AFTER A FORTNIGHT OF intermittent rain that had forced him to stay indoors, Henry rode from Beaumont Castle to hunt the red deer in a stretch of nearby woods. It was a brisk morning in mid-April and he felt as if he had just been let out of a dungeon cell. Clad in a sleeveless calf-hide jerkin, bow stave slung across one shoulder, a quiver of newly fletched arrows strapped around his waist, he wanted to sing at the top of his voice. What a blessed relief to see hoarfrost thawing on the trees, their glittering branches coming into green bud, to breathe air as sharp as a goblet of cold Gascon wine instead of choking in smoke-filled halls and damp chambers.
For a sennight he had been in an evil temper, having received an alarming report from Aquitaine. Richard, who was supposed to be quieting tensions in the duchy, was, in fact, making matters worse. With only a minimal attempt at diplomacy, his son was now fighting a bloody campaign against those very same rebels who had earlier supported him and his mother. In the face of increasing ill will against him, Richard was now demanding men and arms from his father. The Poitevin nobles were once again clamoring for the return of their duchess.
“I think we must remember that Richard is now fighting under your banner, Your Grace,” Ranulf de Glanville had pointed out. “Surely we can allow him a long lead.”
“I have seen evidence of his savagery in Poitiers when he was fighting against me and with the very nobles he now opposes,” Henry had replied. “To do this in his mother’s name is one thing, but he will not behave like a butcher under my auspices. I urged restraint when he was briefly in England last December, and he has ignored me. Recall him to England.”
“Considering how difficult he can be, let us ensure he remains loyal,” John the marshal had said. “If he is recalled with a reprimand—”
“It need not be a reprimand,” de Glanville had interjected. “Recall Richard on the grounds you wish to formally set a date for the wedding between himself and the French princess.”
“Oh, very well,” Henry had grumbled. Why should he have to tiptoe around his own son who was only ruling in Aquitaine on his sufferance?
On the other hand, he had been wondering what to do about Alais. As if he did not have enough to deal with, God had sent yet another plague of locusts to try him in the form of Alais of France. Her image lingered in his mind: the glowing dark eyes gazing up at him, the pressure of her warm yielding body, the hollow in her neck where he had kissed her; her gasp of pleasure as his hands stroked her firm, silky flesh. He must have been mad to commit such a folly. Far safer to put his hands in a bed of live coals.
The sound of a horn brought him into the present moment. The head huntsman of Oxford Castle, who was leading the procession, blew three notes on his ivory horn to alert the trackers that the hunting party was now entering the forest itself. Henry slowed his mount as the party followed him down a well-worn game trail. As the trees closed around them, Henry’s thoughts turned from Richard and Alais to Rosamund. Their prolonged estrangement had only added to his foul mood. He had seen her but once since her unseemly outburst at Woodstock the previous November, and had again told her she could not enter Godstow. The brief visit had gone badly and now he did not feel it was his place to make amends. After all, what felony had he committed except offer her the opportunity to be queen? And what thanks had he gotten? Predictions about his children’s future illegitimacy and concern for her immortal soul. God’s eyes! With the exception of allowing her to enter Godstow, he had spent ten years trying to please her. His thornless rose had even had the gall to remind him that he had not really solved the problem of Eleanor. As though he needed reminding! Despite his threats and embassies to Rome, Henry knew he could not force Eleanor into a convent. Cardinal Pierleoni had been back at the Holy See for at least four months and there was no word from His Holiness. Henry knew full well that Rome could drag matters out for years when it wanted to avoid making a decision.
Ahead, he could see trackers examining the ground, and he pulled his horse to a stop. Behind him the procession of riders also came to a halt.
“Fresh slots made recently, Your Grace,” the chief huntsman called out. “By your leave, we will release the brachets.”
Henry signaled his consent then watched the fewterers let loose the small tan hounds used for following the scent of game. All around him riders controlled prancing horses and looked toward him in expectation. Gripped suddenly by the excitement of the hunt, he cracked his whip and galloped forward, the procession close behind. The baying of the hounds grew fainter as they drove deeper into the forest. Oak tree and ash crowded around him, their branches almost sweeping his face. Nothing could be heard anymore but the sounds of the forest. A short while later the trees grew less thick and sunlight beckoned. Ahead he glimpsed a break in the spinney and the edge of a clearing was upon him before he realized it.
In the center stood an old woman leaning on an elmwood stick with a full-grown gray wolf padding toward her. For a moment Henry could not believe his eyes. It was a rare occurrence to see a wolf in these parts. Neither the old crone nor the animal appeared to be aware of his presence. Henry pulled his horse back from the clearing’s edge so that he was half hidden behind an elder bush. Heart thumping in excitement, he slipped the bow stave from his shoulder, and from the quiver pulled an arrow with a crested shaft. Nocking the arrow, he lifted the bow, flexed, drew the string—God’s eyes! To his amazement, the woman had lowered herself to her knees, and the wolf, limping, Henry now noticed for the first time, lifted its left paw. She clucked aloud and slowly withdrew a long thorn from one of the pads under its paw. Henry found himself easing the string and lowering the bow as the wolf turned and trotted out of the clearing. His eyes knew what they had seen but his mind rejected it.
After a moment he rode into the clearing. “You must be more careful, Old Mother, you might have been attacked and killed.”
“Nay, me lord. Not I.” The old woman looked up at him with a toothless grin, seemingly unsurprised to see him. “Ye might’ve been though, had ye tried to interfere.”
With a sudden sense of unease it came to Henry that he might be talking to Aude, the village witch—midwife, he hastily amended, as if someone eavesdropped on his thoughts—who had saved both John’s and Eleanor’s lives and was also Rosamund’s friend.
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t, then.” Henry forced a smile. “Are you Aude?”
She nodded. His uneasiness increasing by the moment, he found himself staring at her, unable to look away from the beady black eyes regarding him with obvious amusement. Everything became unnaturally still. He could no longer hear the sound of birdsong, the rustle of the leaves, the scurrying of animals, or the sigh of the wind.
His hands shook as he slipped the bow back over his shoulder while he surreptitiously signed himself. “I’ve never properly thanked you for what you did for my—wife and baby son, John,” he said loudly, just to hear the reassuring sound of his own voice. “I also hear of your healing prowess from Rosamund.”
The old woman nodded her head. “The queen, may the Mother protect her, been generous to me. Soften ye heart, milord, for as ye do, so shall ye be done to.”
He gave her a brief nod, rather surprised to hear her quote from Scripture.
“Ye have treated Rosamund well, I’ll say that for ye,” Aude continued. “A good lass. And she do be blessed with the wisecraft, the gift.” She slowly pulled herself to her feet with the help of the elmwood stick.
“The gift of healing, you mean? Yes, I’ve seen her skill with animals.”
“Ye will have cause to be grateful to her. Soon.”
“I already am.” He had a sudden impulse to leave the clearing.
The old woman gave him a long look that seemed to skewer his very soul. “A life for a life, that be the old way.” She hobbled across the green glade until she stood about fifteen feet in front of his horse’s head. “Almost seven year since the last one. It be time again.”
A chill like an icy wind prickled Henry’s scalp. What was this old witch talking about? Whatever it was, he did not want to hear any more of it. In truth, his desire to get away had become overpowering.
“Ye be a fool, Henry o’ England, but ye been a good king to us.” She nodded. “When all be said and done, I reckons ye’ll have left behind a deal more good than harm. Folk’ll have reason to remember ye with gratitude, aye, that they will.” The old woman’s eyes became opaque, deep black pools drawing him in despite his efforts to avoid looking at her. “But in the end naught will save ye from ye own folly.” She lifted her stick and pointed it directly at his heart. “That which ye love will be no more. Ye own blood will turn on ye.”
His own blood? Mad. The old crone must be mad. But the icy chill prickling his scalp increased, filling him with a sense of dread, a terrible foreboding, a far-distant anguish too great to be borne. Hands shaking uncontrollably, Henry bent his head to put his arrow back into the quiver; when he looked up the clearing was empty. Jesu! Muttering a Paternoster under his breath, he spurred his mount forward and cantered wildly out of the clearing, down a narrow track, past a cot hidden in the trees with a large black raven perched on its roof, and onto what he assumed was the Oxford road.
No longer interested in the hunt, feeling as if the hounds of hell were after him, Henry did not slow his speed until he saw the welcome outline of Beaumont Castle looming ahead.
In May, the court moved from Beaumont to Westminster and from London to Woodstock. To Alais’s displeasure, Rosamund was very much in evidence, and after observing her and Henry together, Alais was certain they were no longer estranged. When she questioned John, he confirmed her fears.
“A compromise has been reached. Rosamund will be accepted as a postulant and spend about half her time at Godstow, and eventually enter fully into the life of the abbey.”
“When?”
John shrugged. “Who can say? When it pleases the king.”
Alais was somewhat relieved. Her hopes of replacing Rosamund would have to wait a little longer, that was all. Henry was drawn to her, she had no doubt; whenever their gaze met she felt a shower of sparks explode between them. There had been no repeat of the encounter in his chamber but then there had been no opportunity, either.
Duke Richard and Count Geoffrey were in England, as well as the young king. As far as Alais could tell, on the surface at least, Henry seemed on excellent terms with his sons. He announced that Count Geoffrey was starting to play a larger part in the administration of Brittany and that his son’s government was proving popular and efficient.
“That’s because my brother leaves all the really hard work to a very capable Breton minister,” John whispered maliciously in Alais’s ear. They were seated next to each other at the high table in the great hall of the castle.
Alais did not believe him, as she sensed that, of all Henry’s sons, Count Geoffrey was the most able, if not the most likable.
When Henry also praised Richard—an unusual occurrence—for his efforts in Aquitaine, and promised to send him men and arms, John sniffed contemptuously. “Privately, my father calls Richard a butcher. I feel sorry for the Poitevins.” He paused to give Alais a sideways glance. “I don’t envy you Richard as a husband.”
Alais gave him a careful smile and did not reply. She knew John was baiting her and refused to be drawn into his game. She took a sip of wine, and daintily picked at a fish stew on her trencher. John was all smiles and goodwill to his brothers’ faces, skewing them with a venomous tongue behind their backs.
“Why does the king make no mention of the young king’s exploits?” Alais wondered aloud.
“What exploits?” John wrinkled his nose. “All Harry does is amuse himself with tournaments and hunting.”
Alais, who had listened to Marguerite’s endless complaints about how badly her husband was treated, felt sorry for the young king. Despite the fact that Henry obviously loved his son, indulging him with gifts, he never gave the boy any real duties to perform. Harry made token appearances at official functions, accompanied his father on progresses through England, and engaged in petty clashes on the Scottish Marches. Everyone admired his green-eyed beauty and basked in his sunlit charm. He was considered brave and generous to a fault, but no one took him seriously.
John paused to gnaw at a leg of guinea hen before saying in an offhand manner, “I wonder if my father will next announce the date of your wedding to Richard.”
Alais, who had barely seen Richard since he had arrived, gave John a cool glance.
“I have heard that he may even take you back to Poitou when he leaves. There is some new uprising in the duchy and he will be gone within a few days.”
“My father intends for me to be wed in Paris, so that could not be true.”
Alais was sure it was just John’s usual mischief-making, but she could not take the chance. The next day she became extremely ill with stomach pains and a fever. Henry insisted his own private physician see her and before the man entered the chamber one of Alais’s attendants put a hot cloth over her face. So hot that her face was beet-red when the black-robed physician examined her. He clucked like an old rooster and said she did indeed have a fever, tertian most likely, then prescribed a mild diet of chicken broth, and milk of pulverized almonds, adding that recovery might also depend on the phases of the moon and the position of the constellations. When he had gone, Alais and her attendants burst out laughing. She prudently remained in bed until she heard that Richard had returned to Aquitaine.
“A miraculous recovery,” Henry said solemnly when she made her appearance several days later, having dusted her face with white clay powder in an effort to look sickly. “We must light a candle to the Virgin.”
Alais looked at him suspiciously but he had already turned away. The incident was forgotten and her marriage to Richard was not mentioned. But sooner or later she knew it would be. Her father would not rest until the wedding was an accomplished fact.
In July, to everyone’s surprise, Henry permitted Joanna to see her mother. Eleanor was moved to Winchester, where the two spent a few days together before Joanna left for the coast of Southampton and thence for Sicily. To Alais’s relief, no one suggested that she accompany her. Neither did Alais see Eleanor at Winchester. The queen was kept in seclusion until Joanna was gone; then she was sent back to Old Sarum. Alais had dreaded the possibility of having to confront Eleanor, who, with a single glance, would be able to probe the depths of her guilt-ridden soul.
Alais had heard rumors that Eleanor’s daughters—Marie of Champagne and her sister Alix of Blois; Matilda, duchess of Saxony; and little Eleanor, queen of Castile—had written to Henry, pleading with him to set their mother free. Had Eleanor’s sons done the same? Alais had no idea, but, ashamed of having doubly betrayed Eleanor—not only had she tried to seduce Henry, she had attempted to turn him against Eleanor in Limoges—she was also aware that she would never alter the course she had set for herself. One day, doubtless far off in the future, she would be punished for her wickedness, but by then she would be old, having long repented of her sins. Meanwhile, she was more determined than ever to attract Henry’s attention.
Alais followed the court from Winchester to Oxford to Windsor, but neither time nor events were on her side, as Henry was constantly occupied in the running of his kingdom. Throughout the summer and fall, well into December in fact, Alais did not once see Rosamund de Clifford and persuaded herself that perhaps now, at last, she had gone to Godstow for good. That was why the leman’s appearance at the Christmas court came as such a rude shock. Alais observed Rosamund and Henry laughing together, obviously enjoying each other’s company just as they had in the past. John was not in England, so she could not ask him how matters stood between Henry and the leman, but when she questioned Marguerite on the subject, her sister was of the opinion that it would be a long time before they had seen the last of Rosamund de Clifford.
“I thought the king agreed she could go to Godstow.”
“He did. But Harry wonders if it will ever happen.”
Alais felt sick to her belly.
After a fortnight of snow and ice, the weather thawed, and in early January 1177, Alais attended the Feast of the Epiphany. Usually this was a day of merriment, with a bean hidden in the twelfth cake and the choosing of a Lord of Misrule, but Henry was not present and the festivities were subdued.
“Where is the king?” she asked her sister.
“He attends an important conference with the bishop of Oxford in Oxford,” Marguerite said, “because of the situation with the local churches.”
“What situation?”
“Harry told me that the churches have been strangely empty for the past two weeks, which is unusual over Christmas, and the villagers are close-mouthed, almost fearful. It is reminiscent, he says, of that dreadful period preceding Thomas Becket’s death.”
“I think it is Saint Thomas now,” Alais said.
Marguerite hastily signed herself. “I keep forgetting. I mean, it is not like he is a real saint. If he hadn’t been martyred . . .”
It was certainly easy to forget that Rome had canonized the late archbishop several years earlier, since no one at Henry’s court felt he deserved it, and even the English prelates had not liked him. Marguerite continued to chatter away and Alais stopped listening.
When the feast was over Alais, bored and disgruntled, walked out into the courtyard and for lack of anything better to do strolled alone in the park. It was still cold but at least bearable on this afternoon, and she pushed back the hood of her black cloak, and lifted her face to the pale rays of winter sunlight. She had hoped that getting out of the castle would lift her morose spirits, but there seemed to be no escaping them. If only that wretched simpering de Clifford creature were out of the way, she felt sure Henry would turn to her. Once that occurred, well, anything was possible. But it was taking too long, much too long, and she could not contain her impatience. If she were ordered to leave for France to marry Richard, she would have no choice but to obey. Only Henry could prevent that from happening, and as matters stood, he had no reason to stop her. Perhaps, in truth, despite all evidence to the contrary, Rosamund was in no hurry to join the convent. The thoughts went around and around in Alais’s head like a hound chasing its own tail.
“Careful, mistress.”
Alais stopped in her tracks. Lost in her own thoughts she had walked into a section of the park where several verderers were burning a pile of something that smelled like spoiled roast meat.
“What are you burning?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Hares, mistress.” One of the foresters pointed to a pile of dead hares.
There looked to be about six or seven of them. Some with tiny beads of ice clinging to their fur. The verderer picked one up by its legs and threw it into the fire while another stirred the embers with a long stick.
“They look as if they have been frozen to death.”
“We thinks that too when we finds them in the woods, just like ye see them now. But this lot eat the deadly nightshade, we reckon. Two o’ the hounds got hold of one and ate it. Poor creatures be dead within hours, otherwise we never know how the hares die. Some poacher find these and thinking they dead o’ frost might roast them and die o’ the poison too. Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” He turned to the other verderer. “So we decides to burn them.”
“Deadly nightshade?” Alais gave him an inquiring look.
“Aye. English nightshade as some calls it, or banewort. Ye sees the purple-black berries growing in the woods. In summer the flower be a pale purple-blue. But berries, leaves, and root all be deadly. Every so often hares eats it when they can’t find nothing else, and this be the result.”
Alais scrutinized the hares, then turned one over with her foot. “To look at them you wouldn’t know they had died of this English nightshade, would you?”
“Well, that be the problem, Mistress. They looks no different.”
“Where is the nightshade?”
“Growing in a patch of woods t’ other side o’ the park, but no needs to worry as we burn all we seen. Any more hounds die, king make us eat it, eh?”
The men chuckled and turned back to the fire. With no thought of what she was doing—her hands seemed to have a will of their own—Alais grabbed an especially plump hare by the legs and hid it in the folds of her cloak.
“I must go.” She smiled. The men bowed their heads and continued poking at the fire.
Her heart thumping like a drumbeat, Alais walked quickly away in the direction of the stables, skirted the courtyard, and then continued across the park from the other side of Woodstock castle. The furry legs of the hare were still clutched tightly in one hand. She had been walking for at least a quarter of an hour, not thinking about where she was going, when she saw she had entered the stretch of woods referred to as Everswell. Her gaze fell on a gnarled oak tree and, startled, she stopped. There was a red smear on the trunk—no, two smears. One looked like honey, the other—dried blood. The sight gave her a squeamish feeling in her belly, and Alais averted her head as she quickened her pace. Through the bare-branched trees she could see a clearing, a low stone wall, and the cottage that Henry had given to Rosamund de Clifford. There was no sign of smoke coming from the rough chimney. As cold it was today, a fire would surely be lit if anyone were at home. The leman was undoubtedly at Godstow.
Alais walked slowly up to the door and knocked. As she expected, there was no answer. The hare clutched in her hand, she hesitated, then turned sharply, startled by the sound of hoof beats approaching from the opposite side of the clearing. Once again, as if possessing a will of their own, her fingers opened to drop the hare on a flat stone beside the door. Throat dry, Alais backed away from the cot and began to run through the trees following the path she had taken earlier. Her heart felt as if it were bursting and, despite the cold, she could feel the sweat pouring from her body. Blood pounding in her ears, Alais raced headlong across the park. There was a sudden croaking sound and, glancing up, she saw a black raven in the air. The bird, wings outstretched, was flying just above her, dangerously close. Alais screamed, instinctively held up her arms to protect herself, stumbled over a bush, and almost fell. When she looked again, the bird had vanished.
By the time she reached the castle courtyard, she could barely see and her breath was so labored she felt she would drop to the ground. It was only then she realized her face was drenched in tears.
Rosamund was feeling calm and contented when she rode into the clearing. She put the gray palfrey in her stall with a bucket of hay and walked across the frozen ground. The first thing she saw was a dead hare lying beside the door. She picked it up and glanced around the clearing but there was no sign of anyone. Who could have left it for her? Yesterday she had seen the smears of blood and honey on the oak tree, and now this. For a moment she felt uneasy, but the feeling was gone almost immediately. After all, even if it was the time of the Winter Solstice, when the old year died and the new began, it no longer had any pagan significance for her. She had not seen Aude for more than two years and almost never thought about Gwennyth anymore. Her future lay with the sisters.
She let herself into the cot and laid the hare on the table. Humming a fragment of a song she had heard that morning at Godstow, Rosamund smiled to herself as she spoke her thought aloud. “My future lies with the sisters.” She could hear the firm note of resolution in her voice, and her heart surged in gratitude.
This newfound resolution had been born when she told Henry she would never become his wife. Since then it had never left her, thank the Holy Mother, and everything had changed. Despite Henry’s obvious displeasure with her, she had held her ground, determined to enter Godstow. In the end, much to her amazement, Henry had reluctantly agreed. Not right away, he cautioned, but eventually. Their estrangement had eased and now she spent half her time at Godstow and half at Everswell.
Earlier that day at Godstow Rosamund had had a most uplifting experience: Reverend Mother had received a visitor, a priest who had just returned to Oxford from the Abbey of Eibingen in Germany, where he had been privileged to meet with Abbess Hildegard. Rosamund was familiar with the abbess’s skills at healing, but the priest had talked to the nuns of this remarkable nun’s spiritual and musical gifts. Rosamund was entranced by Hildegard’s description of the Virgin Mary as the viridissima virga, a branch “full of the greening power of springtime.” The priest had even sung to them in a quavering voice, one of Hildegard’s songs to Mary: “You glowing, most green verdant sprout, you bring lush greenness once more . . .” The beautiful words still echoed in Rosamund’s ears.
After removing her cloak, she lit a fire in the hearth and held her chilled hands to the blaze. There was very little in the cot to eat and she decided to roast the hare over the fire and have it with the remains of a lentil stew. She picked up her bone-handled knife in one hand and the hare in the other, wondering idly how it might have died, since there were no signs of a trap or marks of an arrow. It could have been felled with a stone, perhaps, as the local poachers were expert with slingshots and the like. Or frozen to death then thawed as the weather grew less chill.
Someone must have left it as a gift, she decided. It was not uncommon for villagers whose animals she had healed to leave tokens of their appreciation—sheep’s cheese, a basket of eggs, chickens plucked and ready for the spit—on her doorstep. People were so kind. As Rosamund set to her task, she began to sing aloud Hildegard’s song to the Virgin.