WITH HARRY’S DEMISE, ALAIS, who had been residing at Windsor Castle since February, took it for granted that Richard would become heir to all of his brother’s patrimony: England, Normandy, Anjou, and Maine. As his wife she would one day be queen, duchess, and countess! Such a possibility had never occurred to her and the prospect of so much power was dazzling. For the first time she felt a sense of urgency about the marriage, a need to have the date and place officially set.
In October, Henry summoned his three sons to Angers, and Alais eagerly awaited news of an official announcement concerning Richard. Instead, she heard that after making his peace with Count Geoffrey, Henry tried to persuade Richard to turn Aquitaine over to John when he came of age! Richard had flatly refused—who could blame him?—and stormed back to his duchy. Tales of that acrimonious meeting gave rise to the speculation that King Henry, furious at Richard’s stubborn attitude, would take steps to alter the succession. But Alais dismissed this as malicious tongue wagging. Thus she was aghast to learn that in the New Year of 1184, Count Geoffrey and Prince John had attacked Poitou, burning villages and ravaging the countryside. Richard quickly retaliated by raiding Brittany, and Henry, who should have been taking steps to halt their conflict, turned a blind eye. Sweet Marie! Was the struggle for power between father and sons going to start all over again?
The skirmishes dragged on for months. Then, in September, to everyone’s surprise, Henry suddenly changed his tactics. In November, he announced, a special court would be convened at Westminster. His sons were summoned to come together once again in the name of peace and forgiveness. To ensure compliance he let it be broadly known that Eleanor would be present. Alais, who wondered what Henry was up to, did not relish the thought of having to confront Eleanor for the first time in eleven years, but there was little she could do about it.
Henry arrived back in England a fortnight before the court was to be held and finally made an appearance at Windsor Castle. He arranged for Alais to come to his chamber with his usual caution: she must arrive after compline and leave right after lauds. It had been almost two years since she had last seen Henry, at the ill-fated Christmas court in Caen, and five since she had bedded him, just before her departure for Paris in the year 1179. So she was in two minds about whether to have carnal relations with him, considering all the risks involved, and that she would soon be Richard’s wife. On the other hand, it might be imprudent to refuse. At first. Besides, it had been a long time, so long that she had been sorely tempted to fulfill her body’s needs on several occasions, but restrained herself in the end. She did not look forward to a virtually celibate life with Richard. His preferences still baffled her; he was pig-headed, dull, and quick to violent action when opposed. But these qualities now seemed bearable. Mere pinpricks that a queen could easily put up with. And in time she would be able to console herself. . . .
After an intense bout of lovemaking, she and Henry lay together on the wide bed. His head rested between her breasts and she idly stroked his hair.
“We will have to be so careful in future,” she began tentatively. “Perhaps the risk is too great.”
“I am always careful.”
“I know, but the situation has changed. It is now more dangerous than ever.”
“You mean because Eleanor will be at Westminster?” Henry rolled away from her with a sigh. “While she is there, obviously I cannot see you. This will be our first meeting in some years and it is important that all go well.” He pursed his lips. “I need Eleanor’s goodwill and approval in order to implement the rearrangement of my empire.
What rearrangement? Alais wondered, but did not ask.
“In truth,” Henry continued, “if I could think of a valid excuse, I would not even take you to Westminster, but your absence might cause comment. This court is intended as a family reconciliation of sorts and as Richard’s betrothed you must make an appearance.”
“But I was speaking as Richard’s betrothed,” Alais said. “When I leave England, not a whisper of scandal must go with me. You told me that yourself.”
With a look of surprise, Henry raised himself up on one elbow. “When do you leave England?”
“There is no specific date set, but I must think of the future now, and the sooner I wed Richard the less likelihood there will be of our liaison being discovered.” She shot him a covert glance. “I will probably go directly to Paris. My brother may want the nuptial ceremony to be held at Rheims.”
Henry stared at her. “I am not following you, Alais. For years you have resisted marrying Richard, and seemed less concerned about discovery than I was. What has happened to change your mind?”
“Well, I have come to appreciate your prudence. And, of course, there is more at stake now.” She smiled and reached over to kiss the tip of his nose. “When Richard becomes king—I assume you will crown him as you did Harry—I will be his wife, and a queen must be above reproach. I will miss you, naturally, but we both knew this could not last forever. You told me so yourself. It is time I did my duty, isn’t it?”
“Ah, when Richard becomes king. Now I understand this newfound sense of duty.” He raised his brows. “If, not when, is more apt, however.”
Alais felt her throat constrict. “I don’t understand.”
“You will when the outcome of this court is no longer in question. Of course, you are free to go to Paris anytime you wish, but you may find that your sense of duty would be better served in England.”
It took her a moment to grasp what he had said and make the connection. When she had, Alais stared at him aghast. “You don’t—you cannot mean that Richard may not inherit?”
“I have always admired your political acumen, my dear.”
The implications of this were so unimaginable, she felt faint. A lengthy silence followed while Henry absently toyed with a strand of dark hair falling over her shoulders.
“You mentioned the outcome of this court,” Alais said, after composing herself and marshaling her scattered thoughts. “By this, I assume you mean that you want Eleanor and Richard to agree that John should have Aquitaine.”
“Is that what I mean?” He yawned again, let go her hair, and slid from the bed.
Alais flounced over on her back and stared up at the canopy draped in dark-blue samite embroidered with gold threads. What else could Henry have meant by “if”? If Richard did as he was bid and if Eleanor acquiesced, then the succession would remain unaltered. But how could Henry possibly imagine that Eleanor would ever agree to any arrangement that deprived Richard of Aquitaine any more than Richard would agree? Alais repressed an almost overpowering urge to scream at the top of her lungs, but all she could do was wait. Wait and seethe in silent fury.
“I will never agree to John’s becoming duke of Aquitaine. Never. Never. Never,” Eleanor cried, laying her hands flat upon the oak table.
Alais, seated next to Richard at the table, winced and hoped no one had noticed. The “special court” Henry had called was by this time reduced to a rancorous meeting of Henry, Richard, Geoffrey, and Eleanor, but not John. Henry’s justiciars, his chancellor, and the bishops of London and Winchester were also in attendance but, like Alais, took no part in the proceedings. At the feast held a few days earlier, an effort had been made to present a picture of family harmony, although Alais doubted anyone was deceived. But there in the council chamber, claws were unsheathed and teeth bared as tempers rose and accusations were hurled back and forth. Eleanor looked regal and elegant in purple and gold, still vital and beautiful despite the passage of years, and was certainly not cowed by her long confinement. Count Geoffrey wore what Alais thought of as his Judas smile; Richard’s face resembled a black thundercloud. Never once did he glance at his brother, and Alais felt certain that this time he would never forgive Geoffrey, or the absent John, for joining forces with his father against him. She, for one, could not blame him.
“Your imprisonment has not made you any easier to deal with,” Henry shouted back.
“Did you expect it would?”
“One could only hope that solitude and reflection would impart wisdom!” Henry thrust his jaw forward in a pugnacious manner. “Why shouldn’t John have Aquitaine since Richard will have everything else? Give me one valid reason.”
“It has not been made official that I will have ‘everything else,’” said Richard in a hostile tone.
“I have only Brittany, brother.” Geoffrey’s voice was smooth as honey. “John will have only Aquitaine. Since you are now the eldest, of course you will rule England, Normandy, Anjou, and Maine, although it is so small it is hardly worth mentioning.”
“John will also have Ireland, won’t he? And in regards to myself, I do not share your certainty, brother. Why has no attempt been made to crown me?” Richard gave Henry a challenging look.
Alais had kept her head lowered during this heated exchange and she slid a sideways glance at Richard, observing how the blue of his tunic matched the deep blue of his eyes. An invisible crown hovered tantalizingly over his red-gold head and Alais found herself drawn to him despite his flaws. No longer in his father’s shadow, he seemed a powerful figure in his own right now. As powerful as Henry? Not yet. But she sensed that day would come.
“Crown you while I live? Do you think I am fool enough to repeat that disastrous mistake?” Henry snorted. “When you have agreed to my proposal, we can discuss your future in more detail.”
It occurred to Alais that while John appeared to be the issue, there was something else at work. Something that lay like a dark shadow just under the surface of things. Henry might not even be aware of it, although she sensed it had to do with him and Richard. Whatever it was, Alais felt a sudden chill race through her and hastily crossed herself.
“John has neither experience nor training in the administration of a duchy like Aquitaine,” Alais heard Eleanor say.
“Not now, no. But we are talking about the future, aren’t we? Meanwhile, the boy will be going to Ireland to rule—”
“Then let him cut his teeth on Ireland! When he has proved himself successful with the Irish chieftains, then we can discuss Aquitaine again.”
In the silence that followed, Alais cautiously lifted her head and was startled to see Eleanor appraising her down the length of the table. This was the first time since the meeting began that Eleanor had acknowledged her presence. The look of icy disdain on Eleanor’s face, which had once reflected only love, took Alais’s breath away. The queen’s gaze moved on and Alais felt as if she had suddenly shrunk to the size of a pea. Holy Mother, Eleanor knew!
The meeting ended but the bickering and bitter arguments continued on into the New Year. Unable to get agreement from either Eleanor or Richard, Henry dropped the subject of Aquitaine. But in a turn of events that astounded everyone, he publicly announced that in addition to ruling Brittany, Count Geoffrey would also assume temporary control of Normandy. At Westminster it was whispered in corners that the king had called Richard a stubborn mule and the two had almost come to blows. Now it was predicted that Henry was going to replace Richard as heir with Count Geoffrey.
The day after Twelfth Night, with nothing official decided, a pleased Count Geoffrey left for Normandy, a furious Richard stormed back to Poitou, and Eleanor was sent back to Salisbury. Alais, disheartened by all the rumors flying about, decided to find out the truth. She mentioned the subject one afternoon in mid-January while she and Henry were out hawking in the countryside east of Westminster with an escort of nobles and attendant women.
“Is it true that you intend to make Count Geoffrey your heir?” she asked, ensuring they were well out of earshot.
“Have you heard me say so?”
“Well, no. But everyone assumes that will be the case since you made him custos of Normandy. I’m surprised you find him a suitable candidate to take over your domains.”
They rode to the top of a hillock as a crane appeared over the horizon flying in their direction.
“Eminently suitable. But I wouldn’t expect you to think so, since your interests lie elsewhere.” Henry unhooded his white Norwegian gyrfalcon and lifted his wrist; she soared gracefully into the gray winter sky.
Alais bit back a sharp retort. “Everyone says that during the siege in Limoges he tried to kill you: how can you ever trust him again?”
“‘Everyone’ was not present at the time. And I doubt anyone who was could swear an oath in court as to what actually happened.” Henry’s gaze followed the gyrfalcon’s flight. “Since then Geoffrey has behaved like a dutiful son. Brittany prospers under his rule and his subjects like and trust him.”
“So my brother told me when I was last in Paris.” Philip claimed to be fond of all of Henry’s sons, but the count of Brittany was his obvious favorite. Alais had never understood why.
“Did Philip also tell you that Geoffrey has codified Breton customs and instituted laws regarding wardship and marriage such as we have in England?”
Alais shook her head impatiently, doubting whether Philip even knew these details.
“And his wife, Constance, has recently given birth to a daughter. The only one of my sons to produce children thus far. Geoffrey’s accomplishments in Brittany are very impressive and, I must admit, something of a surprise.” Henry paused. “Harry, may he rest in peace, would never have been a conscientious ruler, I now realize. And Richard seems to have done little but instill hate and fear into his subjects.”
He tilted his head back as the gyrfalcon flew in ever-higher circles over the crane. “And do you know why? Because in his heart he has no love for the duchy, and his people know it. He is a great warrior but not a monarch. If my empire is left in Richard’s hands after I am gone—” Alais saw his black gauntleted fists clench tightly on the reins. “Chaos will reign.”
When he turned his head to glance at her, Alais saw that his eyes were dark as storm clouds.
“Richard chafes to go on crusade to the Holy Land. To raise funds for such a foolhardy venture he could easily mortgage parcels of land on both sides of the Channel. He is also capable of depleting the knight service of Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine to gather men for his army, leaving these lands to the mercy of predators such as France, Burgundy, or Toulouse.” His face was contorted with emotion.
“But surely Eleanor would never allow him—”
“God’s eyes, she is eleven years older than I,” Henry interjected with some heat. “Is it likely she will outlive me? I tell you there will be no one, after I am gone, no one to stop Richard from doing whatever he wants!”
Remembering what Bertran de Born had told her about Richard’s obsession with the Holy Land, Alais could see that Henry might have cause for concern. Henry had revealed that he and Richard had confronted the meddlesome de Born before their return from Aquitaine; the troubadour had sung a planh in honor of the young king, a lament of such exquisite beauty and sorrow that Henry, moved to tears, had granted him clemency and offered restitution for the damage done to his lands. Richard had been furious. Was this part of the dark shadow between them that she had sensed in the council chamber?
“What my great-grandfather conquered in 1066, well over a hundred years ago now,” Henry continued, “what my grandfather and mother fought so hard to maintain, what Eleanor and I devoted our lives to expanding—for Richard to place it all in jeopardy merely to have the cross rather than the crescent flag fly over Jerusalem is sheer lunacy.”
Alais had rarely heard such passion in Henry’s voice, and wondered if he were even aware that he had mentioned Eleanor’s name. She had been tempted to tell him that she was sure Eleanor knew about their liaison but always held back at the last moment.
“As God is my witness, I will do all in my power to prevent that from happening.” He crossed himself.
“Then you will make Count Geoffrey your heir?” With the prospect of a crown fading before her eyes, all that mattered to her was which son would inherit Henry’s domains.
“Is that what I said?”
The gyrfalcon stooped in a flash of snowy feathers and caught the hapless crane in its cruel talons. Fuming, Alais wished she could do the same to the king of England.
The winter months passed. In mid-Lent Henry knighted the eighteen-year-old John, and sent him off to rule Ireland. A sennight later, embassies arrived from both Jerusalem and the Holy See with the urgent request that King Henry lead an army to defend the Holy Land, which was in danger of being attacked by the infidel. Henry responded that as soon as he had dealt with rebellious vassals at home he would come to the aid of Outremer. Meanwhile, he would donate funds. Alais suspected that he had no intention of going, just as she surmised that Richard would be eager to go but dared not leave his explosive duchy.
Then trouble erupted in Ireland. Less than a month after his arrival, John had managed to outrage both the natives and the Norman settlers. He had mocked the Irish chieftains for their quaint costumes and long flowing beards, taken lands and castles away from Norman vassals to give to his friends, and seduced the daughters of noble families. Henry’s council members urged him to recall John before he dissipated all his father’s power in Ireland.
Alais watched Henry go about his daily activities with tight lips, a grim expression on his face, and bloodshot eyes. His temper was on a short rein and Alais, like others at Westminster, kept out of his way. Locked in some private world of his own, Henry did not honor her bed and neither did he speak to her privately. Alais had seen him like this before and learned to suffer through the foul mood till it passed. To her surprise, he took no immediate action regarding John. She imagined that the thought of Eleanor being proved right was like gall and wormwood to Henry’s pride.
Soon after the ill news about John, word came that Richard had launched an attack on his brother, Count Geoffrey, and taken him prisoner. Within days, Henry had crossed the Channel to confront his warring sons. It was the curse of the devil’s brood come home to roost, so the rumormongers said. Soothsayers forecasted “slaughter by the sword,” “universal carnage,” “the fall of mankind,” and the like.
Growing fearful for her own future, Alais wrote to her brother, Philip, suggesting that she was in a helpless position, a victim of shifting politics at the English court, and alarmed that Richard’s conflict with his father would prevent any chance of a marriage. Hopefully, this would goad the king of France to act on his sister’s behalf. She also toyed with the idea of hinting to her brother that she had been violated against her will, but decided against it. Best not to use that ploy unless absolutely necessary. Alais could not predict what would happen. It was possible that Henry would attack Richard, or Richard turn on his father. If this occurred, who would be the victor? She intended to be prepared for any eventuality.
A loud knocking on the door startled Eleanor awake.
“Open the door, madam, on the king’s orders.” Ranulf de Glanville’s voice.
“Light another candle,” Eleanor said to Amaria, who was rubbing her eyes. “Hurry.” She guessed it was well past matins. What could de Glanville want at this hour? she wondered.
Still dazed with sleep, Eleanor slipped out of bed and groped for her chemise in the semi-darkness of the chamber illuminated only by a guttering candle. The chamber at Salisbury sprang into brightness as Amaria lit the seven-branched candelabra. Shivering in the chill of the April night, Eleanor hastily pulled on her chemise and looked for her fur pelisse.
“Madam? We are waiting.”
“Oh Lady, what can it mean?” Amaria began to wring her hands.
Terror seized her and she ran to the door, wrenching it open. “Has something happened to Henry? Or Richard? Holy Mother if—”
“No, no, nothing of that nature.” Ranulf stood in the passageway with several guards behind him. “We have just received word from King Henry that you are to depart for Southampton at first light. Pack sufficient for several months. I will send some attendant women to help you.”
Eleanor wondered if she could have heard him correctly. The last time she had seen her husband they had been at each other’s throats. “You mean—I am to cross the Channel?” He nodded. “You swear to me before God that nothing has happened to any member of my family?”
“So far as I am aware, nothing.” Ranulf crossed himself. “Although if Duke Richard, without provocation, can take his own brother prisoner, who is to say what he may do next?”
Eleanor, already aware of this deplorable news and still unable to account for it, could tell from his tone that he had lost all patience with Richard, who had certainly lost his head and acted unwisely. “Do you know where I am to go once I have made the crossing?” she asked quickly, changing the subject.
He shook his head. “I am as much in the dark as you, madam. However, it is safe to assume that for King Henry to have summoned you so urgently he must be hard-pressed and ready to take extreme measures.”
“Extreme measures? Where?”
“Make ready to leave.”
She was sure Ranulf knew more than he had told her, but before she could press him further he quickly closed the door. It was eleven years since Eleanor had crossed the Channel, the last time as Henry’s prisoner. Elated by this relative taste of freedom, she was also anxious about what awaited her at the other end of the journey. Did Henry want her to persuade Richard to release Geoffrey? Certainly a valid reason to send for her, but she sensed something of even more import was at stake.
After a smooth crossing, Eleanor’s vessel landed at Barfleur two days after leaving Southampton. It was dusk and the vespers bell was ringing. At the quay her party was met by an escort of six Norman knights, who rushed her to a nearby inn, where she was taken immediately to an empty chamber. One knight posted himself outside the door; another brought her a hot meal then left her for the night. Exhausted, she fell asleep on the narrow bed without removing her clothes.
The next morning at cockcrow a knight brought her a tray with fresh wheaten bread and a pewter goblet of wine. A black veil hung over his arm. “You will be traveling in a closed litter, madam,” he said, “but when we stop for the night, for food, or when you attend Mass, you are strictly forbidden to talk to anyone. Lest you be recognized and your presence excite undue action, you will wear this veil in all public places.”
“You mean someone might attempt to rescue me?” She raised her brows. “I am flattered you think I will even be recognized after all this time.” If Henry did not want it known she was there, then why bring her to the Continent? Something was certainly brewing, but what it might be she could not even begin to imagine.
Outside it was a morning of high wind with huge black clouds driving in from the west, bearing with them the promise of heavy rain. Treetops were bowed and the salt air thick with mist. Typical weather for this Channel port even in late May, Eleanor recalled with a shiver, and pulled her fur-lined cloak more closely about her shoulders. In addition to the knights, a groom had been added to look after the two sumpter horses that carried the saddlebags. Thank the Holy Mother the litter was large, well cushioned, and filled with fur-lined blankets for her comfort. When the horses turned south Eleanor, who had wondered if Rouen was her destination, decided they must be going to Argentan or Domfront. The continuous rain made it impossible to open the litter curtains even a crack, so she had no way of knowing where they were headed. But after three days of traveling, Eleanor realized that they must have crossed the Normandy border into Maine, and conjectured that Angers was their destination. It was the family seat of the House of Anjou and, as far as she knew, free of strife.
Two days later the rain eased. When Eleanor was able to move aside the litter curtains, she was surprised to see that the landscape resembled that of Touraine. So Angers was well behind them and they would soon be approaching the borders of—Poitou! Her heart leapt in anticipation. It had never occurred to her that Henry would dare to bring her back to her own duchy. And while she was delighted at the prospect, she could not fathom the reasoning behind it. Off to the right lay the road leading to Fontevrault. A few hours later the gray towers and turrets of Chinon loomed on the horizon.
The following morning Eleanor opened the litter curtains wide and—there it was. Her beloved Poitou. Feeling as if her senses were starved and famished for sustenance, her gaze could not feast enough on the sight of fleecy clouds dotting a pale-blue sky, peasants sowing freshly plowed fields, and young green leaves adorning the trees. She felt intoxicated with the warmth of the spring sun, the scent of hawthorn and lilac, the caress of a light breeze on her face. Everything seemed achingly familiar—the sudden flight of a bird, a church steeple rising against purple hills, the glint of a far-off castle—and yet subtly strange as well.
On her left, she recognized the narrow track that led to Châtellerault, Ralph de Faye’s castle. Her uncle had died in France, in the fourth year of her imprisonment; she still missed his turbulent presence. Soon they passed by small villages, an occasional windmill, and an outpost keep. The litter swung around a bend in the road and they came abreast of the Clain River, its waters gleaming in the rays of the afternoon sun. In the far distance, a blur of color shimmered on the horizon. Poitiers. She wanted to jump out of the litter, throw herself upon the ground, and embrace the very earth itself.
“Put your head inside, madam and don your veil,” said one of the knights, riding up beside the litter. “Close the curtains. Quickly.”
Eleanor was about to protest when she heard the sound that had prompted his order. A group of riders was fast approaching. She closed the curtains and a short while later felt the litter lumber to the side of the road. A thought struck her and she poked her head through the curtains.
“These riders must belong to either my son, Duke Richard, or my husband. How can we be in any danger?”
“If these are Brabantine mercenaries, we could be in grave danger,” replied a knight. “They tend to forget who has hired them if they think there is loot to be had or a noble wife to be held for ransom. Do not show yourself.”
Sweet Marie! Eleanor hastily withdrew her head and tightly closed the curtains. How could she have forgotten the routiers, whose grim handiwork she had seen firsthand. A necessary evil in these troubled times; she knew that Henry and her sons made use of them. The hoof beats became louder, slowed, then stopped. She could hear garbled voices, then a loud question.
“Who is in the litter?” Eleanor was stunned to hear a Poitevin accent.
“No one that need concern you. We are traveling on official business and I suggest you ride on.”
“Did you hear that, Auguste?” An outraged laugh. “This knave orders us to ride on! We give the orders here. Answer the question.”
The knight refused and there was the sound of an altercation. Suddenly the litter was violently shoved, the horses snorted, and Eleanor was thrown to one side. Someone began to push against the curtains, voices mouthed threats and curses, and the horses began to whinny in terror. Alarmed, Eleanor pulled the veil down over her face and looked around for a weapon. The litter was being buffeted back and forth like a ship tossed about on the crest of a high wave. Finally the door was wrenched open; someone grabbed her arm and forcefully pulled her out. Her veil was torn off and Eleanor found herself face-to-face with a plump man sporting a bright green cap on his dark head. He brandished a rusty sword.
“Sweet Saint Radegonde,” he said in surprise, letting go her arm. “A woman!”
Five men, Eleanor counted swiftly, one still on horseback, had, incredibly, managed to disarm the knights and were holding them at sword’s point. One glance told her that the men themselves were neither knights nor mercenaries. In truth, Eleanor had never seen such an odd assortment of unlikely attackers. Several wore rusty coats of chain mail that had obviously not been used in years, and one wore a stained blue smock. None had helms. Three were of middle years, one was a gangly youth, and the one on the horse a graybeard. Under any other circumstances this raggle-taggle group would have been laughable.
“What are we to do with her?” The plump man eyed her askance.
“She looks like a rich prize, Auguste,” said the man with the smock, looking at her speculatively. “Could we hold her for ransom?”
“Hold her where, dunderhead? In the bake house?”
All had Poitevin accents, so they must be townsfolk; the man on the horse and the one in the green cap even looked slightly familiar.
“We are on the king’s business,” repeated the knight, obviously embarrassed by the situation, “and you will regret having interfered with our mission. If we had not been ordered to avoid bloodshed at all costs, none of you would be alive now.”
“The king? Sweet Saint Radegonde, these Norman scum are from England!” The plump man with the green cap spat upon the ground. “And you are disarmed, spawn of a pig, because we are the better warriors.”
“Do you serve the duke of Aquitaine?” Eleanor asked, unable to repress a smile at this typical Poitevin arrogance.
A chorus of angry voices answered her.
“We are against both the young duke Richard and the old duke Henry, may their guts rot in hell!”
“We are our own men and will keep the devil himself from the gates of Poitiers!”
“If she were not chained in an English dungeon, we would be for the good duchess Eleanor, may Saint Radegonde protect her, for she is our rightful ruler!”
Tears sprang to Eleanor’s eyes and, taking a sudden backward step, she covered her mouth with trembling hands. Never in this world had she thought to hear such words again. She could see the men looking at her in amazement as she choked back a sob. Finally the graybeard painfully dismounted and tottered towards her, his skinny legs clad in elegant brown leather boots.
“Forgive us, madam, if we have frightened you—” he began, then stopped, staring at her. He shook his head and came closer, peering at her face. Suddenly his mouth fell open, he gingerly lowered himself to his knees and grasped her hand. “Your Grace? Is it really you? Has heaven sent you back to us? To think I did not recognize you! Blame these tired old eyes—” He began to laugh and cry all at the same time. “It is I, Lady, Hugues the cobbler, located on the Street of the Cobblers. You remember all the fine shoes I made for you? And my father before me served your father and grandfather.”
“Hugues, son of Alain! Yes, yes. The finest cobbler in Poitiers.” Tears ran down her cheeks.
Hugues rose painstakingly to his feet. “In all Poitou, madam.” He pointed a gnarled finger. “Here is Yves the baker, only a youth in your day but you knew his father, Yves the Elder, who supplied the palace with fresh loaves every morning. Of course you remember Auguste the tailor. This is his son, just a toddler when you left. And you may recall Jacques the tanner, who had his stall in the Tanners Lane. Look at them, will you, with their jaws dropping. God be praised, it is the Lady Eleanor, you dolts! Lady Eleanor come back to Poitou! Show a little respect.”
The men dropped their swords and crowded around her. Eleanor noticed the knights exchanging glances.
“These men are my friends.” Eleanor smiled through her tears. “There is naught to fear from them.”
The Poitevins, talking all at once with excited voices, sounded like a choir of angels to her ears.
“In all fairness, I was not chained in a dungeon,” she began, wiping her eyes.
“The details are irrelevant.” Auguste the tailor waved his hand dismissively. “It is the principle of the thing that matters.”
The men righted the litter, helped her in, then announced they would escort her personally into Poitiers. As the Poitevins rode along beside her, the knights following close behind, Eleanor sent a prayer of gratitude to the Holy Mother for giving her the first moment of pure happiness she had known in eleven years.
Yves the baker went on ahead to tell the townsfolk of her return, so that when Eleanor arrived, the gates of Poitiers were open and a huge crowd was waiting. Greeted by cries of joy from the Poitevins, she was borne in triumph through the streets to the Maubergeonne Tower. But no sooner was she safely inside than her guard of knights ordered the courtyard gates locked and everyone barred entry until the king was informed of her arrival.
“I demand that my people be allowed to see me,” she said, fuming.
“We only follow King Henry’s orders, madam,” said one of the knights. “On the road the situation got out of hand, but we now have it under control again.”
The vespers bell rang and Eleanor attended the evening service in the chapel. She recognized no one. When she took a light supper in an almost deserted hall there was not a single familiar face. She spent the night in her old chamber, which looked almost exactly the same. The canopied bed, the prie-dieu, the oak chest . . . nothing had changed since she left. Even several of her old tunics and a cloak still hung from a wooden pole protruding from the wall. But the brief spurt of happiness was gone; the joyous entry into Poitiers might have been a dream; once again she was in a situation that left her powerless to act. Unable to sleep, she prowled the chamber.
During her years of captivity in England, Eleanor had learned to make peace with her anger and bitterness, adopt a stoic attitude, and accept the inevitability of her fate. Or so she had thought. But in the atmosphere of discontent and rebellion that seethed in Poitiers, surrounded by the resistant attitude of her own subjects, old longings were reawakened and a sense of purpose she had thought long since dead began to stir. Her frustrations found a ready target in Henry. Whatever the reason he had brought her to Poitou, however urgently he might need her, she intended to refuse. It was the only weapon she had, except for her knowledge of his relations with Alais, although she never intended to throw that in Henry’s face, any more than she intended to tell Richard. But if it became necessary . . .
The next morning, having slept through prime, Eleanor forced herself awake. Trying to ignore her heavy head, she dressed carefully in a dark green tunic over a cream gown, rubbed her cheeks with pomegranate ointment, and dabbed oil of roses on her neck and hands. She made her way to the great hall, and while she was breaking her fast at the high table, Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey arrived to greet her. Geoffrey, she assumed, was no longer a prisoner and did not look as if he had suffered at Richard’s hands.
“Bring some food and wine to the small chamber off the hall,” Henry said to the steward, “and see to it we are not disturbed.” He nodded at Eleanor. “Join us when you are finished.” His attitude was decidedly unfriendly.
She had not seen her sons for twelve years and looked at them wonderingly, aching to take them into her arms. But when they knelt before her and kissed her hand in a perfunctory manner, their faces were like masks and their manner so detached that she could not bring herself to show her feelings. Later, she thought, later she would tell them how thrilled she was to see them, how deeply she had missed them. She watched them follow their father out of the hall. Dreading the upcoming conference and no longer hungry, Eleanor waited a few moments, then rose from the table. She walked slowly out of the great hall and down the passage to the chamber where her father and grandfather had always conducted their official business. Inside, the chamber was much as she remembered: oak chests filled with documents lined the walls; a copper brazier burned in one corner. Tall ivory tapers in silver holders cast a soft glow about the room.
Henry was already seated in a wooden armchair at the head of an oblong elmwood table, drumming restless fingers against its polished surface. Set in front of him was a pot of ink, quills, a small knife, and what looked like the official seal of Poitou next to a box of scarlet wax. Immediately on guard, she glanced at Geoffrey and Richard, who sat stiffly opposite each other, flanking their father. Behind them there were two black-robed clerks perched on tall stools holding wax tablets and styli, and another clerk wearing a silver chain of office and holding a sheaf of parchments. A secretary, she guessed, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Whatever Henry wanted her to sign obviously required witnesses. Wild horses would not induce her to comply.
“I understand there was some excitement yesterday,” Henry said, his eyes like flint.
Geared for battle, Eleanor smiled as she seated herself in another wooden armchair at the far end of the table. “Is that your description of Poitevin patriots disarming their enemies?”
“It is a disgrace that armed Norman knights were kept at bay by Poitevin rabble.” The vehemence in Richard’s voice took her by surprise. “If I had my way—”
“But you don’t have your way.” Henry gave him a hard look.
The steward and three varlets entered the chamber with wooden platters of smoking loaves, goblets of Gascon wine, and cold fish. Eleanor refused any food but accepted a goblet of wine. She wondered if the bread came from Yves’s bake oven.
“Out!” Henry waved his hand and the steward and servitors left at a trot. He broke off a hot crust then dropped it. “God’s eyes!” He licked his fingers. “Such an incident with your subjects will not happen again, madam, in the event you entertained dreams of a daring rescue. My men are on the alert. The guards around the Maubergeonne Tower have been doubled. Necessity forced me to bring you to Poitou, but your status as my prisoner has in no way altered.” He paused, obviously trying to gauge her reaction.
Eleanor’s heart plummeted but she kept her face impassive. She would not give him a crumb of satisfaction.
He broke off another piece of bread. “Two months ago I was forced to cross the Channel in order to rescue Geoffrey because his brother had invaded Brittany.” He glared at Richard. “Out of sheer spite, I might add, due to the fact I made Geoffrey custos of Normandy.”
“I do nothing out of sheer spite,” Richard countered vehemently. “I was convinced you were going to cheat me out of my inheritance in favor of either John or Geoffrey.”
“And attacking Brittany was supposed to make me change my mind?” Henry raked him with a contemptuous glance.
Richard’s eyes blazed, but Eleanor gave him a tiny warning shake of the head and he swallowed his rage. Eleanor silently agreed with Henry; it had been a foolish and impulsive action on Richard’s part.
“Fortunately, I was able to prevail upon Richard to cease hostilities and release Geoffrey, then I dragged both hotheads to Poitou,” Henry continued.
“If you had not intervened, Father, the Bretons would have repelled my brother,” said Geoffrey between his teeth.
Richard gave a mocking laugh. “And pigs have wings. Your camp was surrounded and you were my prisoner.”
“Unfortunately, Geoffrey, Richard is right. He and his forces were stronger than yours.” A grim expression crossed Henry’s face. “But it is obvious that matters can no longer continue as they have been. The duke of Aquitaine has made himself thoroughly hated in the duchy; even Anjou and Normandy fear him. Thus a major crisis looms in my dominions.”
“That is a gross exaggeration,” Richard began, with a scowl.
Henry held up his hand and he subsided. “But, I am relieved to say, Richard is prepared to see reason. I have ordered him to give up the duchy immediately and he has agreed.”
Eleanor gasped as shock and disbelief gripped her body. She shot an incredulous glance at Richard, who now sat with his arms folded across his chest, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Richard agreed to give up the duchy? To whom? Obviously not John. Was it Geoffrey? She steeled herself. Henry must have lost his wits altogether if he thought for one moment she would be a party to this outrage. Henry suddenly snapped his fingers. The secretary searched through his sheaf of parchments and handed one to Henry, who scanned it quickly.
“Yes, all appears to be in order.” He slid the document down the length of the table to where Eleanor sat.
With trembling fingers she read through the single page, exclaimed aloud, read it again, and looked up at Henry in total astonishment. “This—this returns Poitou to the duchess Eleanor, whose inheritance it is.” Overwhelmed, she could not go on. After a moment she reached for her goblet of wine.
“Not by choice, I assure you. Desperate times require desperate solutions. If the duchy reverts to its original ruler, that may quiet the fury of the Poitevins. Or so one hopes. If you have no objections then, please sign the writ.”
The secretary brought her the pot of ink and a quill, but still stunned, Eleanor looked at Richard. “You have no objections? You fully agree to this?”
Richard slowly nodded. “I would never allow John to rule in Aquitaine. But I am perfectly willing to govern the duchy in your name, Maman.”
“With less authority than before,” Henry said.
Richard sent him a smoldering glance.
Henry was giving the duchy back to her. Eleanor understood this with her reason, but her heart could not accept the enormity of it. “Richard, are you sure? To give up the land you love—” She shook her head in disbelief.
“I do not consider that I am giving it up.”
“In any case, my brother does not love Aquitaine.” Geoffrey stabbed a derisive finger at Richard. “He only hopes to milk its wealth to fund a precious crusade to the Holy Land,” said Geoffrey with a sneer. “The Faith is all that matters to him. Not Aquitaine.”
There was a dangerous glint in Geoffrey’s eyes, and Eleanor felt a frisson of alarm prickle the back of her neck.
“Of course the Faith matters! That is why I want to rescue the Holy Land from the infidel!” His face ablaze with color, Richard leapt to his feet. “God’s teeth, what better cause is there?”
“To govern your own land and protect its borders so well that peace and prosperity are ensured for your subjects,” Geoffrey shot back. “To acquire more territory through an advantageous marriage and to sire sons so that your line will continue. That is the more worthy cause.”
Astonished, Eleanor could hardly credit what she had just heard. This was a fair statement of what both she and Henry firmly believed, but that it should come from Geoffrey, of all her sons! She stared at the gooseberry-green eyes in the unnaturally pale face, the dark-auburn hair curling about his ears, as if she had never seen this son before. Of course she had heard of Geoffrey’s many accomplishments, which had earned him the admiration and approval of his Breton subjects. But she had not really given these reports any attention because—God forgive her—because they concerned Geoffrey, not Richard or Harry.
“The most noble calling is to serve God and fight in His cause!” Richard, his voice throbbing with passion, thrust his jaw forward. “How can governing a duchy, making a prestigious marriage, or producing sons matter compare to so honorable a venture?”
Eleanor felt icy claws clutch at her throat. Sweet Marie, it was like listening to the rantings of a fanatical ecclesiastic. Unable to stop herself, Eleanor looked at Henry, who, at the same moment, looked at her. Their gaze met in mutual dismay and stupefaction, unwitting allies against a son whose goals were so vastly different from their own. In the heat of his anger, Richard, she felt certain, had revealed the thrust of his own aspirations more openly than he intended. She had not realized he cherished such a commitment to the Holy Land.
“This may come as a surprise to our royal father and our lady mother. But not to me.” Geoffrey threw back his head in a mocking laugh. “Indeed, with your tastes, why should marriage or sons interest you?”
For an instant Richard looked taken aback. “I—what do you mean, my tastes?”
“I mean the tastes of a sodomite. Indeed, I have personal knowledge of them, having experienced your unwelcome attentions between the ages of ten and thirteen, when I was too young to defend myself.”
Before Eleanor could blink, Richard, his checks flaming, had leapt to his feet, whipped his sword out of its sheath, and, leaning across the table, pointed the blade at Geoffrey’s heart. Eleanor heard Henry’s sharply indrawn breath and noted the expressions of horror on the faces of the clerics, who hastily signed themselves. In an agony of embarrassment for Richard, she wanted to disappear through the floor. Most disturbing of all was the look of malicious pleasure on Geoffrey’s face as he held up his hands and slowly rose.
“Run me through, brother, if you dare.” Geoffrey’s voice dripped venom.
The point of Richard’s blade moved against Geoffrey’s chest and pierced the tan fabric of his tunic. Geoffrey did not move.
“No!” Eleanor leapt from her chair, ran to Richard, and pushed his arm aside, interposing herself between him and the table.
“Enough!” Henry also rose. “Richard, put up your sword lest I call the guards. Geoffrey, hold your vicious tongue and never again repeat such filthy lies about your brother. You will apologize to Richard, or I will order you to be whipped naked through the streets of Poitiers. You will not ride for a month, I promise you.”
Geoffrey turned ashen and took a backward step. Richard looked at his father in amazed disbelief and slowly sheathed his sword. In a rush of emotion, Eleanor was reminded why she still loved the extraordinary, exasperating demon of a man she’d married.
“I apologize,” Geoffrey mumbled.
“Say after me: ‘I humbly apologize for making up such vile falsehoods against my most beloved brother, Richard. There is not a single grain of truth in anything that I have said.’”
Geoffrey haltingly did his father’s bidding.
“Now give Richard the Kiss of Peace.”
Geoffrey, with a face as bitter as aloes, kissed Richard on both cheeks.
“You saw and heard Count Geoffrey’s recantation,” Henry said to the clerics and secretary with a look of such menace that they recoiled as one body. “If I hear one whisper, a single breath, of the lies told in this chamber, I will know where to look. There are always available cells in my dungeons.”
Henry took a deep breath. “Now, a contingent of Poitevin nobles awaits to see the signed writ, and their duchess as well. They will be overjoyed by this turn of events. A show of family support is in order.” He turned to Eleanor. “You will back me in this?”
“Absolutely.” She dipped the quill in the ink and signed the writ, noting that it already bore Richard’s signature. Did this mean she was to stay in Poitiers? She dared not let herself hope.
Richard would not meet her gaze and Eleanor’s heart ached for his humiliation. Geoffrey had not lied; she knew that just as Henry must know it. But his behavior was unforgivable. She had guessed the truth about Richard long ago, though she had never acknowledged it. Even to herself. How could she judge her son for being as God created him? But the deadly fear that lurked at the back of her mind could no longer be denied: What would happen to Aquitaine if Richard had no sons to continue the line?
“Give Richard and myself a moment with the Poitevins, then make an appearance,” Henry said to her.
“Since I have no part to play, my lord, I beg to be excused,” Geoffrey said.
Henry gave him a curt nod and, followed by Richard and the clerics, left the chamber. Eleanor was alone with Geoffrey. Still reeling from the combined shock of having the duchy returned to her, Richard’s untimely outburst, and Geoffrey’s forked tongue, she tried to compose herself before she faced the Poitevins.
“It is not just,” said Geoffrey, his eyes hard as agates. “Richard will have virtually the whole empire, which he doesn’t really want, and John, Ireland, if the chieftains don’t murder him first. I am a more able ruler than either of my brothers, yet all I have is Brittany.”
How did one respond to that? Eleanor wondered, since what he said was, in essence, true. “The matter is far more complicated than you might suppose.”
“It always is where I am concerned, isn’t it?” He picked up his goblet from the table. “The fact that no one has ever paid the slightest attention to my abilities or ever praised me for what I have achieved is only one of the many grievances I bear against my father, and you as well. Not to mention my beloved brothers. I had hoped that when my father made me custos of Normandy, he had at last recognized my true worth.” His voice was edged with bitterness. “But I suspect he will take that away from me now even though I am the most qualified.”
Eleanor tried desperately to think of something comforting to say.
“Neither you nor my father have ever cared for me,” Geoffrey continued, rage and anguish distorting his features. “My dead brother, who never accomplished anything in his entire life, was adored and cosseted by both of you. John is clever but a true monster, who will destroy everything he touches, as his behavior in Ireland makes clear. Still my father dotes on him. Richard is your favorite, yet he would pawn Aquitaine and will beggar England for his Holy Crusade. There is no justice for me within my own family.” He threw the contents of the wine goblet across the chamber. “I did not lie about Richard, but he is protected, while I am shamed. One day I will destroy my father for what he just made me do.”
Although all that he said was undoubtedly true, Eleanor could hardly bring herself to look at him. “Haven’t you already attempted patricide? I understand that in Limoges you did your best to kill him.”
Geoffrey gave her an icy smile. “Oh, not my best. Or he would be dead.”
“Geoffrey, Geoffrey, stop this wickedness! You are my son, and if I have failed you—” In despair, Eleanor, who did not know what else to do, held out her arms. “Let me make amends.”
“How touching. But you’ve left it a bit late for that, don’t you think?” He shrugged. “Never mind. I suppose it is too much to expect a mother to love all her children.”
Eleanor felt her cheeks burn. Geoffrey watched her with an unfathomable smile.
“But there are others who appreciate me, even if you and my father do not.”
“What others?” There was something in his voice that made her blood run cold.
“You will know soon enough.”
The steward put his head through the open doors. “Duke Henry is asking for you, madam.”
Geoffrey bowed and walked quickly from the chamber. Shaken, Eleanor followed. What would she know soon enough? This son was not one to make idle threats, and it would be folly to ignore his words. But the Poitevins were waiting and she could not deal with him just then. Later, when she was less distraught, when she had a moment to catch her breath, she would inform Henry, who could pursue the matter.
But when she next thought about Geoffrey it was too late. By dawn the following morning he had already left Poitiers.