IN JULY, ELEANOR STILL had not heard news of the final outcome of Henry’s precipitous voyage across the Channel that spring. Without waiting for the knight service of England to support him, he had been ill equipped to deal with Philip’s and Richard’s superior forces. The disastrous news that had arrived in June had come as no surprise. Anyone could have predicted it: Outmatched from the start and already ailing, Henry had suffered a series of humiliating defeats and was finally forced to flee for his life amidst the wreckage of his domains. Pursued by his enemies—including his son Richard—he had passed through Le Mans and gone to ground in Chinon. The terrible vision of Henry hunted like a wounded animal through the back roads of Normandy and Anjou tormented her day and night.
On a warm evening in late July she was sitting in her solar at Winchester sewing on a tapestry with her women, when the steward burst in.
“A group of knights are approaching the gates, madam,” he said urgently.
In an unsteady voice she ordered him to tell the marshal of Winchester to open the city gates.
Aware of the pounding of her heart, she descended the winding staircase and came out into the torchlit courtyard, where grooms and men-at-arms awaited the new arrivals. A short time later she watched the riders trot into the courtyard as a cloud passed over the moon. She stifled a cry when she saw William Marshal dismount from his lathered horse, toss the reins to a groom, then slowly fall to one knee at her approach.
“I bring you greetings, Lady, from your son Richard—king—king of England.” The words fell like stones from his bloodless lips. When he rose to his feet, Eleanor saw his eyes were filled with sadness and his face gaunt with fatigue. “The new monarch has ordered that any remaining strictures to your freedom be removed and he has made you regent of England during his absence.”
Henry was gone. For the last two and a half months, it was what she had steeled herself to hear. What else had William said? Richard had named her—regent? She was now regent of England? It was too much to take in, and her knees almost gave way. In the next breath she was assaulted by the searing realization that she would never see Henry again. No! Her heart screamed out in fierce denial. How could that vital presence, that forceful personality, and unrelenting energy be no more? It was not possible.
“I am honored that King Richard chose to make me his regent.” King Richard. Sovereign of England. It was what she had wanted, had schemed for, and fought to achieve. And now—now she realized that for her there would only be one king.
“Were you with King Henry when—” She could not go on and swayed for an instant, clutching at her heart.
William shook his head. “Chinon was in chaos. Geoffrey the chancellor and myself were trying to maintain order there. King Henry died alone in his chamber, may God assoil him.”
“No!” The cry was torn from her throat. Fighting to maintain some semblance of royal dignity, Eleanor’s fingers shook as she crossed herself. Holy Mother, she had always sensed a dark shadow hanging over that grim fortress.
“John?” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s. “Surely John was at Chinon with him?”
“Prince John deserted his father at the last.” A spark of fury burned in William’s eyes. “When he saw which way the wind was blowing, he joined King Philip and his brother, Richard.”
Trust John not to be caught on the losing side. Moments passed while Eleanor tried to pull her shattered wits together. The moon still lay under a cloud and in the darkness lit only by flickering torches, she began to walk back and forth, as if by the very motions of her body she could keep the demons of anguish at bay. William kept pace beside her.
In a low voice William described the horrifying sequence of events. “Although King Henry was ill and his strength ebbing, Philip and Richard were relentless in their pursuit. They torched Le Mans but we were able to hold them at bay so that King Henry could reach Chinon.”
Eleanor gripped her hands tightly together but did not speak.
“By then we knew it was over. Later the king was forced to leave Chinon, acknowledge defeat, and agree to outrageous terms that robbed him of all authority, pride, and dignity. By this time my lord was so ill we had to hold him upright on his horse lest he fall to the ground.”
Another anguished cry escaped from Eleanor’s throat.
“The king was ordered to give his son the Kiss of Peace but, defiant to the last, my lord refused and threatened Richard with revenge.”
Yes. She would have expected that. A man who so doggedly pursued his own star would never ask quarter from his enemies, or even demand justice.
“The king was taken back to Chinon and there he died, his heart broken.” William signed himself. “By the time the chancellor and I were able to go to him, his body was stripped bare of clothes and jewels and the culprits—recently hired servants, we assumed—had fled. Geoffrey fell on the body near senseless, weeping and ranting like one possessed. I had to leave him at Chinon as he was in no fit state to travel.” His voice trembled as he struggled to gain control.
“Thus passed from this world the greatest king in Christendom.” He paused. “King Richard may command and receive my loyalty, but he will never command my heart.”
Eleanor staggered forward and would have fallen had William not caught her arm. After a few moments she made a motion for him to go on.
“After my lord’s death there were those who claimed that King Henry was accursed, had angered God, and this was His punishment—” William’s voice rose in indignation. “But I lay my lord’s shameful passing on the enmity of Philip of France, on John’s treachery, and on Richard’s willingness to destroy his father. May God forgive them for this crime, for I will not!”
Torn between her love for both Richard and Henry and sickened by their actions toward each other, Eleanor stumbled over to a stone bench and sank down. “Henry died shriven, in God’s grace?”
William nodded. “We wrapped the body in whatever we could find, put on his finger a ring of base metal borrowed from a knight, and gave him a makeshift scepter taken from a holy statue. A heavy gold fringe was generously donated by a local lady, who ripped it from her own tunic. This became King Henry’s crown.”
Eleanor started. How Henry would have enjoyed knowing that even in death women looked to please him.
“The king’s body was taken to the abbey church of Fontevrault for burial.”
A tiny breath of relief escaped her. Fontevrault had always been a place of refuge for both Henry and her.
“While the body lay on the bier, King Richard came to pay his respects,” William continued. “Some claimed he wept as he gazed down upon his father, though I saw no evidence of tears.” He crossed himself. “But I did see blood. As God is my witness, Lady, blood suddenly flowed from the corpse’s nostrils.”
“Blood?”
“It is well known that a corpse will bleed in the presence of its murderer.”
Holy Mother, could William really believe that? Would others believe that Richard had, in effect, murdered his father? Eleanor felt her own blood turn to ice in her veins. “Leave me,” she whispered. “I am grateful for all you have done, but I can bear no more.”
He nodded his understanding and walked away.
A night wind rose, causing the torches to flicker and cast eerie patterns on the ground. Alone in the moonlit courtyard, William’s tale echoed like a death knell in Eleanor’s ears as she went over and over all he had told her, trying to impose a kind of order on what was disordered and contradictory and inexplicable. She closed her eyes. How was she to go forward in such a turmoil of spirit? If this moment was unbearable, how would she live through the next moment, and the one after, and the one after that? Unable to endure the prospect of what lay ahead, she had nowhere to turn but the past. In memory, her thoughts retraced the road she and Henry had once traveled together, revisiting the different seasons of their lives. Hardly conscious of the passing of the hours, she barely heard the bells ring for lauds. But at the end of the journey, when the stars were slowly fading and clouds began to clear from the eastern sky, a glimmer of light broke through her inner darkness.
If Henry was accursed, it had not come from God or Philip of France or even his sons. But from Henry himself. He had grown into a great sovereign, but from his lofty perch of power he had come to believe that a great sovereign was permitted to do as he pleased without fear of consequences. Perhaps he had realized that he was accountable when he told her he was a good king but a bad man.
Tears spurted to Eleanor’s eyes and she let them flow. If Henry must stand accountable for his actions, what about her? Out of wounded pride and jealousy, she had allowed the disagreements between them to grow into an epic conflict that over time eroded the very foundations of the empire she had helped to create. If she had not plotted with his enemies to overthrow her husband, helped turn his sons against him, she would never have been imprisoned, Harry and Geoffrey might not have chosen to follow their deadly courses, and Richard might have become a dutiful son. For good or ill, she thought, we make the choices that determine our fates.
Startled by the sound of the cathedral bells, she looked up to find the courtyard filling with people. Drained but calmer, she rose stiffly to her feet and saw that the throng stretched through the castle gates and all the way down the high street. William Marshal and the bishop of Winchester walked across the courtyard to where she stood.
“The grievous news of King Henry’s death has spread like wildfire,” said the bishop.
Eleanor could see that many of the faces in the crowd were wet with tears; others looked stunned and disbelieving. Yet not three months earlier Henry had been reviled, taunted, and accused of being a tyrant. Now that he was gone, his fickle subjects resembled orphaned children, lost without him. She did not sense that they were friendly toward her.
“These people are grief-stricken and rudderless,” said William. “You are regent now, and you must say something to them.”
What could she say? You know what to do, Henry had said. But did she? The crushing responsibility of what awaited her—to try to keep the integrity of the Plantagenet empire from crumbling, to establish her son Richard, in truth a stranger to his subjects, on Henry’s throne—settled on her shoulders. She brushed a final tear from her eyes and took a shuddering breath as she straightened her back.
“Good people,” she began weakly. “I, Eleanor, queen of—” But she was no longer their queen, she realized in horror. Not since Henry’s death. In truth, despite all her efforts to serve them, Henry’s stiff-necked subjects had never really accepted her as queen of England, only tolerated her as their king’s foreign consort.
She looked at the shuttered faces then began again: “I, Eleanor, duchess of Aquitaine, by the grace of God”—her voice gained in strength—“and regent of England, do join with you on this day of sorrow as together we mourn the tragic loss of my esteemed and beloved husband and your most noble and puissant king of England.” She paused, uncertain how to continue.
God’s eyes, Nell, said Henry’s voice as clearly as if he were standing next to her. When have you ever been at a loss for words?
Eleanor found herself smiling. “A truly great sovereign, Henry Secundus Plantagenet worked tirelessly during his thirty-five-year reign to make England both safe and prosperous, a land where any subject could seek, and would receive, justice from his king.”
The scent of baking bread blew on the breeze. A pink glow transfigured the sky as the sun soared in splendor on the far horizon and the day grew bright. She had the crowd’s attention now, Eleanor realized, and they were depending upon her to replace Henry’s strength and purpose.
She would not fail them.