IN EARLY JULY A funeral service for the young king was hastily arranged at Salisbury. When Eleanor rose from her bed that morning, she felt a chill seeping through the cracks in the walls and into her very bones. During the night it had rained, a heavy continuous downpour that beat against the solid walls of Salisbury castle making sleep impossible. In silence, Eleanor put on her mourning clothes, quickly stitched together two days earlier, and made her way down the winding staircase. Outside the sky was shrouded in gray mist with a line of dark clouds hovering on the horizon. The somber tone of the July dawn only added to the weight of loss that oppressed her like a gravestone ever since she heard of her son’s death.
When she entered the cathedral to take her place, the air was filled with the sound of choristers singing the De Profundis. Surrounded by well wishers and fellow mourners, Eleanor felt totally isolated, unable to share this burden of grief with anyone—except Henry.
“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,” intoned the bishop of Salisbury.
“Et lux perpetua luceat eis,” Eleanor responded, in concert with the other attendees.
Only with Henry could she have given voice to the despair, the sense of outrage at the utter waste of her son’s life, so filled with promise at the start, so ignominious at the end. But Henry would be on his way to Rouen to attend the official burial service. She must go through this ordeal alone.
When the service was finally over, she was escorted to the great hall of the castle. In an atmosphere of grim solemnity, flanked by official representatives of Church and crown, she received the condolences of sober-faced ecclesiastics, bluff nobles, and elegant courtiers who had come from all over England to pay homage to Harry. Some wore long faces, others openly wept. Listening to flowery expressions of sorrow and regret, Eleanor wondered whom it was they mourned: the dashing young king dispensing warmth and charm? Or the disloyal son, spinning like a weathercock, whose fatal lack of judgment had eventually driven him to his own death?
Her obligations fulfilled, Eleanor escaped to the privacy of her chamber. She sank down into the armchair, pushed the black veil away from her brow, and closed her eyes. Would matters have turned out differently if she had been able to see her son? In the back of her mind, tormenting her like a dark imp, was the persistent thought that she had connived at, if not actually instigated, Harry’s initial rebellion against his father. Surely that made her at least as culpable as Henry for this tragic outcome.
After a time there was a gentle knock, and Amaria entered carrying a tray with goblets, a pitcher of wine, and bowls of honeyed almonds and figs. She was followed by Geoffrey the chancellor and Henry’s justiciar, Ranulf de Glanville, both solemnly garbed in black. Eleanor, who had been expecting them, offered them stools to sit on.
The chancellor sent her an empathetic look. “It will, perhaps, give you some small measure of comfort, madam, to know that when your son’s body was carried on an open bier through Anjou, the people streamed forth from every town, castle, and village with demonstrations of grief and mourning. He was held in great affection by both lords and commoners.”
Blinking back a fresh bout of tears, Eleanor struggled to gain control. Over the last sennight she had cried herself into a state of exhaustion every night, but at this moment tears were a luxury she could not afford; she needed all her wits about her. The chancellor and de Glanville rarely graced her jointly with their presence, and she knew she must take advantage of it. Most urgently she needed to know what provisions had Henry made for the future of his empire now that twenty-eight years of planning were scattered to the winds.
“Harry was held in affection by all but his brother-in-law, it seems,” grumbled Ranulf. “Philip of France has already demanded the return of the Vexin, his sister Marguerite’s dowry. You would think he might show some consideration, at least until after the obsequies are held.”
Eleanor wondered at the justiciar’s naiveté. What else would one expect from the French king now that Harry was no longer of any use to him?
Ranulf picked up his goblet and took a long draught. “We have received a letter from the king, who makes mention of the fact that, as the second son, Richard must now take his elder brother’s place as heir to England, Normandy, and Anjou.”
Eleanor let out her breath in a long sigh of relief. She had been sure that Henry would not break precedent by naming someone other than Richard as his heir, but it was reassuring to hear this confirmed. “I feel sure that by the time my son is ready to take over the reins of leadership, may that be some years hence, Aquitaine will have settled down.”
Eleanor was surprised to see Ranulf and Geoffrey exchange surreptitious glances.
“Ah. Touching upon the matter of the duchy, madam—” Ranulf began, then paused to clear his throat. “It is obvious that the king’s continental domains must be redistributed between the three remaining sons.” He examined a sapphire ring on his middle finger.
Eleanor looked from one man to the other. “Yes?”
“Count Geoffrey, of course, will retain Brittany, as he is married to its duchess. But Richard, in view of his considerable future prospects, might fairly be asked to give up Aquitaine.”
For a moment Eleanor thought she had misheard him. “Richard give up the duchy?” When de Glanville nodded, she tried to digest this unpalatable piece of news but it stuck in her throat. She leaned forward, hands gripping the wooden arms of her chair. “He is the consecrated duke, my lord, I fail to see who could possibly replace him.”
Ranulf stared at a point several inches above her head. “Prince John.”
John? For a moment it did not penetrate. John? Disbelieving, she turned to Geoffrey, whose silence throughout this exchange she regarded as ominous.
“The matter is not settled as yet,” the chancellor said quickly. “The king is merely exploring future possibilities.”
“I thought my youngest son was being groomed to be king of Ireland?”
“So far as we know this is still the case.”
“John will be a catastrophe in the duchy,” Eleanor said in a choked voice. Anywhere, in truth, she wanted to add, but restrained herself.
“In all fairness, madam, you do not really know Prince John, do you?” De Glanville toyed with a honeyed fig. “Richard’s reign in Aquitaine has not been successful. Indeed, he has caused much ill will and bloodshed, as evidenced by the trouble in Limoges. John is not yet experienced as an administrator nor renowned as a warrior, but he is clever, less headstrong, and willing to accept guidance.” He cleared his throat. “His father feels he may do better.”
His voice lacked conviction and Eleanor felt certain that he had doubts. But loyalty to his liege-lord came first.
Ranulf rose heavily to his feet. “Come, my lord chancellor, we have intruded on this lady’s private sorrow long enough.” The two men bowed to her then trooped out.
Eleanor put down her wine goblet, started to rise, then abruptly sat down again. All she could think about was the possibility of John taking over Aquitaine. Ranulf was right in one sense; she could not claim to “know” this son. Except that she did, at least enough to know she did not trust him. Perhaps in time, when he had proved himself, John might grow into an acceptable ruler. But not in her duchy, hers and Richard’s. Holy Mary Virgin, she prayed, please do not let Henry give my beloved Aquitaine to the son who hates me.
Henry was not surprised when, shortly after the young king’s death, the tide of rebellion quickly turned; after all, the rebel league no longer had a figurehead to rally around. The viscount of Limoges surrendered and made his peace, and the remaining insurgents soon followed.
Grief still frozen within his breast, Henry was shocked to realize that the only person whose presence he now missed was Eleanor. In truth, the desire to run to her and fall into the comfort of her arms struck him as shameful. Unmanly. Born of desperation. Night after wakeful night as he tossed restlessly on his bed, the cry of King David, whose son had also risen up against him, echoed hauntingly in his ears: Would God I had died for thee, Absalom, my son, my son! But the blessing of tears was still denied him.
In mid-July, Henry made preparations to follow in the wake of his son’s funeral cortege, which was traveling at a snail’s pace to Rouen. He could hardly wait to be gone, he told his body squire, and he hoped to God he would never have to set foot in this dunghill of a city again. The place was cursed. On the day he was due to leave Limoges, Richard approached Henry outside his pavilion.
“It is imperative we discuss a most important matter before setting out for Normandy,” he said. “I have waited for you to speak first, but as you have not . . .”
Ever since Richard had let down his guard, they had spoken only when necessary, the barrier that had always existed between them more solid than it had ever been. No doubt Richard felt rebuffed, but Henry knew there was little he could do about it. He also knew what else preyed on his son’s mind, and had been expecting him to bring up the matter.
He walked over to his black destrier and checked that the saddle girth was sufficiently tight. “Nothing can be discussed until your brother’s burial is over.”
Richard took a deep breath. “I do not believe that is why you have avoided mentioning the succession.”
The word trembled in the air between them. Richard was right. With his whole world ripped apart, Henry did not want to discuss the succession with Richard, although he knew well enough that he would probably follow custom and allow his second son to inherit Harry’s domains. In truth, he had already sent word to England reluctantly confirming this, as well as another possibility he had in mind. But, perversely, he could not bring himself to tell this to Richard.
He turned slowly. “I cannot put attention on the future until I have laid the past to rest.” He held his son’s hard blue gaze. “There is much to consider. Many decisions to make.”
“As I am now your eldest son, surely I come into all that was my brother’s inheritance. What is there to decide?”
“No one intends to rob you of what is rightfully yours, but I have three sons and a fair disposition must be made for all.” Henry grasped the reins and hoisted himself into the saddle.
“This can have nothing to do with my patrimony.” Richard’s face took on that furious expression Henry had come to know so well. “I have my own affairs to put in order as soon as may be and I demand your official acknowledgment of my status.”
“You are in no position to demand anything. What affairs do you refer to?” Henry’s eyes narrowed.
“My marriage, for one. Now that hostilities are ended there is no longer any need to keep the princess Alais in England for safekeeping, is there? As future brother-in-law of the next king of England, Philip will want her returned to Paris and a date set for the nuptials.”
Sweet Jesu! He had forgotten all about Alais. It should have occurred to him that with the change in Richard’s prospects, his marriage would also become more significant. He would have to think about it.
“I repeat, nothing can be discussed until after Harry is buried. And as I am alive and well, you are a long way from becoming the next king of England. Where lies the urgency, pray?”
As he rode toward Normandy and the upcoming obsequies, it occurred to him that he had rarely acknowledged his son Harry’s wishes while he lived. The painful realization brought on a fresh onslaught of tears. Sweet Jesu! If he learned anything from this needless tragedy let it be to honor the living. How best could he do that? Count Geoffrey was still in command of Brittany, and while Henry intended to keep a watchful eye on him, he felt certain that the boy had undoubtedly learned a bitter lesson and would behave himself in future. Richard, of course, would inherit all that belonged to his dead brother, much as this might stick in Henry’s craw. His beloved misbegotten Geoffrey was now chancellor of England. Which left only John to provide for.
In addition to Ireland—an uncertain patrimony at best—he wanted to give his youngest son something more substantial. Like Aquitaine. The consequences of such a momentous decision were daunting, but still, the thought persisted: If he could make amends to John for the wrongs he had done Harry, then and only then, could he forgive himself.