IN THE WEEKS FOLLOWING his encounter with Eleanor, Henry, surprising himself, seriously considered releasing her from captivity. He even went so far as to dictate the writ for her release, then ordered the parchment destroyed. Instinct prompted him one way, reason cautioned another. Could he ever be absolutely certain Eleanor would remain loyal to him under any and all circumstances? If their sons turned on him once again, for example? And in his heart of hearts, Henry acknowledged to himself, he had no illusions about Harry, Richard, and his legitimate Geoffrey necessarily keeping faith with him. To keep loyalty in their hearts he would need to give them what they wanted, when they wanted it. An impossible task. As ruler of a mighty empire whose interests must always come first, he could never accommodate everyone, including his own family. So Eleanor must remain where she was.
Before Henry left Beaumont for London at the end of February, he and his misbegotten son, the bishop-elect Geoffrey, rode though the village to visit the bishop of Oxford. It was a bright winter day and Henry noted that many of the villagers and local folk were gathered around the square. The rumors concerning Eleanor had died down, according to Geoffrey, and Henry had been relieved. His subjects were often capricious and unpredictable but on this day they seemed particularly friendly.
“A good morning to ye, me lord king,” they called out, doffing their caps to him, “and the same to His Grace o’ Lincoln.”
“No point in reminding them you have yet to be consecrated.” Henry nodded in greeting and catching sight of a tall flaxen-haired man, called out, “Good day to you, Wulf, I hear your sow gave birth to a fine brood of piglets last sennight. You should get a good return for them at market.”
“Will ye keep the prices up, me lord?”
Henry laid a finger against his nose and winked. The men laughed.
He then addressed another man in a richly furred robe who wore a long face. “I’m sorry I had to find against you in the assizes, Jehan, but the evidence was not in your favor.” The man nodded morosely and turned away.
“What was the case?” Geoffrey asked.
“Ownership of a disputed stretch of land that has been awaiting judgment in the royal court.”
They were riding by the alewife’s house and the ale stake was out, which meant a new batch of ale had just been brewed. The plump alewife herself waddled out with a breathless smile, holding up two wooden cups of foaming brown ale. He and Geoffrey dismounted.
“Excellent,” Henry pronounced after taking a sip. “Goodwife Hedwige makes the best ale in Oxfordshire, Geoffrey.”
The alewife simpered, obviously pleased. As they stood drinking their ale, Henry spotted Aude coming around the square. Covered in a worn gray shawl, she was leaning on her elmwood stick and supported by a middle-aged woman. While the villagers bowed respectfully to the old woman, most of them gave her a wide berth. After a moment Henry realized that they were being careful not to step in her shadow. As Aude passed by she turned her head, and the piercing black eyes skewered Henry in a look he remembered only too well.
In truth, he had virtually forgotten about that eerie encounter in the forest, but now it all came back to him, including Aude’s strange words concerning Rosamund: “Ye will have cause to be grateful to her.” He had not understood then, nor did he now, not in any rational sense, but he was aware of his body being gripped by the same prickling fear he had experienced in the woods. He forced himself to return Aude’s gaze without flinching.
“The folk seem unusually cheerful today,” Geoffrey remarked after a brief incurious glance at Aude.
Henry, his gaze still locked with the old woman’s, heard himself murmur, “Rosamund would tell you it is because they are no longer afraid. The ill-fated year has passed, the shadow lying over the land has slipped away and the old gods have been left behind. Christ Jesus has reclaimed their hearts once more.”
“Did you say something, my lord?” Geoffrey gave him a questioning look.
Without conscious volition, Henry bowed his head toward Old Aude in silent acknowledgment. Here was a mystery. He would never understand it nor agree with it. But, in all truth, neither could he deny its power. The fear left and his heart lightened.
The old woman bowed in return and went on her way.
Henry finished his cup of ale and handed it back to the alewife. “Nothing that matters now.”
A few days later Geoffrey left to take up his episcopal duties at Lincoln. Intent on putting his personal travails behind him, Henry’s thoughts turned to urgent administrative matters that he had ignored, most particularly strengthening his position in England. Now that peace prevailed, attempts at rebellion had to be discouraged and brazen acts of disloyalty restrained. When he met with his council in late March and again in May, his first objective was to recoup the money spent during the years of rebellion.
The council met at Westminster in the stone chamber used for official meetings. Henry had insisted the young king attend the first council, literally dragging him into the chamber when he was on his way to one of his tournaments attended by William Marshal and his son’s usual coterie of profligate companions. The boy found the routine of assizes and exchequers boring, and consistently resisted all attempts to teach him the bare bones of administration. Soon afterward, Harry had requested permission to visit the Continent, announcing that his wife, Marguerite, was enceinte and wished to see her father in Paris. Henry, despite some suspicions and his grave misgivings about letting his son off the lead, could not very well refuse the request of a pregnant daughter-in-law—and indeed, would be overjoyed to finally have a grandson in the male line, for though his daughter, Matilda, the duchess of Saxony, had a son, regretfully the child would never be able to inherit any of the Plantagenet lands, only lands that belonged to Saxony. Henry had instructed Harry to travel on to Aquitaine after Paris and help his brother Richard in his continuing battles with the southern barons.
In the weeks that followed, Henry put his attention on how to make better use of his itinerant justices. A decade earlier, he had established the novel procedure of sending traveling judges out from the central court, the Curia Regis, to spread the royal word, pronounce the crown’s judgments, inspect its sources of revenue, and determine whether the sheriffs were following the king’s writs. This practice had become one of the most successful features of his administration.
“I have now decided to make the king’s courts available to the heirs of deceased men who have been refused their inheritance by the lord of their fief,” Henry told his council members when he met with them again at Westminster in early May. “Judgment on the mort d’ancestor will be made by a sworn inquest of twelve lawful men from the deceased’s own area.”
“The barons will not be pleased that you have taken away their jurisdiction over inheritance by drawing such cases into your own courts,” said his justiciar.
“If the royal brand of justice is more even-handed and accessible, then let the local lords look to themselves. How else can we establish the same standard of justice for all men?” Henry stretched and yawned. He had been closeted in this same stone chamber since after prime and it was well past sext.
“And in the end, the crown profits, let us not forget that,” added the treasurer smugly. “Principles are all well and good, but the crown gets a percentage of every inheritance and that is better.”
There was a loud knock on the door and a few moments later John the marshal entered carrying a parchment in his hand. “A courier has arrived from my brother, William, Your Grace. I assumed you would want to see his message at once.”
Merely by looking at the sealed parchment, Henry knew it contained ill news. Just when matters were beginning to proceed in the direction he had long envisioned, here was the worm in the apple. When the marshal held out the parchment Henry did not take it.
“I wish I had the courage to destroy it unopened. Read it, my lord marshal.”
The marshal broke the scarlet wax seal and unrolled the parchment, scanning it with a quick glance. From the look on his face Henry’s worst fears were confirmed.
“I can tell you what it says.” Henry sighed. “My son Harry did not go to Aquitaine as ordered but instead gathered a group of undesirable gallants about him and they travel from tournament to tournament.”
John nodded. “The young king persuaded his uncle, the count of Flanders, to outfit him with arms and horses, complaining his father kept the purse strings so tight he could barely eke out an existence.”
Henry put his head in his hands. Surely he should be used to such behavior by now? After all, when had his son and heir ever done anything but disappoint? He could not even summon up anger this time.
“Flanders is no friend to the Plantagenets,” said the marshal. “The count supported Aquitaine against you, if you recall. I don’t like the sound of this.”
Henry nodded wearily. “Nor do I. But what can be done? I cannot tie the boy to my side forever. If I recall him, what then? It is ever the same story.”
John continued reading then gave an exclamation. “Oh, my lord, William writes that Queen Marguerite has miscarried the babe!”
There was an appalled silence as everyone crossed themselves. So. Not even a grandson. Henry wondered if he would ever know the truth: Had the pregnancy been a ruse on Harry’s part? Or had his daughter-in-law really lost the child?
He stood up and stretched again. “The tourneys will last only through early autumn, then what will Harry do? He must move on to Aquitaine, for he will have nowhere else to go for amusement.” He rubbed the small of his back. “We will wait until the season ends and see what my son does before taking action. Meanwhile, I will seek expert advice on this matter.”
“Expert advice from whom?” Richard de Lucy raised his brows.
“From one who knows the young king intimately.”
It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision and Henry walked briskly out of the chamber before anyone could persuade him to change his mind. But his spirits were already improving at the thought of visiting Eleanor at Salisbury. He wanted to ask her opinion not only about Harry but about John as well. Count Humbert’s daughter, the little princess of Maurienne, had recently died. Since there was no longer a match, the three castles of Chinon, Mirebeau, and Loudon that had caused such violent dispute among his sons had reverted once again to Harry and him in their joint capacities as the young and old counts of Anjou. Although he did not necessarily follow her counsel, Eleanor always brought a different point of view to the affairs of the realm. In truth, he missed her incisive mind, her wit, the human touch she brought to political matters.
At first light, Henry prepared to leave London with a small escort of knights, clerks, men-at-arms, and his treasurer, who had persuaded him to break his journey at Winchester. The bulk of the treasury and the exchequer had been moved to Westminster some years earlier, but a branch of the treasury, as well as the royal mint, were still housed at Winchester and FitzNigel wanted to inspect them. It was the nineteenth day of May, the Feast of Saint Dunstan, and after listening to a special sermon in honor of the tenth-century saint, they set off.
By late afternoon Henry grew tired and, as his party was approaching Guilford, he decided to stop for the night at an inn on the outskirts of the town. Once he would have pushed on through the night or slept at the edge of a wood for a few hours until he rose, filled with energy and vigor to put in another full day’s ride. This time he felt the full weight of his forty-four years. At the inn he commandeered all the rooms and stables to quarter his entourage and their horses. He was treated to the best of the wines, a well-cooked meal, the fawning attentions of the innkeeper and his wife, and the admiring gawks of the local citizenry. Discreetly, several plump wenches were offered to him for the night.
“Take which ye like, me lord, or all,” said the innkeeper with a wink. “Not the best I can provide, mind, at short notice, but any port in a storm, I always says.” He looked stunned when Henry declined.
What excuse could he give? The girls looked unappetizing? Too much effort? Henry himself did not know, but he could not enter into the spirit of the thing as once he would have done.
The next day he forced himself to set a rapid pace and the sun was setting when, exhausted, he rode through the gates of Winchester, the foursquare ramparted town dominated by its famous cathedral. The vespers bell rang as he rode up the high street of the city, where the merchants’ stalls were just closing for the night. When he came abreast of the white stone walls of the cathedral, he suddenly halted his escort, dismounted, and walked up the broad steps to hear the service.
It was dark when he entered the great hall of Winchester’s stone-and-timber castle, hungry as well as tired after his long day’s journey. The hall was half empty, filled mainly by his own retinue. Neither were there many people seated at the high table on the dais. Three lords, a few middle-aged noble ladies, and—God’s eyes! He had all but forgotten that Alais of France had been sent to Winchester after her sister left for Paris. If truth be known, he had virtually forgotten her existence in the mêlée created by Rosamund’s death.
“Welcome, my lord.” The girl’s full lips curved in a warm greeting. “We have been awaiting your arrival with great eagerness.”
Henry sat down at the high table. Like every other male in the hall, Henry was all too aware—one would have to be blind not to be—of the dark glowing eyes, the black hair rippling against the crimson surcoat. Under the surcoat she wore a dark blue tunic, samite by the look of it, that seemed molded to her body, emphasizing the full thrusting breasts.
Henry made a point of ignoring Alais throughout the entire meal. When it was finished he arranged for a courier to ride to Salisbury and inform the steward and the prior that he would be arriving sometime the following day. By compline he was safely ensconced in the solar he had thought he would have to share with FitzNigel, who, as it turned out, was staying with a married daughter in the town itself. His body servant, Milo, had died, and Henry had not yet replaced him but there were guards stationed outside the door. By the time he climbed into bed he was already half-asleep. The next morning he would be on his way to Salisbury—and Eleanor.
It seemed to Henry that he had just fallen asleep when he awoke to the sound of loud voices outside the door of his chamber. Slipping naked from his bed he grabbed the three-branched silver candleholder and, stumbling to the door, opened it a crack. Two guards were craning their necks down the passage.
“Is there something amiss?”
“We don’t know, Your Grace. We thought we heard someone shout ‘fire,’ but can’t be certain.”
“God’s eyes! Find out, or do you want us all burned to a crisp, eh? What is the hour?”
“Just past matins. We will investigate at once.” They ran down the passage, leaving Henry groggy and yawning.
He put the candleholder back on the table and was about to get back into bed when he heard a soft knock on the door. Blood of Christ, now what? He ran back in the semi-darkness and pushed the door open; a hooded black-cloaked figure carrying a pewter candleholder slithered silently inside. The figure pushed back the hood with one hand and Henry, startled, recognized Alais.
“What is this intrusion?” Suddenly conscious of his naked body, Henry retreated quickly to the bed and, climbing in, covered himself. “You have no business in here, my girl, especially as there may be a fire somewhere in the castle. The guards have just gone to find out.”
“I know.” Alais started to giggle. “I shouted the alarm to remove them from your door. There is no fire.”
Henry glowered at her. “God’s eyes! My son’s betrothed creeping into her father-in-law’s chamber in the dead of night. Have you no shame? If Richard knew, he would cast you aside and send you home to your father in disgrace. In some cities on the Continent you would be whipped naked through the streets for such wanton behavior.”
She made no reply but looked at him from under lowered eyelids then blew out her candle leaving the chamber half in shadow. Henry yawned.
“You can thank God that Milo is no longer here. Fire or no, you would never have gotten past him. I do not know what your game is, mistress, but whatever you think you want from me, I cannot give it to you.”
Alais was standing beyond the pool of light cast by the candelabra and he could not clearly see the expression on her face. But he sensed that she had acted on the spur of the moment and, now that she was actually in his chamber, was uncertain how to proceed. Her impulsiveness only served to remind him of her youth and blatant disregard for consequences. It would not surprise him to learn she wore very little—or nothing—under the black cloak. He leaned back against the bed cushions and crossed his arms over his chest. Having already marked her for a troublemaker, he decided to let her stew in this dish of her own making.
“But you don’t know what I want,” she said in a tremulous voice.
“I know all I care to know. Now, I would be grateful if you left at once.”
“But the guards will have returned, discovering there is no fire. How am I to go without their seeing me?”
He heard her choke back what sounded like a sob. Blood of Christ! Tears were but another weapon in a female’s armory, and he was not deceived by this ploy.
“As you were clever enough to get yourself into my chamber, you will just have to be clever enough to get yourself out again, won’t you?”
There was a silence. Finally, in a faltering voice, she said, “I only wanted to—to console you for the loss of Mistress de Clifford.”
“I do not need consolation.” Henry felt a surge of anger. Did this French coquette actually think her voluptuous body, and the aggressive manner in which she offered herself to him, could make him forget his ethereal Rosamund, whose chaste modesty was so much more beguiling? He yawned again. “I am very tired and must be up before prime, so . . . look, all you need do is pull the hood of your cloak over your face, no one will question you coming out of my chamber. A good night to you.”
She still stood there, motionless as a statue carved in ebony.
“Listen to me, my child,” Henry said. “I am too old and crotchety for these japes. You are ripe for the marriage bed and Richard will suit you far better than I—regardless of what you may think now. Tomorrow I will attend to your nuptials, something I should have done long since.”
Hoping that he sounded firmly dismissive, he turned over on his side and closed his eyes. He heard faint footsteps then silence. Any moment there would be the sound of the door opening and closing. But there was nothing. His eyelids felt heavy and he knew he could slide easily into sleep. Let her curl up on the floor, devil take her, if she would not go as he bid her. But a pinprick of curiosity got the better of him—Dear God, so nearly was he delivered—and Henry opened his eyes, only a crack, but it was enough. Alais was standing directly next to the bed, a foot away from his head. Her cloak was gone, as well as whatever she had worn under it—if anything. His gaze widened. Candle flame glowed golden on her body, the full youthful breasts swelling proudly from her chest, the soft curve of belly and thighs, the shadowed mysterious cleft in her loins.
Her eyes, wide dark pools, held his. She turned back the coverlet and attempted to climb into the bed.
“Stop behaving like a wanton.” Henry grasped her arm and thrust her away. “How many times must you be told? I neither want nor require these carnal attentions.”
Ignoring him, Alais took his hand and laid it on her breast. While he was adjusting to the shock of the firm flesh yielding to the palm of his hand, she hopped into the bed and pressed the length and breadth of her body against him. Her arms twined around his neck and Henry’s fingers, with a will of their own, squeezed her breast.
“I do not think you know what you want or require, my lord king,” she whispered, seeking his mouth.
Henry was about to retort that she was the last thing he needed but how could he deny a growing sense that his powers were waning? That he did feel a need for—for what? Reassurance against the specter of his own mortality? A barricade to slow the relentless march of the unforgiving years? Alais’s lips opened and her buxom body surged passionately against his. How young and vital she felt, with an earthy exuberance for life Henry had almost forgotten. She was so wonderfully responsive to his mouth, so eager to accept his exploring fingers as they traced each curve and crevice. Alais might be as old as Eve in the art of temptation but her obvious pleasure held a quality of innocence that set him alight. Even as one part of him knew that he would pay dearly for this night’s folly, the years fell away, Henry felt vibrantly alive again, the juices flowing, blood, bone, muscle and sinew revitalized. Here and now, death could not claim him. . . .
The next morning Henry sent word to Salisbury that he would be delayed; he did not know for how long.