RESENTFUL AND WARY, ALAIS arrived in Paris trying desperately to think of something, anything, that would delay the nuptials to Richard. She had no idea what, if anything, her father might have said to Queen Adela and her brothers, or his closest confidants at the French court, even Prince Philip. As matters fell out, however, her father’s dire illness had plunged the court into such a state of anxiety that no one paid her the slightest attention. If there had ever been unsavory rumors about her and Henry, there was no evidence of it a sennight after she had arrived, thank the Holy Mother. She could scarce credit her good fortune. Alais was beginning to wonder if she need ever have come in the first place, and if this turned out to be so, she would never forgive Henry, although there was already a lengthy list of things for which she never intended to forgive him. Of course, he could not have known what would happen to her father when he packed her off in such haste. Still, their last meeting had infuriated her, with things uttered on both sides that had been better left unsaid.
Although Alais had been in Anjou only a year or so earlier, it had been ten years since she was last in the Île-de-France, and now that she was there, she decided she might as well take advantage of it and see if she could do herself some good. But first, having sensed an atmosphere of intrigue and turmoil swirling about the court, she would need to know the lay of the land.
“What is the situation here?” she asked Marguerite, once she felt safe from attack. “It feels like a storm is brewing.”
“Philip’s illness and miraculous recovery, followed by our father’s sudden malady were a terrible shock, as you can imagine.” The two sisters were dressing for one of the many feasts that would precede the coronation. Marguerite held a warning finger to her lips then dismissed the attendant women. By this gesture alone Alais would have known she was back at the French court.
“Queen Adela expected to be regent of France until Philip’s majority four years from now when he turns eighteen, but our father’s will makes it possible for Philip to be crowned without a regency—which caught that she-wolf off guard.” The satisfaction in her sister’s voice brought a pleased smile to Alais’s lips. “Adela cannot persuade our father to change his will as he is too sick to respond to anyone’s demands. Philip, God be thanked, is defying his mother, and she is furious, as are her brothers. But there is nothing they can do except to try and stir up trouble among the French vassals.”
That she had, unwittingly, walked into this wasp’s nest was all to the good from Alais’s viewpoint, an indication she would probably continue to be ignored. In truth, she had almost forgotten that the Cité Palace was a breeding ground for suspicion, distrust, plots, and schemes. But there was also an unaccustomed air of excitement about the place: the sense that reputations were being made and broken, that power was changing hands, and with it vows and fealties. It stirred her blood like new wine.
Alais looked at herself in the silver mirror Marguerite was holding out to her. She looked very striking, she thought, pleased at the sight of shining hair coiled about her ears, radiant skin, and full lips. But she was not dressed in the latest French fashion, as was her sister and other members of the court. Gowns, she noted, were narrower at the waist and fuller in the sleeve; tunics were shorter; headdresses fitted more closely around the face; and even shoes had a more pointed toe. Although clad in her favorite scarlet and black, Alais felt like some gawking creature from the provinces. If she wore the same attire in England every day for a fortnight, no one would even notice. Year in, year out, fashion remained the same. Such a backwater compared to France.
On top of everything else, Henry, parsimonious as usual, had given her hardly any money, assuming, as she had, that her father would provide a suitable wardrobe, funds, whatever a future duchess of Aquitaine would need. But Louis of France, whom Alais had seen briefly upon her arrival, was reduced to a dribbling hulk of putrid flesh, and in no position to provide anything. Alais could not bring herself to ask Philip or her sister for money. It really was too humiliating.
“You must be relieved to be back,” Marguerite said, smoothing back a strand of flaxen hair, and giving herself one last critical look in the mirror.
Alais’s heart began to pound. What did her sister know? “Why relieved?”
“Father said when he first returned, before he fell ill, that you were virtually a hostage in England. King Henry was holding on to you as a means to keep Richard and France in line.” She signed herself.
King Louis went up a notch in Alais’s estimation; she would not have expected him to dissemble so readily. “Well, that was certainly true. Has anything been said about my marriage to Richard?”
Marguerite looked surprised. “Sweet Marie, I fear it is the last thing on anyone’s mind right now. My poor sister, you must be so anxious to have that matter settled.” She kissed Alais on both cheeks. “Be patient. As soon as Philip is securely on the throne I will speak to him about it.”
Alais forced a grateful smile.
On the first day in November, All Saints Day, Philip’s coronation ceremony was held in the cathedral at Rheims. In the packed nave, Alais caught a glimpse of the French queen wearing a pearl-encrusted crown, genuflecting before her brother, Archbishop William, who would officiate. All of Henry’s sons were there, as were William Marshal and Bertran de Born; Marie, countess of Champagne; Isabella, countess of Flanders; and their husbands. Women she recognized from the courts of love were also present and they greeted her warmly, especially the countess of Narbonne, who looked older but as seductive as ever.
The official ceremony began with hymns chanted by the choir as Philip first entered barefoot in the garb of a penitent. He was then anointed with the holy oil, after which he prostrated himself on the stone floor. As one rite followed another the cathedral grew stifling, and Alais felt stiff from sitting so long. Finally it came to a magnificent conclusion when four pages entered carrying a gold canopy over Philip’s head, while six more carried his long white robe of state, which was lined with ermine and embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis, the emblem of France. The archbishop of Rheims led Philip to the throne. Trumpets blared and, to Alais’s amazement, the three oldest Plantagenet boys stepped forward clad alike in scarlet-and-gold striped tunics and scarlet cloaks embroidered with the golden lions of Anjou. Count Geoffrey carried the wand of justice, Richard held the sword of Charlemagne, and Harry held the crown. This was a signal honor, and indicated that Henry’s sons must be great favorites of the new French king. Was Henry aware of this development? Alais wondered. He had told her he would find a valid excuse not to attend Philip’s coronation as he did not think it prudent after Louis’s pronouncement. But in truth, it would have been better if he had been present and seen with his own eyes how close Philip and his three sons had become.
The boys marched to the throne and knelt together. The archbishop of Rheims took the wand of justice—a long gold stick with an ivory hand whose finger pointed outward—blessed it, and put it into Philip’s right hand. He then blessed the sword and laid it in Philip’s lap. Lastly, the archbishop took the crown and set it on the young prince’s head. Trumpets sounded, bells chimed, and nobles and clergy cried “Vive le roi!” five times. Outside the cathedral, the peasants and commonfolk loudly cheered.
Then the archbishop announced, “You are crowned as Philip the Second. How does His Majesty charge his peers?”
“I command their allegiance.”
When the nobles pledged allegiance to their king in this holy cathedral, they could only break their vows upon pain of hell. Next to the anointing with holy oil, it was the most important part of the ceremony. Alais caught her breath when the three Plantagenets knelt at the king’s feet. Harry, Richard, and Geoffrey, each separately put their hands between Philip’s and pledged lifelong fealty for Normandy and Anjou, Aquitaine, and Brittany, respectively. Although Henry had approved his sons’ presence at the coronation, fully expecting them to renew their fealty to their new king and overlord, as was the custom, Alais felt a sense of unease. She had the oddest sensation, almost a premonition, that she was looking upon the future, while Henry and Louis were already becoming part of the past.
Her eyes lingered speculatively on Richard, who had barely arrived in time for the coronation, embroiled, as usual, Marguerite said, in the ongoing conflict in Aquitaine. He was not a gay and popular leader like the generous, if feckless, young king, nor a dashing figure like the charming Count Geoffrey. Bertran de Born had presented Richard as a butcher, and others had described him as chilly, brooding, and dull as plainsong. His entire life seemed to be devoted to battle and the company of other knights. Still, he was tall and fair with a commanding presence and an awesome reputation not to be dismissed whatever others might have said. Their gaze met across the crowded cathedral. His expression was not hostile, merely curious, as if he, too, wondered what their lives together would be like.
At that moment, caught up in the might and majesty of the ceremony, newly aware of the close friendship between her brother and the Plantagenet sons, Alais wondered if survival did not lie with Richard, rather than Henry as she had always imagined. After all, she was not getting any younger. Twenty seemed to her a vast age. Perhaps she should risk becoming a discontented duchess of Aquitaine, knowing there would always be those to solace her. Alais smiled at Richard; he bowed his head and smiled in return. Perhaps Bertran de Born had been given faulty information and Richard’s tastes had, if not actually changed, broadened? It was something to consider.
Richard was particularly affable, even attentive, for him, making it a point to sit beside her at the high table during meals, hawking with her one afternoon in company with Harry and Marguerite, and recounting at length the boring details of a battle he had fought near Talmont. Whether this show of interest in her was to please Philip or himself, Alais had no idea, but she felt greatly encouraged. Unfortunately, Richard was suddenly called back to Aquitaine less than a sennight after the ceremony. Filled with frustration, Alais was left to wonder if they might have reached some sort of understanding. Now it seemed as though the propitious moment between them had come and gone. Reports later reached Paris that Richard had captured the supposedly impregnable fortress of Taillebourg and leveled it to the ground. The reaction at the French court was one of horrified anger. Bertran de Born was openly furious.
“By God, Richard will pay for this butchery,” he told an assembled throng of courtiers and ladies gathered in one of the antechambers off the great hall. “He cannot rape and pillage my fair land for his own purposes. I will have my revenge.”
Similar sentiments to those voiced in Angers. But since nothing had changed where either Richard or Harry were concerned, and William Marshal was still Harry’s watchdog, Alais was inclined more than ever to dismiss his threats as sheer bluster, although he was certainly in Harry’s company a great deal. Ever since her arrival, she had been aware that Bertran was very cool toward her. Had he found out she had dropped his letter to Eleanor into the Channel on her way back to England? Impossible. No one had observed her. As he was leaving the antechamber once the coronation festivities were over, she approached him.
“Have I offended you, Bertran?”
He gave her a disdainful glance and pulled her into a corridor where they would not be overheard.
“How have I displeased you?” she asked in a soft voice, laying her hand on his arm. “I saw to it Eleanor received your letter.”
“I doubt that you did.” He shook off her hand. “And stop that ingratiating performance; it doesn’t play well. You may cozen some besotted old king fool enough to be caught in your wiles, but not me.”
Alais felt the blood drain from her face, and a frisson of fear ran through her. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Sweet Saint Radegonde, injured innocence plays even worse.” A mocking smile touched his lips. “Fortunately for you, your guilty secret has not been revealed. Not yet, that is.”
“Then how did you—?” She bit her tongue.
“Find out?” He gave her a withering look. “I have friends everywhere who keep me well informed. It is a very dangerous game you and the Plantagenet have been playing.” Bertran paused as several nobles walked by them and bowed. “Your reckless disregard for consequences even shocked me, and God knows that is not easy to do. Whom you chose to bed is your own affair, but your gross disloyalty to my duchess Eleanor is another matter.” His voice held a note of outrage that caused her belly to tighten. “You told me yourself that she was like a mother to you, the first person you felt ever loved you.”
“She is incarcerated in Salisbury and does not know.” Alais turned her head to avoid his accusing eyes. “Of course, I felt—do feel—badly. Very badly. I know full well what I owe Eleanor. Although I can’t see that matters in her present circumstances. She—is a relic of the past.” Alais swallowed convulsively. “And has no standing anymore. Not as Henry’s queen, nor as duchess of Aquitaine, not as anyone of importance. No doubt she will soon die in her English prison. Does this mean I must not make the best life for myself? I only follow what she herself taught me.”
Bertran raised his brows with a contemptuous snort. “To behave treacherously? To betray her with her own husband? Where is your conscience? For shame. If she ever finds out, it will break her heart.”
He held her gaze and Alais, the blood rushing to her face, did not answer. “Let me give you a word of warning, from one troublemaker to another. Under no circumstances resume your liaison with the Plantagenet, for it will only end badly.” Bertran’s expression turned grave. “King Henry must tread very carefully in future, now that he has lost his staunchest ally.”
“Who?”
“King Louis, of course. It is common knowledge that your brother is no ally of England, but a potentially dangerous enemy.”
Alais was skeptical. “I know he claims to be the future ‘hammer of the English,’ as was prophesied at his birth, but he is still young and untried. I doubt anyone takes him seriously.”
“Those who do not take King Philip of France seriously will live to rue the mistake they have made, if they live at all.” Bertran slitted his eyes. “The same might be said of those who underestimate the duchess of Aquitaine. She has not lost her standing in the duchy, I assure you. And you might bear in mind that she has a long memory for those who have wronged her.”
Two days later Bertran de Born disappeared from Paris. Bored with the French court, everyone said, gone to stir up mischief elsewhere. Alais kept her own counsel, turning over in her mind all the troubadour had told her. What he had said about Philip and Henry might well turn out to be true one day. But Eleanor? Alais gave an inward shrug. As far as she was concerned the duchess’s life was already over.
After her return to Salisbury, Eleanor found herself sinking into a state of despair that grew more acute each day. Devastated by her discovery of Henry and Alais’s liaison, she felt caught in some ghastly nightmare from which she could not awaken. Only years of having to maintain the dignity of her royal titles, the strict noblesse oblige to which she had bound herself, enabled her to get through the weeks of misery that followed . . . Although she was sure cracks were apparent in the icy facade she struggled to hold in place. There was something so shameful in what she had overheard and how she had come to overhear it—it was painfully obvious that John intended her to find out about Henry and Alais—that she wanted to hide it from the world.
In an effort to shield herself from the impact of what had happened, Eleanor found herself retreating from the world around her. After a time she became numb, as though she lived in a waking dream where nothing was quite real. A shadow self made all the appropriate responses but she, splintered into fragments, was only partially present, protected by an icy cocoon from which she watched herself go through the day-by-day routine of her life.
“I sense that you are troubled in spirit, madam,” said her confessor. “God understands all and forgives all but you must reveal the nature of the burden that weighs upon you.” He was studying her with a concerned expression on his face. “Are you unwell? Amaria tells me you eat very little.”
“Nothing troubles me, Father, nor am I unwell.”
From time to time Eleanor saw Father Matthew in deep discussions with Amaria. She ignored their anxious looks and turned aside their probing questions. The days passed. Or was it weeks? Time lost all meaning. Part of her, the small part that still seemed to function, noted that the deep blue skies of September had passed into October. On her rides outside the courtyard, she was aware of bands of swallows flying overhead, a distant apple orchard golden with sunlight, the acrid scent of wood smoke mingled with the faint breath of autumn on the wind.
But none of it penetrated her cocoon.
She began to wear the same clothes day after day and no longer bothered to have Amaria attend to her person.
“But madam, your hair has not been washed, nor have you bathed, and I have not—”
“Be silent, woman.” At some level of her consciousness Eleanor knew why Amaria was troubled. Scrupulous in keeping up her appearance, fastidious about her skin, her hair, how she looked in every way, she had suddenly abandoned the habits of a lifetime. Why did it matter anymore?
“Please, madam, I beg you to look at yourself.” Amaria held the large silver mirror that a stood propped up on the oak table next to the wall so that it would always be accessible. Eleanor pushed Amaria’s arm aside.
One day she awoke to the sound of the cathedral bells ringing for prime. Amaria was not in the chamber. Eleanor rose, put on the same clothes she had worn for a fortnight, did not bother to wash her face in the silver basin of water set out for her, and looked around for the wimple to cover her hair. Foolish servant! Where had Amaria put it? She glanced about the chamber and suddenly she realized she was not alone. Just behind her was a terrifying stranger, a witch, an old crone, with haunted eyes, thin lips, pale skin, and a wild unkempt look about her. Her clothes were wrinkled and looked unwashed. How had this horrible apparition gotten into the chamber? Terrified, Eleanor began to scream and scream and scream.
“Madam, what is it?” Guards pushed open the door and raced into the room, followed by Amaria.
“A haglike creature has gotten into the chamber. Find her and throw her out at once!” Eleanor went on to describe the woman.
The guards and Amaria searched the chamber thoroughly.
“No one is here, Lady, and, in truth, we would have seen such a person on the stairs. No one is allowed access to your quarters without our knowledge, as you know.” It seemed to Eleanor the guard gave her an odd look.
“I tell you she was here! I saw her!”
When the guards left, Amaria poured a cup of brown ale from the pitcher she had just brought up from the kitchens. Silently she handed the cup to Eleanor.
“They do not believe me,” said Eleanor in a dull voice.
“But I do, madam.” Amaria walked over to the oak table and held the silver mirror directly in front of her. “Is this the strange woman you saw?”
Eleanor started to shriek. “Yes, yes!” Suddenly, her body trembling, she realized she was looking at her own reflection. The rest of the day passed in a kind of daze.
Upon waking the next morning, Eleanor felt chilled to the bone. She decided not to rise from her bed.
“Are you ill, madam?” Amaria asked.
“No. Just very cold. Please see the braziers are lit.”
“The braziers are lit, madam. All three of them.”
Eleanor raised herself up on an elbow and gazed around the chamber. Yes, the braziers were all blazing away. “I do not intend to get up today.”
Amaria stared at her in dismay. “But—you will miss morning Mass, madam!”
Eleanor lay back without answering. What did it matter whether or not she got up for Mass or anything else? She heard the door open and close as Amaria left the chamber. Eleanor stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling, blackened with smoke from the braziers. Some time later Amaria returned with a tray of food and a cup of ale. Eleanor sipped the ale, then turned her head to the wall. The sight of the food actually made her nauseated. All she wanted to do was lie in bed and let the world drift by. She closed her eyes.
Over the next several days Eleanor was aware of people coming and going. Drifts of disjointed conversation assailed her ears.
“. . . drinks almost nothing and eats very little—” Amaria’s voice.
“She refuses all help. Will not even hear Mass. Although the physician says she is not seriously ill, is it not our duty to inform Ranulf de Glanville or even King Henry?” she heard Father Matthew ask.
“It seems premature. In any case the king is making a progression through the north counties and de Glanville is with him. I heard he was in York ten days ago, headed for Ripon and then Durham. God knows where he might be now.” It was the prior speaking. “If, after a fortnight’s time, she is no better, then send to me and I will try and locate the king’s whereabouts.”
The following day, or perhaps the day after, Eleanor could no longer be sure, Amaria and Father Matthew brought in a new figure, clad in black robes. Holy Mother, not another churchman!
“Look, madam, who is here! The bishop of Lincoln was attending an episcopal conference in Salisbury and by chance Father Matthew caught sight of him and persuaded him to pay you a visit.”
“Do you know me, madam?”
The bishop of Lincoln? A not-unfamiliar face bent over her bed. Sweet Marie! It was Henry’s misbegotten Geoffrey Plantagenet. She had forgotten he was bishop of Lincoln now.
“Of course I know you.”
“I am sorry to hear you are unwell.” He looked down at her with his pewter-colored eyes, so like—so like—“Can you tell us what ails you?”
Eleanor turned her head to avoid his gaze. “Ask the physician.”
“He can find nothing specific, Your Grace, yet still she ails,” Amaria replied.
Through a haze Eleanor saw Bishop Geoffrey, Father Matthew, and Amaria gathered at the foot of the bed.
“My own feeling,” said Father Matthew, “is that this a sickness not of the body but of the spirit.”
His words echoed in Eleanor’s mind. An illness of the spirit? A plague of the soul?
“I agree with Father Matthew,” offered Amaria in a timid voice. “This is not an ordinary illness, and if the abbess Hildegard had not died recently, may she rest in peace, it is to her I would turn for help.”
“Can either of you ascertain the cause of this—this ailment?” Geoffrey sounded puzzled.
“I would not venture an opinion, Your Grace. But I have come to know the lady Eleanor well over the years and it is my belief that she is greatly troubled in spirit.” Father Matthew sighed. “Healing will only occur through God’s grace, the compassionate Christ—” He paused, lost in thought. “Perhaps—a pilgrimage to some holy place? Somewhere close to hand, where solace and comfort are known to occur . . . Of course! Canterbury! That is where the queen shall find the healing she so sorely needs. At the tomb of our sainted Thomas!” His creased face beamed with satisfaction.
Geoffrey and Amaria both looked at him in consternation, then at her. For the first time in weeks Eleanor felt like laughing. Solace and healing at the tomb of Thomas à Becket?
After a brief glance in her direction, Geoffrey frowned. “Ah, I am not sure Thomas’s tomb is the most suitable place, Father.”
“Nonsense,” Father Matthew said briskly, rubbing his hands together. “Miracles happen there on a daily basis. You know it and I know it. Even Holy Church knows it, though it may pretend not to know.”
“But for my lady to leave Salisbury, Your Grace, surely you will need the king’s permission and he is unavailable,” Amaria said in consternation. “And I doubt the prior of Salisbury Cathedral would allow—”
Geoffrey held up his hand and shook his head. After a moment, he asked, “How long has the queen been this way?”
“Madam has been acting—that is to say, she has not been herself since—let me see—September, it was. She does not speak of it, but something happened at Winchester. King Henry was there, Prince John, and the French princess Alais. I feel sure it has to do with them but—” Amaria shrugged helplessly. “This recent turn, however—” Eleanor could see her wring her hands in agitation. “This—this shutting herself off from the world and refusing to leave her bed, has been going on for only a fortnight or so.”
“And who knows of her condition besides yourself and Father Matthew?” asked Bishop Geoffrey.
“Only the physician and the prior. It has been given out that she has a quartan fever and is slowly recovering. But this is not true, Your Grace. Daily she worsens.”
“Then the matter can be kept between ourselves.” Again Geoffrey glanced in her direction then seemed to make up his mind. “Although no one can be certain of the exact nature of the queen’s malady, what you and Father Matthew have suggested cannot be overlooked.”
Father Matthew nodded in vigorous agreement.
Geoffrey stroked his chin. “Put it about that Queen Eleanor has worsened slightly and it might be another fortnight before she mends. Meanwhile she must be kept in seclusion. Keep the physician away. With silver if need be. There is no need for anyone else to be privy to her absence. Even Father Prior. If all goes well she will be back long before anyone begins to ask awkward questions. I will bear any responsibility.”
Father Matthew’s face suddenly fell. “But how will the queen get to Canterbury? By the Apostle, I had not thought of that before.”
“I will take her myself. The conference is over and if I am a few days late in returning to Lincoln no one will chastise me for it.” Geoffrey pulled up a stool beside the bed. “You have heard us, madam, I believe.”
“Every word, and I consider you have lost your wits, all three of you. Thomas à Becket was no friend to me in life, why should he be now that he is dead?”
“There are other holy places in Christ Church Cathedral besides Thomas’s tomb,” Geoffrey said hastily. “There is no need to decide now.”
“Just so.” Eleanor saw Father Matthew cross himself. “God will guide you, madam, at the proper time. Leave it in God’s hands.”
God’s hands? Would He listen to her lone voice complaining of the burden she bore as a woman, the wretchedness of her existence?
Geoffrey lifted her wrist and gently took her fingers within his own. “What say you, madam? Whatever dark thoughts weigh upon your spirit, this pilgrimage may help to alleviate them. At the very least it will allow you a change from Salisbury or Winchester.” Geoffrey paused. “The monotony and seclusion of being closely confined and denied lack of freedom are sufficient to oppress anyone.”
Eleanor stared up at his gentle face. How well he understood. Something sickening within her, almost dead, roused itself. A spark of the old Eleanor urged her to take this opportunity.
“Perhaps,” she said dully.
Geoffrey smiled. “I will escort you myself, but you must travel incognito as a humble pilgrim. No one will notice you if you are one of many who seek miracle cures or redemption at Canterbury.”
“What need have I to seek redemption?” Even in her lethargic state Eleanor felt affronted. “There are no sins I have committed.”
“I spoke in a broad sense, not a personal one.” Geoffrey looked taken aback at her vehemence. “Although all of us in one way or another seek redemption, madam. As Our Lord said, ‘Let he who is without sin—’”
“No pontificating sermons, if you please! Take heed of your own sins. You are taking me from my prison without permission, against express orders to the contrary, with the connivance of my confessor. The prior of Salisbury would not approve. Nor King Henry. To act without the permission of Church or sovereign is surely a grave sin in God’s eyes.”
“That is perfectly true, madam.” Geoffrey cocked his head to one side. “But in my experience, I have often found it easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission.” A slow smile spread across his face. “And a little sin or two in a just cause never offended God. Did it, Father?”
To Eleanor’s surprise, Father Matthew shook his head. “Remember the books I brought you when you first came here? Had I been foolish enough to ask permission, everyone would have forbidden it. But once the sin was committed . . . and after my penance, I was forgiven.” There was an unaccustomed twinkle in his eyes. “The bishop is right, my child. Take it from an old sinner.”
Really it was impossible to argue with both of them. “I will go with you,” she said.