into her chamber. From Mistress Emma of Anjou, she was told. Ever-resourceful, and unfailingly defiant, her sister-in-law had taken it upon herself to pack up some suitable garments and a few trinkets and ship them to England. Everything had been searched, naturally, but the searchers had missed certain items Emma had carefully stuffed into the toes of shoes and sewn into the lining of her cloak. A pearl and sapphire ring, several brooches, a jeweled cross with a gold chain that had belonged to Eleanor’s grandmother, even a few of her little gold forks, objects valuable enough to be used as bribes. Bless Emma for making an attempt to help her. But Eleanor was well aware that in her circumstances at Salisbury, bribes would be of no use at all. Instead, she wore the ornaments openly, daring someone to challenge her right to wear them. They were never mentioned.
After a long look in the silver mirror, Eleanor told Amaria that she was ready to leave. The tower where she was confined, in the castle part of Salisbury, had two identical rooms placed one above the other, each with a vaulted ceiling. These chambers were connected by a spiral stone staircase constructed in the thickness of the wall. Her chamber was on the top. The room underneath hers was occupied by a detachment of guards who waited at the bottom of the staircase to escort her to the chapel and back again. The guards were frequently changed and Amaria, who was allowed access to the kitchen located in another wing of the castle, told Eleanor that a servitor had intimated that this was done lest the queen try to suborn one of them. She had lived on that tasty tidbit for weeks: that Henry believed his imprisoned wife was still capable of suborning anyone was the finest compliment she could imagine.
The guards accompanied her to the door of a small chapel, also housed in the south wing. Eleanor knelt, watching the priest offer the body of Christ, the host and chalice held high, asking the Lamb of God to take away the sins of mankind. Taking the sacrament, she prayed she would be able to draw on its strength to get through this ordeal. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have envisioned a time when she eagerly looked forward to attending Mass. But as her meals were taken in solitary isolation in her chamber, and the rest of her time was also spent alone, attending Mass and her daily walk in the courtyard of the castle, weather permitting, were the best parts of her day.
When Mass was over, she was escorted back to her chamber and broke her fast with a goblet of brown ale, a crust of freshly baked wheaten bread, and a bowl of warm milk. It was a fair morning, and she looked forward to her walk in the courtyard. Back down the staircase, where the silent guards waited. They never spoke to her even when she greeted them. No one ever spoke to her but Amaria, her confessor, and her official jailer, Ranulf de Glanville, the king’s sheriff. One day about three months earlier, she had stumbled on the narrow staircase and slid down the stairs. She was not hurt but her skirts had racked up around her knees and one of the waiting guards had snickered, making a crude remark. When she got to her feet and dusted herself off, she had walked up to the offending guard and slapped him across the face with all her strength.
“How dare you, knave, how dare you laugh at the queen of England, the duchess of Aquitaine and Normandy, and the countess of Anjou and Maine? I may not always be in such straitened circumstances as you find me now, and I have a long memory.”
The guard looked stunned. The captain of the detachment had apologized profusely, and the guard was immediately removed. In truth, the incident had done much to restore her sense of dignity, and she fancied that the guards stood up a little straighter, marched with more precision, and generally behaved with particular correctness in her presence.
Outside it was cool, the tang of autumn sharp in the air, with crisp blue skies and a spindrift of white cloud. Eleanor walked the length of the courtyard and turned back. From this vantage point the castle was more visible. Set in the middle of the windswept Salisbury Plain, the initial structure had been constructed by the Romans, added to by the Saxons and Normans, then rebuilt during the last reign. Often referred to as Old Sarum, this odd cathedral growing out of a palace now resembled a mongrel assemblage of towers, turrets, buttresses, and spires. She had never liked the place on the rare occasions she had come with Henry.
Amaria beside her, Eleanor paced the courtyard for about an hour, then retired to her chamber. Yet again there was an unfailing routine. She either sewed on a large square of tapestry depicting the Wedding at Cana, worked in bold green and blue and scarlet threads, or wrote letters. Since all correspondence would be carefully read before being sent on, she wrote only to Emma of Anjou and her married daughters, Marie, Alix, and Matilda, and little Eleanor. Harmless missives that no one would object to, but they kept her in touch with the great world outside her prison. A world she missed so terribly it felt like an open wound. She had been forbidden to communicate with her sons, or with any of her previous associates such as Ralph de Faye or her vassals in Aquitaine. Recently, she had written a letter to Hildegard, abbess of Eibingen at Rupertsberg in Germany. The abbess had sent her a missive when she first married Henry, and Eleanor had appreciated her advice. She wondered what the wise and saintly Hildegard would have to say now.
After a long and dreary afternoon, Eleanor attended vespers, ate a solitary supper, read a little, then retired to bed. The days were long; the nights longer; the pattern unvarying. When she had been at Salisbury only a few months, Eleanor told her confessor, Father Matthew, that she felt her mind was slipping away.
“What do you mean, my child?” Father Matthew, an English priest who had spent many years at the Cistercian monastery of Clairvaux, was an upright man of middle years with a pale red tonsure and sharp blue eyes. Fluent in Latin and French, he could also speak English in the dialect of his native Norfolk.
“I am used to exercising my wits, as well as my body. I ran a huge duchy, had my mind occupied every moment of every day, and now—and now—”
To her horror, she broke into gasping sobs. Her whole body heaved and she could not recapture control, try as she would. To reveal to her jailers—and to Eleanor they were all her jailers—any demonstration of emotion was a sign of weakness. Mortified at this display, she finally dried her eyes.
“You must ask God to help you in your hour of need, my child. Let us pray together. Heavenly Father—”
“That is your answer for everything, isn’t it?” she had interjected in a scornful voice. “Do you really think God cares that I am imprisoned here?”
“‘His eye is on the sparrow—’”
“Spare me quotes from Scripture, Father.”
When he hastily left the chamber, she was not surprised. The typical ecclesiastic reaction to any female show of unseemly emotion was a hasty retreat. But the next day, quite unexpectedly, a silent monk from the cathedral’s scriptorium had knocked on her chamber door with four books and a note on parchment from Father Matthew. Eleanor read it aloud, translating the Latin for Amaria.
“Contrary to what you may believe, it is not God’s intent (nor mine) that even the most sinful and wayward of His children should lose their wits. Treat these with the love and care they merit.”
She was nonplused. “Look what that odd priest has sent me.”
She read aloud the titles of the bound manuscripts: “Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, History of the English People, by Bede. Cato’s Distichs or Aphorisms, and Abelard’s Historia Calamitatum, a History of My Calamities. Also a copy of Holy Writ, of course.” She looked up at Amaria in amazement. “I mentioned to Father Matthew that I had heard Peter Abelard lecture in Paris. To think he remembered.”
Suddenly Eleanor began to laugh, laughter that was dangerously close to tears. “Bless him, Amaria, I believe that he may have saved me from going mad.”
When she had finished these manuscripts, others arrived. Father Matthew never mentioned them, so neither did she. Apart from this act of kindness, she found him difficult to talk to. Compared to the worldly-wise and good-natured bishop of Poitou, an expansive Benedictine who shared her views and was easy to communicate with, Father Matthew was narrow in his outlook, severe in his judgments, and without a shred of empathy for her plight. He seemed unable to understand what it felt like to be shorn of power, disgraced in the eyes of her peers, and helpless to retaliate.
“I find it extremely difficult to bear the sense of failure,” Eleanor had said, the last time they had talked together.
“Do you refer to your failure to destroy your husband’s empire?” Father Matthew was profoundly shocked.
“I failed my sons, my subjects, all those who depended upon me. King Henry was behaving like a tyrant. To me, to his sons, and to his own vassals. Naturally, I fought back. I feel no remorse or regret for trying to redress the wrongs Henry inflicted. Why should I?” A picture of the blood-soaked village in Touraine came to mind. “Except for those innocents who suffered needlessly.” She crossed herself. “My husband is the one who should feel remorse, and if there is any justice in heaven, he will not go unpunished. ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap.’”
“The devil is adept at quoting Scripture, madam.” Father Matthew compressed his lips in disapproval. “Please to remember that it is your sowing and reaping that concerns us here. In truth, your spiritual intransigence greatly alarms me.”
She had barely refrained from a withering retort, and on that sour note he had taken his leave.
On the afternoon following the Feast of Saint Luke, Eleanor was reading aloud to Amaria from Abelard’s commentaries on the opening of Genesis. Her servant was snoring; the bells had just rung for nones when the door opened and the sheriff, Ranulf de Glanville, walked in.
“Please come with me, madam,” he said in a grave voice.
A large raw-boned man with a freckled face and unruly flame-colored hair, Ranulf was of common stock and, like Thomas Becket before him, had risen through the ranks to become one of Henry’s most trusted advisors.
Eleanor, her heart thudding, laid her book aside and rose to her feet. “Come with you where?”
“You are not in a position to ask questions, madam, but to obey.” He looked at Amaria, now wide-awake. “Your services will not be required.”
“I demand to know where you are taking me.”
“Must I call in the guards to escort you?”
Suppressing her anger, Eleanor bit her lip. “That won’t be necessary. But Amaria here will bear witness against you if I do not return.”
Obviously offended, Ranulf drew himself up. “As God is my witness, madam, I am an honorable man, not an assassin! For shame.”
“A pretty speech, my lord, but I trust no one these days, especially if they serve Henry Plantagenet.”
Covering herself with a cloak Eleanor followed the sheriff down the staircase, out the door, and across a courtyard that was bleak and windswept. Accompanied by two guards, Ranulf led her into another wing, up a curving flight of stairs, then into a large chamber. Warmed by braziers and rich with the scent of incense, the room was appointed with heavy crimson hangings, ornate silver candelabra, and a jeweled crucifix hanging on one wall. In the soft glow of ivory-colored tapers, Henry was standing beside an elmwood table.
It was Eleanor’s first sight of him in almost two years and, unprepared, her whole body began to tremble. His face was rigid, his eyes like flint, and although he made no movement, she had the sense of coiled muscles ready to spring. Afraid she would do the unforgivable by breaking into sobs as she had with Father Matthew, Eleanor compressed her lips tightly together and tore her gaze away from Henry. To her surprise, another person was present, a cardinal clad in heavy scarlet robes. Secretive eyes observed her from a narrow dark Italian face.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, Henry, who did not look directly at her, folded his arms across his chest. “I have brought you here for a purpose, madam, but before I get to that, there is something you should hear first. Your plots and schemes to usurp my sovereignty are treason under English law—”
“I am an Aquitainian and not subject to English law.” Thank the Holy Mother she had found the strength to speak.
“In your capacity as queen of England you are subject to English law. By rights you should pay the full penalty of that law and be beheaded for treason. Only my leniency has saved you. Bear that in mind at all times.”
“I hardly call imprisoning your wife lenient. Furthermore, a charge of treason would have to be proved unless you would condemn me without trial.” She cursed the tremor in her voice.
“I have all the proof I need, but that is beside the point. Now listen carefully to what I have to say.”
He shifted his stance, and the candle glow fell upon his face. “Because I am merciful, you will be given a choice, an opportunity to escape from your prison.”
Unable to prevent it her body surged forward and a cry escaped from her throat. A grim smile of satisfaction played about Henry’s lips and she knew she had given him a weapon: her desperation revealed. Inwardly berating herself, Eleanor vowed that whatever his offer, she must not give way to emotion but give herself time to consider all the consequences.
The Italian cardinal, who appeared bored, made an offhand remark to Henry in Latin, reminding the king that he was a papal emissary and was reluctant to become involved with this domestic squabble, which had nothing to do with his purpose in coming to England.
“As the duchess’s Latin is at least as good as mine, you may as well speak Norman French, Your Eminence, so that my sheriff, de Glanville, can follow our conversation.”
The cardinal arched his brows in evident surprise, but Eleanor had the impression that he looked at her with slightly more interest.
“His Reverence, Cardinal Pierleoni, is in England quite by chance,” Henry explained, still not looking at her, “having been sent by Rome to settle a dispute between the Sees of York and Canterbury. I asked him to attend me.”
Thumbs tucked into his belt, a scowl upon his face, he began to pace the chamber. “This is what I propose: our marriage must be dissolved and you will make no difficulty over its dissolution. As you know only too well, we are related in the forbidden degree and never received papal dispensation before the wedding. Thus our union can be easily annulled. You will forfeit all your noble titles, including that of duchess of Aquitaine.”
Eleanor’s head jerked back, his words hitting her with the force of a heavy blow. After a moment she rallied, praying she would not show the extent of her shock and pain. “And what am I offered for making ‘no difficulty’ in the face of this—this outrageous proposal?”
Henry paused and Eleanor had the impression that he had been anticipating a more violent response. After a moment he continued, “The opportunity to relinquish all worldly pursuits and retreat into an honorable establishment like Fontevrault, an abbey you and your family have supported over the years.” He rocked back on the heels of his sable boots. “Furthermore, as additional evidence of my generosity, you will not have to retire there as a simple nun. No indeed, I will make you abbess of Fontevrault as befits your rank.”
This was so totally unexpected that Eleanor felt her throat constrict. Holy Mother, so he really did intend to cast her off as wife and queen. In her darkest moments she had never imagined such a grim future. Unable to move a single muscle, she let the waves of anguish break over her. Draw your sword, she longed to cry. Pierce me through. I have little reason to go on living.
And yet—to be at liberty again. To come and go as she chose. The offer was tempting, Sweet Marie, how tempting. If there was to be life without Henry, better to live that life in relative freedom. She had always loved Fontevrault. To be close to her beloved Aquitaine once more . . . Tears blurred her eyes and she could not speak.
“Have you nothing to say? I did not think to find you short of words, madam.”
Eleanor fought to regain her composure. After a moment she cleared her throat. “Suppose I were to agree to most of what you wish, but in return you allowed me to go back to Aquitaine as duchess, with Richard to succeed me, and my promise to live quietly for the rest of my days?”
“God’s eyes! Live quietly? You? Can a lioness promise never to show her claws?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Granted, you have come uncomfortably close, but you have not yet driven me totally from my wits.”
He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed. Striding around the table, he came closer to where she was standing, and poured wine from a silver pitcher into a jeweled goblet. Eleanor noted in astonishment that his hands were shaking. She also noted that the Italian cardinal was now following their exchange with more attentiveness.
“My lord, may I speak to you alone?” she asked suddenly.
“No, you may not. You have heard my offer. What is your answer?”
Was it her imagination or did she detect a faint undertone of—she was not sure—was it uncertainty in Henry’s voice? And he still would not meet her eyes. “Give me time to consider, please. This has come upon me too suddenly—” Eleanor put a hand to her head. “I must confess I am overwhelmed by the shock.”
“You have until vespers tomorrow.”
Later, she wondered how matters would have fallen out if at that moment Cardinal Pierleoni had not spoken again in Latin. This time he asked Henry how, regardless of consanguinity, he could ever consider replacing his queen, a woman of noble birth and lineage, the mother of his children, after all, with an English nobody. Rome was going to be outraged at such a request.
“Enough!” Henry shouted, looking as if he would strangle the prelate then and there. He pounded his fist on the table. “Blood of Christ, I told you, she understands Latin!”
The cardinal put a hand to his mouth. “Scusi.”
Eleanor took a step forward. “Replace me as queen with whom?” She looked from the cardinal to Henry in growing disbelief.
“The cardinal is confused; he does not know what he is saying.” Henry’s voice rose as his color deepened.
“You cannot mean to marry that flaxen-haired ewe?” The notion was so preposterous, she started to laugh. “Rosamund de Clifford, queen of England? It is not possible.”
“Once you are shut away in your abbey, what I do or don’t do will no longer concern you,” Henry roared. His face, set in a familiar expression of stubborn defiance, grew even redder.
Shut away in her abbey? Obviously he saw this as a foregone conclusion, certain she would capitulate to his demands and agree to anything to escape from her prison. Without warning, Eleanor felt as though an inner cage had just shattered. A crimson mist swam before her eyes and she sprang toward him, her hands clenched into fists, and began to hit Henry in the face and chest over and over again with all the force she could muster. The fists turned to claws and she raked her nails across his face until she drew blood. When he lifted up his hands to defend himself, she sank her teeth into a fleshy palm. He gave a sudden cry of pain. She was almost on top of him, so close she could see the look in his eyes and feel the familiar warmth of his body. Ranulf shouted to the guards, who dragged her away with such force that she almost fell. They pinioned her arms behind her back and held her while her breath came in labored gasps, her wimple fell askew, and she could feel the sweat forming under her arms.
She heard Cardinal Pierleoni say in flawless Norman French, “May God protect her, has the queen gone mad?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, Your Reverence!” Henry’s voice was unsteady and he held his injured palm away from his body. “A madwoman, indeed! A Fury, a harpy!” He turned to Ranulf. “When you bring her tomorrow see that she is restrained.” Henry dabbed away at his face, which was streaked with blood. “Tomorrow, madam, is your last bid for freedom. If you refuse, rest assured you will be kept locked up, and I will throw away the key. You will die in your prison, I promise you. Take her out of my sight.”
Eleanor, her rage giving way to a sense of satisfaction, was docile as the guards took her out of the chamber. She glanced at the cardinal and caught just the faintest suspicion of a smile on the thin lips. Or perhaps she only imagined it? Elated, for not only had she actively fought back for the first time since her capture, she had also become aware of something that was like balm to her bruised heart. When she struck out at Henry, she had been close enough to smell the familiar odor of wine, leather, and wood smoke. At that moment, looking into the depths of his irate gray eyes, she saw, quite unexpectedly, that he still cared. Behind the fury, the desire to punish her, he was as wounded as she was. It was—it was—there were no words to describe the vastness of her relief.
Now she understood why Henry had avoided her gaze and refused to see her alone. He did not trust himself. Oh, undoubtedly he still believed he wanted to cast her aside and make Rosamund his queen, but . . . Of course! Now she understood as well the slight smile on the cardinal’s face. His repeated use of Latin had been a deliberate attempt to reveal subtly what he could not say openly without offending the king of England. He wanted her to be aware of Henry’s intention, and make her decision based on that knowledge. Rome, who never liked to grant annulments, especially one that would rock all of Christendom, was her ally in this matter.
Outside, darkness had fallen. A sliver of moon rose above the spires of the cathedral, and pinpricks of light appeared in the shadowed sky. Eleanor felt like spinning across the courtyard and up, up, up into the heavens to dance amidst the stars.
The next day when Eleanor gave Henry her decision and refused the convent, his eyes blazed with such demonic fury that she thought he might kill her.
The last she saw of Henry he was mouthing garbled phrases, his body thrashing uncontrollably in a seizure, his eyes almost popping out of his head. Eleanor knew, with a terrible sense of doom, that she had condemned herself to years of further imprisonment. How many years? She no longer had the courage to even think of the future. But if she were to remain a prisoner, it could be borne now—if just barely.
Because Henry had not condemned her to such a fate. The choice was hers.