WHEN THE BELLS RANG for nones, Eleanor shut Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy and, leaning back in the wooden armchair, closed her eyes. She had no desire to attend the afternoon service and, although it was an excuse to leave her chamber, it was not one she really needed. Many of the initial strictures of her confinement had eased and her confessor was constantly reminding her that she owed this to God, who in His infinite mercy had softened her husband’s heart. Father Matthew would no doubt rebuke her for not attending the service, but she did not care. If she had cause to be thankful, it was due to her daughters Matilda, Little Eleanor, and Joanna pleading with Henry rather than divine intervention.
During those three precious days with Joanna the previous July, she had been brought up to date on recent events, including the fact that many nobles in Aquitaine, Poitou, and even France, had written to Henry, begging him to show mercy and leniency. She had shed tears of gratitude that she was neither abandoned nor forgotten.
She rose and stretched and poured herself a goblet of wine from a silver pitcher. On the written advice of Abbess Hildegard of Bingen, who had answered her letter last year, her wine was boiled with wild lavender flowers and Eleanor sipped it throughout the day. It would do wonders for her liver, wrote the abbess, alleviate depression, and promote a clear understanding. Hyssop was another of the abbess’s recommendations and the spice was regularly added to Eleanor’s food. Hildegard had also made some wise observations on the black bile that produces anger. “Anger is personified as a naked being stuck in the spokes of a mill wheel,” she had written. “If the black bile is not neutralized, the anger in a person will speak: ‘I crush and destroy everything that is in my way. . . .’”
The image and the words left a searing impression, and Eleanor had the uncomfortable feeling that the abbess had looked into the very depths of her soul. On the other hand, Eleanor did not have the sense she was being judged or condemned. Merely understood. For this she was grateful. In truth, she admitted to herself, she had much to be grateful for. A glance around the chamber was proof of that. The hideous curtains and canopy of the bed had been replaced with a soft blue. There was a new embroidered coverlet and hangings, refurbished stools, a wooden chair with arms, and the lopsided table had been replaced with a new one of polished oak.
At Christmas she and Amaria had received two cloaks of scarlet, two capes of the same color, and two gray furs, sent from Westminster “by the king’s writ,” although no note accompanied these gifts. Not that she was looking for a personal message, Eleanor told herself, swallowing her disappointment. For the first time since her arrival at Salisbury, she had been permitted to hear Christmas Mass in the cathedral itself. It had been unexpectedly moving: the choir singing, the smell of the incense rising like blue smoke into the vaulted ceiling, the candlelight from hundreds of wax tapers glittering on the rich vestments of the bishop of Salisbury. At the end, when a cherubic youth carried the processional cross with the choristers chanting, “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion, shout for joy, O daughters of Jerusalem,” she had felt the words oddly appropriate.
And only a sennight ago she had been allowed to ride on Salisbury Plain outside the castle walls. Of course, she was surrounded by guards, but nothing could dampen her joy at this brief taste of freedom. It was a mild day for January, the sun shining out of a cloudless sky, the air full of the scent of clean earth and dry leaves. Eleanor had let her horse have its head, galloping across the plain, feeling her mantle blowing out behind her, her cheeks whipped by the crisp wind. This outing had done wonders for her morale.
A knock on the door distracted her. She opened it and Amaria burst into the chamber carrying two buckets of water.
“You’ll never guess, madam, what has happened.” Her face was pale and her voice taut with excitement. “It do be the most dreadful thing—Rosamund de Clifford is dead!” The maid laid down the buckets so abruptly water splashed over the rims.
Suddenly faint, Eleanor sank back down into her armchair. “Dead? You’re sure?”
“Everyone in the kitchen says so.”
“Well, I cannot pretend to be sorry, but I hope she rests in peace.” Eleanor crossed herself, aware that a heavy weight was lifting from her heart.
Amaria sighed. “Amen to that, madam. I know how much pain that woman caused you, and perhaps she deserves to be punished for her sin of adultery, but no one deserve to be murdered!”
“Murdered?” Eleanor stared at Amaria in disbelief.
“They talk of nothing else in the kitchen. She died so sudden like, they say, her death could not be natural. Poisoned, she was.” Amaria nodded her head. “Would you believe?”
“That is most unlikely. Perhaps she ate tainted food, which can act like poison. Even well water can be contaminated on occasion. Sweet Saint Radegonde, have people naught better to do than spread vicious tales? When did this happen?”
“Sometime last sennight. The news just now reached Salisbury.” Amaria pulled up a stool close to the table. “As I heard it, she died at that abbey in Oxfordshire—”
“At Godstow? Then she can’t have been murdered. It is an outrageous suggestion.”
“King Henry is beside himself with grief, they say. Weeps day and night—” Amaria suddenly stopped.
The words stabbed at Eleanor’s heart like the point of a knife. She knew well enough that Henry loved Rosamund de Clifford, but hearing it reconfirmed was like tearing open an old wound. She rose heavily to her feet and walked across the chamber and then back again to the oak table. She picked up her goblet of wine, then set it down again.
After a moment, trying to keep her voice even, she said, “My understanding is that this woman was kind-hearted and had healing skills; who would want to kill her?”
Amaria bit her lip. “I hesitate to say, madam.”
Eleanor turned to her with a frown. “Speak up.”
“May God forgive their lying tongues, but the rumors are that you had the best reason to want her dead.” Her voice dropped. “You had her murdered.”
Henry, who had been in London when he heard the shocking news of Rosamund’s death, had ridden at once to Beaumont. In the sennight following her demise he felt dazed, still unable to believe it had happened. One moment she was here; then she was gone. Neither was he fully able to comprehend how, exactly, she had died, despite a lengthy explanation by the abbess of Godstow: Rosamund had arrived at the convent in the hours before dawn on the seventh day of January. Barely coherent, she complained of blurred vision, not being able to pass water, and a severely dry mouth. Her skin was red and hot and she was taken at once to the infirmaress, who told the abbess that Rosamund’s breath was coming too fast and, when she felt her heart, it was jumping about in an unnatural way. It was thought at first to be a quartan fever, but when she voided the contents of her stomach, the infirmaress realized that she must have eaten something that was acting like a poison within her system.
Everything possible had been done for her: Henry’s own physician had been called in from Oxford—he supported everything the abbess said—and a priest as well. Rosamund’s body went into convulsions; then she fell into a brief coma and died. She had been shriven and had left this world in a state of grace, Henry was assured. Reverend Mother was greatly distressed, obviously baffled by the horrific event and fearful that Henry would hold the abbey responsible. He had calmed her fears and there the matter rested.
Henry arranged for Rosamund’s burial at Godstow. Her tomb must be set in the middle of the church choir before the altar, he insisted, decorated with silken hangings, and wax candles lit for her every week. The bishop of Oxford, who was to preside over the funeral ceremony, came to see him at Beaumont, protesting Rosamund’s burial within the church and upbraiding Henry for what he termed this “profanation, for one who was, for all her virtuous qualities, little better than a strumpet.”
“I imagine the continuance of yearly benefices to Godstow and the bestowing of gifts to the See of Oxford might make you see matters in a different light, my lord bishop?” said Henry.
Furious, he stalked from the hall before the bishop could reply. Mean-spirited old hypocrite! For a moment he was tempted to withdraw all support from Godstow and the See of Oxford just to vent his spleen on the bishop. But he knew he could never deny benefices and gifts to the convent Rosamund had so loved.
It was a misty gray morning, the chill penetrating into his very soul, when Henry, weeping bitterly, paid his last respects to his thornless Rose of the World. After the obsequies were over, the bishop followed him.
“Touching upon the matter we discussed about a fortnight ago, Your Grace, reports from this parish and other parishes throughout Oxfordshire inform me that the churches are starting to fill up again. People are no longer fearful but acting more like themselves. Whatever black cloud was hanging over them seems to have passed, God be thanked.” The bishop crossed himself. “I did not mean to intrude upon your grief, but I thought you would want to know.”
Henry nodded absently and dismissed the matter from his mind. He kept court at Beaumont, unwilling even to visit Woodstock. In semi-isolation, refusing to see anyone and unable to sleep, he paced the large solar of the castle, nursing a pewter goblet of wine in his hands while he brooded over his loss. He stared unseeing at the solid elmwood tables, the faded cushioned stools, the elaborate hangings on the wall depicting a hart being chased by hounds. Thank the Holy Mother Rosamund had died at Godstow and that, in the end, he had no longer resisted her desire to become a postulant. At least he would not have that on his conscience.
Henry was still at Beaumont when, in late January, his misbegotten son, Geoffrey, arrived from across the Channel. Although the boy had been elected to the See of Lincoln, he was not yet consecrated as Henry had wanted him to be further educated at schools in Tours that would also teach him something of the law. His studies completed, he was returning to Lincoln. Pleased to see him, Henry hugged his son tightly and kissed him on both cheeks.
“I am so sorry about Rosamund, Father,” Geoffrey said, solid and composed in his black episcopal robes. “I only heard this sad news after I reached St. Paul’s yesterday morning. I came to Oxford at once, knowing you would be distraught over her death. May her soul be at peace now, one with God.”
Henry turned away. “I am grateful you came.”
“Tell me—that is, if it will not cause you too much pain—how did she meet her untimely death? No one at St. Paul’s knew any of the details.”
Henry, wandering aimlessly about the solar followed by his Irish wolfhound, repeated the tale as he had heard it. When he finished, he sat down in the cushioned wooden armchair, closed his eyes, and stretched out his booted legs to the warmth of the copper brazier.
After a short silence, his son asked in a tentative voice, “Are you completely satisfied with this explanation, Father?”
Henry opened his eyes. “I believe what I was told, and I am sure those who told me did not speak falsely. Why?”
“It strikes me as a little—wanting in some respects.”
“The lawyer in my head had the same thought. But my beloved girl is gone; nothing can bring her back.”
“No. I should not have spoken.”
“In truth, I could not bear to pursue the matter.” Henry frowned. “If, indeed, there is anything to pursue. But if you feel there are questions that remain unanswered, then pay a visit to Godstow. Clear up any doubts, although I urge you to be discreet. The poor abbess is upset enough as it is.” Henry closed his eyes again.
“I will tread carefully, never fear. You look tired, Father. Try to get some sleep and I will just sit here with you, if I may.”
Geoffrey’s presence in the chamber was a comfort rather than an intrusion and Henry closed his eyes, his thoughts turning once again to Rosamund. Sweet Jesu, but she had cost him dear, spurring him to behave recklessly, creating bitterness among those he loved, especially in Eleanor. Now that she was gone, he felt the need to sum up their years together and ascertain for himself what she had really meant to him.
A vision of Rosamund’s face appeared in front of him: the eyes sparkling like twin blue stars, the bloom of summer on her cheeks, the silver-gilt hair coiled like a braided crown around her head. Was such unearthly beauty ever meant to be known or possessed? Henry’s eyes flew open. He sat up straight in his armchair. And in truth, he realized, knowing her, he had never really known her. Possessing her, he had never really possessed her. Fragile and elusive as a moonbeam, she was like the Maiden in Greek myth, beckoning but untouchable and always just out of reach. Extraordinary. Tears misted his eyes and he wiped them on the sleeve of his tunic.
The next evening Geoffrey returned to Beaumont just as the vespers bell rang. After evensong and a light supper, Henry and his son repaired to the solar.
“Have you anything to tell me?” Henry asked.
“Some interesting facts have emerged,” Geoffrey replied. “I decided not to bother Reverend Mother with unnecessary questions, so I saw the infirmaress instead. You may rest assured I was the soul of discretion.”
Henry pursed his lips. “Have your doubts been laid to rest?”
Geoffrey hesitated. “Overall, I too am satisfied by what I was told.”
“But not entirely, I see. What did you discover?”
“I spoke first to the infirmaress and all transpired just as the abbess told you. But upon further questioning she revealed something else: when Rosamund voided the contents of her stomach the infirmaress noted there were bits of undigested hare visible, as well as what might have once been berries of a purplish hue. Until then she had not been able to account for the cause of this sudden and fatal illness, and admitted to me with great reluctance that the thought crossed her mind that all of Mistress de Clifford’s symptoms were consistent with banewort poisoning.”
“Deadly nightshade?” Puzzled, Henry shook his head. “Rosamund was familiar with the nature of virtually all plants. I believe she even kept banewort in the cot as a curative for various ailments. She would never knowingly have ingested it.”
“Not knowingly, no. And in very small doses, according to the infirmaress, banewort can act as a cure. But a large dose is almost always fatal. Hares have been known to eat the leaves and berries in the woods then die of the poison. Unsuspecting folk find the dead hares, roast them, and when they eat the cooked flesh die of the same poison. A young cotter and his wife were taken ill in the same manner. The infirmaress thinks Rosamund roasted such a hare not knowing how it died and—” Geoffrey spread his hands.
Henry crossed himself. “My poor girl. I cannot bear to think of her suffering.” Tears misted his eyes. “Go on.”
Geoffrey cleared his throat and continued. “I spoke with two of your verderers. They had indeed found dead hares in the forest around Woodstock, and when a hound ate one and died, they realized the hares must have eaten deadly nightshade and burned them. But of course they would not have been able to find them all. It is only by God’s grace that more did not perish.”
Henry gave a tremulous sigh. “So. No illness, then, but a tragic accident. You have done well to shed light on this dark affair.” He studied his son’s earnest face. “Yet you still appear troubled.”
Geoffrey sighed. “Not really. It is all readily explained except for something the infirmaress mentioned. She said she kept asking herself, where had Rosamund gotten the dead hare? If she herself had found a pile of hares lying in the forest she would have been suspicious of how they died and never eaten one. I suppose she has left me with the same question.”
“I think we may assume the infirmaress is correct. But Rosamund helped many people in and around the village. Some grateful soul might have given it to her in all innocence.” After a moment Henry asked, “The verderers did not connect Rosamund’s death with the dead hares?”
“No, no. I am certain they did not.”
Henry slowly nodded. “So only the infirmaress is privy to the facts. She must be warned to keep this business to herself. If the exact cause of Rosamund’s death becomes known, it will inflame superstitious minds. God only knows what evil may be made of it.” He saw a look of dismay cross Geoffrey’s face.
“I was just coming to that, Father. Vicious rumors have already started. The priest told me word has been spreading for the past sennight that Rosamund was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Henry raised his brows. “Come, you cannot be serious. Who would have cause to commit such a foul deed?”
Geoffrey hesitated. “It is so ludicrous I can hardly bring myself to repeat his words. Rumors name the queen. Rosamund came between you two, the gossips say, and the queen finally rid herself of a hated rival.”
More baffled than angry, Henry stared at his son. “I have known Rosamund for over ten years and only now does Eleanor act? Ludicrous indeed! Furthermore, she is imprisoned at Salisbury. How is she supposed to have managed this? Climbed on her broomstick and flown to Woodstock?” He jumped up and began to pace the floor. “God’s eyes! Eleanor? I have heard some wild tales in my time, but—” Suddenly he stopped.
“It is not impossible, you know,” he began again in a thoughtful voice. “Not Eleanor herself, of course, but she could have arranged, bribed—Sweet Jesu!” Henry stabbed a finger at Geoffrey whose jaw had dropped in shocked disbelief. “Don’t look at me as if I have suddenly sprouted horns. She is certainly capable of it. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, I would not put past that woman. Cunning as a vixen, wily as a she-wolf.” He looked distractedly around the solar and passed a hand across his forehead. “Blood of Christ, it was here, in this very chamber, that I told Eleanor about Rosamund, although she already knew.” He could recall every detail of that bitter scene, the anguished tears and accusations, his halting efforts to explain, as if it had happened only yesterday.
Geoffrey was gazing at him in horror. “Father! My lord King, you cannot think—you do not believe this absurd lie? It is an attempt to vilify the queen, nothing more. As God is my witness, I would never have told you if I thought—”
Henry was aware that his son’s voice was rising in agitation, sounding close to tears, but such a wave of anger now flooded his body that he could think of nothing but Eleanor’s perfidy. “You did right to tell me. The matter must be looked into. Now. Without delay!” He had been brooding for too long, wallowing in self-pity, and delving into a past that he could not change had he wanted to. Here was an opportunity for action. “I will ride to Salisbury at once. De Glanville may be neglecting his duties; the churchmen grown lax in their vigil, leaving Eleanor free to gain access to willing accomplices. I tell you she could suborn Satan himself.”
Henry walked briskly across the solar. Geoffrey ran after him, gripping him by the shoulder.
“By all that is holy, Father, please, I beg of you, listen to reason! You said yourself it was a tragic accident. And if one were going to take a lawyer’s approach, explain how the queen could have known beforehand that the hares would eat deadly nightshade and die in the woods?” He paused, bit his lip and took a deep breath. “In truth, if one were going to point a finger, Queen Eleanor is an unlikely culprit. She has less to gain—than others.”
Henry stopped in front of the door, shook his arm free and turned. “What do you mean? What others?”
“Any one of your three older sons, for example, who might well have feared that if their mother was forced into a convent and the marriage annulled, you would wed Rosamund. She—she might give you more sons, enabling you to replace those you had.”
Completely astonished, Henry could hardly believe he had heard aright. “That is a preposterous notion! After ten childless years it would be obvious that Rosamund was barren.” He crossed himself. “You should know this better than anyone, since you were at the exorcism. It has always been my belief that that swine de Clifford destroyed her womb, making it impossible for her to conceive.” Henry shook his head. “Furthermore, I am deeply shocked that you would think your half brothers capable of such wickedness!”
“By Christ’s wounds, Father, open your eyes! Have you forgotten how my brothers flocked to King Louis of France? How they turned against you and plotted your downfall?”
“But that was not my sons’ doing; their mother and King Louis were responsible.” Henry smote a fist into his open palm. “The boys were unwitting pawns in her plan to topple my empire.”
Geoffrey gazed at him in an obvious search for understanding. Though impatient to be gone, Henry knew he could not leave the matter like this.
“All right. I am not such a fool as I seem. Although Harry and his brothers were misled, they probably needed little persuading, may God forgive their ignorance and youth.” He gazed lovingly into the gray eyes so like his own. “I have never spoken of this, but deep in my heart I know well enough that baseborn indeed have my other boys shown themselves to be; you alone are my true son. Now there’s an end to it.”
Before Geoffrey could respond, Henry wrenched open the door and walked briskly down the passage. He felt the cobwebs blowing from his wits and the cloud of gloom lifting at the prospect of confronting an adversary worthy of his mettle.
“I was expecting you,” said Eleanor when Henry briskly entered her chamber. “But not at this early hour. I have only just returned from prime. Sweet Marie, you look dreadful.” She gazed at him with raised brows. “I am surprised you had the courage to come alone.”
Henry had forgotten that this was the first time he had been alone with Eleanor in—God’s eyes! He could not remember. Since her capture, anyway.
With a set face that masked any sign of feeling, Eleanor turned away.
“Please leave us,” Henry said to the maid, who scuttled quickly out the door.
Already regretting his impetuous behavior in coming, he warmed himself at the copper brazier, aware of his mud-spattered boots and cloak and his unkempt appearance. After a moment he walked over to the table and poured himself a goblet of wine from the silver pitcher. From out the corner of his eye, he glanced covertly at Eleanor. Slim and straight-backed, she was dressed in a blue tunic with a scarlet mantle, her head covered in a blue wimple. She looked handsome and fit. Still lovely, even after all these years. After a moment she moved over to the wooden armchair and sat down.
He had ridden from Beaumont to Salisbury like a madman, stopping only to water the horses, gobble some food, and take a few hours’ rest. This visit was a mistake, he realized, wishing he had listened to Geoffrey. However, now that he was there . . .
“If you were expecting me, then you know why I have come.”
“Indeed, I should think the whole of England knows by now.” Eleanor’s hazel eyes were suddenly ablaze. “Do you really believe that I am capable of murder?”
Henry, taken aback at the suddenness of her attack, tightened his lips. “I would not have believed you capable of plotting with our sons and your former husband to overthrow my rule.”
He could see Eleanor’s hands grip the arms of the chair so firmly her knuckles whitened.
Henry stabbed a finger at her. “What were your plans for me if your plot with Louis had succeeded? If the rebel forces had won? Were you to be given my head on a platter like Salome?”
With an exclamation of outrage, Eleanor sprang to her feet, her hands curled into fists. “Whatever tales you may have heard, they are all lies! I specifically told the boys that nothing must happen to you! You were to keep England and—” Suddenly she stopped, her face crimson.
Henry knew that he had trapped her into an unwitting confession of sorts. To the best of his knowledge, she had never admitted that she deliberately schemed to overthrow him.
“Well, I am relieved to hear I was to be spared.” He watched her carefully while she resumed her seat, her chest heaving. “Still, you cannot deny you hated Rosamund. Hatred will drive people to commit the most unbelievable folly.”
Eleanor took a deep breath. “I do not deny I hated the de Clifford girl, and in my heart I wished her dead a hundred times, a thousand! Nor do I pretend to mourn her passing, so make of that what you will.” Her lips trembled. “In a burst of rage, who knows what I might be capable of. Especially when I first saw her at Woodstock. Then I might have committed any folly, as you say.” A sob choked her throat. “But a well-thought-out plot to poison her?”
Henry, who could hardly bear to look at the raw anguish contorting her face, forced himself to meet her tear-filled gaze.
“It is unlikely. By all accounts Rosamund’s death was a tragic mischance. She roasted and ate a hare that had consumed the deadly nightshade. And she was not the only one to die in this manner. A moment’s madness possessed me. Mea culpa.”
Henry rubbed the back of his neck and yawned, aware that his body ached with fatigue. “How Rosamund died is not generally known. Please keep it to yourself.”
“Who would I tell?”
Feeling like a bit of a fool, Henry walked slowly to the door. “Joanna seems to be thriving, although I cannot tell if she is enjoying Sicily yet.”
“It will take time.” Eleanor rose to her feet, her hands clasped in front of her. “How is my dearest Alais?”
His hand on the door, Henry paused. “Alais? She is well enough.”
“Will she wed Richard soon? At least you can tell me that.”
Avoiding her glance, Henry cleared his throat. “Yes. Soon. I had forgotten you were so fond of her.”
“I truly love her as much as I do my own daughters. In some ways she is more interesting.”
Eleanor was smiling, the kind of radiant smile he had not seen on her face for a long, long time, and his heart turned over. Without forethought, having no idea what he was going to say, Henry heard the words coming from his mouth as if another person spoke them.
“I must tell you something and I ask you to hear me out.” He swallowed. “I miss Rosamund. I mourn her loss. Gentle, undemanding, she never judged me, and always exerted a soothing influence over the chaotic nature of my life. When I was with her, I was the better for it.”
White-faced, Eleanor’s fingers were clutched tightly together against her heart. “I do not want to hear this, Henry, for the love of God, spare me—”
He raised a hand for her to be silent as he continued, relentlessly. “But what I began to realize shortly after her death, and again just a moment ago, is that in truth, I am not mortally wounded by her loss, not nearly so distraught as I was over the loss of Thomas or your blatant treachery. When I realized what you had done to me I did not think I could bear it. As God is my witness, Rosamund has never created such an effect.”
Henry leaned back against the door and stared up at the timbered beams of the ceiling, talking half to himself, half to her. “Alive, she was my peerless Rose of the World.” He paused. “Dead, she is ephemeral, like a will-o’-the-wisp, or a creature of my imagining. Did she ever exist at all?”
When he looked down Eleanor was quietly sobbing, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
“Oh Nell,” he said softly, “if only you had looked the other way, understood that there is room in my heart—and my bed—for the love of more than one woman and that I will never change, none of this need ever have happened and we would be as we were.”
“You mean—” The words were muffled by her sobs. “You mean you would have come back to me?”
“Foolish woman, I never left you.”
He opened the door and flung himself into the passage, the sound of her weeping echoing in his ears.