THERE WAS THE FAR-OFF murmur of voices. Someone was shaking Eleanor’s shoulder. Henry. “You’re insatiable, my lord,” she said drowsily.
“I beg pardon?”
Eleanor opened her eyes. A torch flared, blinding her.
“You must get up, Madam. The chaplain just woke me to say the king is ready to leave.” It was the voice of Emma, one of her women.
“Now?” The tiny room was in darkness but for the pool of light cast by the flickering torch. “At supper the king said we would not move on until noon at the very earliest. Have the bells rung for Prime?”
“Not yet, Madam. The first cock was crowing just a moment ago. The king wishes to move on at once.”
The first cock indeed! Eleanor started to laugh then groaned aloud. Sweet St. Radegonde, it seemed like she had just fallen asleep. “All right. I will need a moment to dress properly.”
Sometimes, she suspected Henry took a perverse delight in unsettling everyone. She sternly reminded herself of his oft-repeated dictum that a king must know his country and his people; the only way to accomplish this was periodic visits to outlying parts of the kingdom. Since Eleanor wholeheartedly agreed, she had little cause for complaint.
Emma lit the candle in its iron holder then wakened the two women sleeping on straw pallets. Eleanor sat up and yawned, shivering in the chill of a September morn. Her limbs ached, her neck was stiff, but she felt warm and peaceful inside. It hardly seemed possible she had made love on these straw pallets on the dirt floor of this—well, hovel was the only word for it.
When, as now, the court was on the move, many wagons carried all the administrative records, bedding, furniture, plates, pots, hangings, and linen, to make habitable the chill interiors of remote stone castles or primitive wooden halls. But last night, at Henry’s whim, the enormous royal train of 150 had been forced to camp in the middle of a forest, where none of these amenities were of any use. Indeed, Eleanor had witnessed several knights draw their swords over who would sleep in a tiny, evil-smelling hut that swine would have disdained.
“See if you can find some water to wash in,” she said to her women who, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, had stumbled to their feet. “And something to drink. It is too much to hope for a crust of bread.”
Uncomfortable as she was to have been awakened so early, it came as no surprise. Not after almost three years of living in England. When she and Henry were at one of their royal residences—Westminster, Windsor, Clarendon—life was invariably hectic, as Henry hurled himself into one activity after another, on his feet from morning until night, and expecting everyone around him to do likewise. But touring with him was unpredictable and chaotic in the extreme. After the birth of her last two children—another son, named Henry, born in 1155, two months after his father was crowned, and a daughter born the following year, called Matilda in honor of Henry’s mother—Eleanor had vowed she would no longer accompany him on these impossible tours. But when Henry cajoled her, she always gave in, her resistance melting like wax before flame.
Although Henry always promised to be consistent in his itinerary, the pattern never changed. If he announced to his vast entourage that they would leave at daybreak he was sure to change his mind and leave at noon. If he ordered everyone to be ready by noon, he would decide, like today, to depart at cock-crow. What a difference from the leisurely progresses of her grandfather and father, where every stop was carefully planned and adhered to, so as to ensure maximum comfort for everyone. The very idea of missing a well-prepared meal, at home or away, was unthinkable. “The Franks to battle, the Provenceaux to table,” was a common maxim.
Outside, Eleanor could hear the usual racket as the members of Henry’s traveling household bustled to load packhorses and mule-carts, saddle the riding horses, and grab something to eat from the remains of last night’s meal—if they were lucky.
“Are you up, Nell?” The familiar figure, clad in a short green mantle with draped green hood, and scuffed brown boots, burst into the hovel like a whirlwind of energy. “God’s eyes, you’re still abed.” Henry strode over to the stack of pallets, knelt down on one knee, pulled her to a sitting position, and gave her a great hug. “You’re not ill?” He felt the rounded curve of her stomach, just beginning to bulge with their fourth child.
“No, no, I’m fine. But you said we wouldn’t leave until noon.”
His lips lingered on hers. “Did I? Hmm. I must reach York before Vespers, catch the sheriff there off-guard, and see if he’s attending to his duties in the proper manner.”
“York! Where are we now?”
“Somewhere in the wilds of Yorkshire, I should think. Does it matter? Up, my lady, up, up, up! Make ready. No time to waste.” He jumped to his feet, pulling her with him. “What a sour look! You should be purring like a tame cat after last night.”
He was gone before she had time to protest. But he was right. She did, indeed, feel like purring.
An hour later, followed by a long line of creaking wagons, they were on the road—if one could call this muddy, deeply rutted track left by the Romans a road. In wet weather it would become an impassable bog. When she was carrying a babe, Eleanor sometimes felt more comfortable riding in a litter, but this morning the thought of being jolted up and down through such terrain was more than even her hardy constitution could bear, and she had opted to ride a gentle mare.
Riding next to Eleanor on a large bay stallion, Henry talked earnestly to Thomas, the chancellor, who rode on his other side. She had fervently hoped that Henry would leave him in London, but he had not done so. Eleanor knew Henry took Becket with him everywhere, implicitly trusted his judgment on every issue that concerned the realm, and, generally, regarded him as a boon companion. Although she had made successful attempts to get along with her husband’s chief magnates, such as the co-justiciars, Richard de Lucy and the aging Earl Robert of Leicester, as well as the nobles of Norfolk and Salisbury—even the archbishop of Canterbury had somewhat thawed toward her—the initial dislike between the Norman chancellor and herself had only increased since Henry’s coronation.
It was ridiculous, but Eleanor forced herself to face the humiliating truth: she was jealous. It was not an emotion she had experienced before Henry, and when she recognized its true nature, she was shocked. In her exalted position, there was something shameful in feeling as she did about Thomas.
She did not harbor such feelings about the scholars and wise men—John of Salisbury, Gilbert Foliot, bishop of Hereford, Hugh of Lincoln—whose interests Henry shared and who were always to be found about his court.
Nor did she feel the same about the various doxies she knew Henry dallied with when he was away from her bed and on his own. Jealousy would have been justified in those instances. Except that Eleanor’s sense of pride would not allow her to be seriously troubled by them. Casual fornication, a practice most men indulged in away from their wives, was without significance, and better ignored. After all, Henry was still insatiable where she was concerned, she reflected. In truth, she had never even felt curious about the lowly creatures upon whom he slaked his lust.
Eleanor shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, wishing she had something more substantial than sour ale and last night’s tough game and half-baked bread in her stomach. Well, it would just have to sustain her until Henry chose to stop or they came to a town or village. From the look of this God-forsaken country, that could be hours away.
The rolling green downs and grassy meadows of the midlands had changed to desolate untamed moor pocked with brown gorse, purple heather, and rocky crags that thrust upward from the earth like giant fingers. The weather had held for the last few days but in the pink light of dawn Eleanor noted banks of dark clouds gathered menacingly on the far horizon that could easily result in one of those fierce drenching rains for which the region was famous. A brisk wind whistling down from the Scottish marches had a sharp bite to it that penetrated the heavy cloak lined with red fox fur Henry had had made for her. Holy Mother, how she missed the balmy air of Aquitaine.
“I would have thought the queen would prefer the comfort of the litter,” Thomas said, sliding his dark eyes toward her.
Clearly he resented her presence and would have preferred to have Henry all to himself. So would she.
“Eleanor is a remarkable woman, Thomas. How many wives bounce back from childbed with such ease, travel everywhere while carrying a new babe—another son I feel sure—sleep uncomplainingly in the most wretched hovel, and still manage to look as beautiful and fresh as a rose in bloom?”
Henry’s freckled face broke into a broad grin and he reached out his hand to squeeze hers. Eleanor’s heart turned over. The uncomfortable nights and exhausting days, the dismal food and undrinkable brown ale suddenly became mild pinpricks because he had praised her for enduring them.
The look on Thomas’s face would have curdled milk, she noted with pleasure.
“This will be my third son,” Henry continued, “while poor Louis of France, who has not yet recovered from the loss of Aquitaine—or Eleanor—has only just now married again. I wager he’ll have only more girls with this Castilian wife. Was ever man so cursed?”
Ever since he became king, Henry appeared to gloat over every misfortune that befell Louis. Although it was true that as Henry’s star continued to rise Louis’s descended, Eleanor felt it unseemly to take such satisfaction in his rival’s ill luck. No good would come of it. Now she crossed herself, almost ashamed of her superstitious forebodings.
Unaccountably, the wind died; a pale sun rose into a slate blue sky; the dark clouds vanished. Like everything else in this strange land, even the weather was unpredictable. Off to the right, Eleanor could see the white spire of a church; to the left a small castle hugged a distant hilltop.
Henry turned toward Thomas. “I think it time a stable peace was negotiated between Louis and myself. Something to my advantage, naturally.”
Thomas nodded. “Indeed. I will think of a plan.”
As she listened, a sudden inspiration came to Eleanor. “Henry, I’ve just thought of something. If Louis—”
Thomas interrupted her with an indulgent laugh. “Do you leave the affairs of the realm to us, Madam.”
Ignoring him, Eleanor continued: “If Louis does have another daughter with his new queen—why not offer him our son, Henry, in marriage to her? Then as her dowry, ask for the Vexin back.” She had not suggested their eldest son, William, as the boy, now four, was weak and sickly; despite their constant prayers neither she nor Henry expected him to survive.
“By God’s splendor, what a bold idea!”
Eleanor knew that Henry had always resented giving up the Vexin, that much-prized Norman border territory, as the price for being recognized duke of Normandy.
“Think of the implications,” Eleanor said. “If Louis continues to produce nothing but daughters—who will ultimately reign over France?”
Henry caught his breath. He clapped a hand to his head. “Of course, of course! Henry III, Plantagenet, as the princess’s husband. Our son, king of France and England! What a political genius you are, Nell.” He laughed. “Thomas, you had better look to yourself lest I replace my chancellor with my queen.”
Eleanor was delighted at Henry’s response. At the glance of icy resentment Thomas sent her, she gave an inward shrug. Let the chancellor look to his own laurels. She pushed back the hood of her dark blue traveling cloak. Late morning now, the sun was growing warm.
“How far must we go?” she asked.
“Not far now. We’ve just passed Kirkstall, I believe,” Henry said, pointing to the south, “and are approaching the environs of York.”
Eleanor stifled a sigh of weariness. By Henry’s reckoning, “not far” might mean anything from two to seven hours.
Ahead lay a village of thatched cottages. Behind the village rose a large manor house. On the outskirts of the village a crowd of people were gathered before a huge oak tree with spreading branches whose leaves were just starting to turn a mixture of rust and gold. Under the tree a man sat in a high chair draped with scarlet cloth. He was flanked by two men seated on stools. Behind them stood a priest holding a box. Next to him was a young monk clad, like the priest, in a cowled white robe.
Henry drew rein near the tree then held up one hand. Behind him the long procession ground slowly to a halt.
The man in the chair glanced at the red-and-gold banner with three lions, rampant, carried by the herald. He leapt to his feet and approached Henry with a fawning bow.
“Your Majesty, it is a great honor to have you pass through our humble domains. I am Raoul de Fiennes, lord of this manor, at your service.”
With his long face and large yellow teeth, he reminded Eleanor of a horse.
Henry glanced around him. “What’s happening here that draws such a large crowd?”
“This morning I dispense justice, Sire. Nothing of importance, only the crimes of village folk.” He gestured to the two men sitting on stools. “Here are my steward and my marshal who will act as advisors. Behind them stands Father Joseph of the Cistercian monastery at Fountains Abbey, ready to administer any oaths on his box of relics.”
“Indeed, I am impressed. No wise man acts without counsel,” said Henry. “Now, my lord, we have not yet broken our fast this day. Do you think you will be able to provide nourishment for my entourage?”
De Fiennes looked at the vast train of men and horses, visibly paling as he managed a sickly smile. “Of course, Sire, we will do our best to oblige. My men will return at once to the manor …” He turned to his men and said something in an undertone. They sprang up and ran toward the village.
Henry smiled. “Excellent. Meanwhile Thomas and I will advise you in their stead.”
“There is no need—”
“But I insist. Justice is one of my great interests, and my chancellor, Thomas, has studied law in Bologna. Fortune smiles on you today, my friend.” He beckoned to one of his clerks.
Eleanor repressed a laugh. The poor man did not look at all pleased with what fortune had brought him. Shortly thereafter she was seated on a rough wooden bench while Henry and Thomas occupied the stools of the absent men.
They would never get to York at this rate, Eleanor thought with a yawn, untying the strings of her cloak. She looked with distaste at the rumpled skirts of her dove gray tunic. How she had looked forward to sleeping in a proper bed, soaking her limbs in a tub of hot water, and changing her clothes. She had seen Henry try important cases in the Curia Regis, the English royal council and court of justice, and had tried enough herself in Poitiers to find the prospect, at this moment, not even mildly interesting. Why Henry would waste precious time in this backwater she could not imagine. Her belly rumbled and she wondered what they would be given to eat.
“No, I do not have the right of high justice, the power of life and death over my people,” de Fiennes was saying in response to some question of Henry’s. “That belongs to the provost in York. But I can administer floggings and imprisonment as I deem necessary.”
“In truth, the law in these parts is a veritable jumble,” said the priest. “The royal—”
“But much improved since Your Majesty came to the throne close to three years ago,” de Fiennes added hastily. “Before that lawlessness abounded everywhere—”
“As I was about to say, my lord, the royal sheriffs have been among the worst offenders,” said the Cistercian, oblivious to de Fiennes’s warning glance.
“Unhappily, there is still much to be done.” De Fiennes glared at the priest.
“Despite my reforms, it is the same in many parts of England,” Henry said, adding in an undertone to Thomas, “Royal sheriffs in York. Don’t forget.” He nodded at de Fiennes. “Criminals go unpunished, innocent men are hanged. It will simply take more time to put these matters to rights. In my mind, there is only one way to bring order out of this chaos: ultimately one standard of law must apply everywhere.”
De Fiennes gave an incredulous laugh. “A law common to all men? Forgive me, Sire, but that is impossible. Why, the law often differs from village to village! Here, for example, we follow the customs of Normandy. In other parts of Yorkshire you will find traces of the old Danelaw, and not ten leagues away they follow yet another tradition.”
“A daunting task, I agree, and change will hardly occur overnight, but by the end of my reign you will see sweeping changes in the law, mark my words.”
Eleanor smiled to herself. Exactly the sort of challenge Henry thrived on. The clerk, she noted, had taken it all down.
By the time the bells had rung for Sext, the steward had produced a meager repast of dried apples, ale, hard wheaten loaves that had already begun to mold, soft white cheese, and cold boiled mutton. Eleanor forced herself to eat; there was no telling when the next meal might be forthcoming. Henry ate heartily, indifferent as usual to what went into his belly; Thomas, after one look, disdained all food, asking only for well water.
By the time they finished eating, the size of the crowd had doubled. De Fiennes’s men were still feeding the royal party and Henry, impatient as ever, suggested they start the trials.
The first three cases were commonplace and the crowd grew restive. The fourth case involved a rape. The crowd immediately perked up. A local knight paraded his buxom, teary-eyed daughter before the court.
“This girl claims to have been a virgin before being raped by this monk from Fountains Abbey,” de Fiennes said to Henry. He pointed to the young brother who stood next to the old priest. “The monk says she is lying.”
“The monk must be handed over to the local abbot,” Thomas said, glancing at the priest. “He cannot be tried by a lay court.”
“The monk is not yet on trial, my lord chancellor,” said de Fiennes.
Henry frowned. “Indeed, why not?”
“Well, it must be determined first if the girl speaks the truth. The father says that because she has been soiled he will not be able to make a suitable marriage for her. He demands recompense from the abbey because the monk has violated her.”
“There is no proof of that,” the priest said quickly.
“This surely is no light matter,” Henry said. “If the monk were an ordinary man he could be castrated and even blinded for raping a virgin.”
De Fiennes’s lip curled. “Before the ecclesiastical court, he will get off with a penance and mayhap a flogging.”
“That is hardly justice.” Henry gave Thomas a hard look. “If it is a lay crime he has committed, he should pay the same penalty.”
“I must contradict you, Sire,” Thomas replied with heat in his voice. “ ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and unto God—’ ”
“Yes, yes, I’m aware of all that. Don’t preach at me. But that is not justice, Thomas, and well you know it.”
Eleanor looked from one man to the other. For an instant there was an unaccustomed tension between them she had not seen before. Henry broke it with an outward shrug.
“All right. The monk is not on trial here so we waste time. How will the maid prove she is telling the truth?”
“She will carry a bar of heated iron for three paces before witnesses. If, at the end of three days, the burn is no more than half the size of a walnut she will be accused of bearing false witness.”
Eleanor was outraged. “Has a midwife examined her? This is barbaric.” She had no right to speak at this court but could not keep silent.
“That has been done, Madam,” said de Fiennes. “That she is no longer a virgin has been verified, but the girl may be protecting the real culprit by accusing this monk.”
What reason would the girl have to wrongly accuse the monk? Eleanor wondered, but dared not protest further.
When the bar of hot iron was placed in the girl’s hand she ran three paces, screamed, then dropped the bar and fell to the ground in a swoon. Her father picked her up and carried her off toward the village. The monk had a sly look on his face. Eleanor felt sick to her stomach. She fervently hoped that the burn was the size of at least three walnuts, thus proving her innocent.
The fifth case involved three mercenary soldiers said to have invaded a large neighboring farm, stolen a horse, a pig, and several chickens, insulted the women, and severely beaten the farmer and his son. One of the men was caught while two escaped. The captured man, his hands tied behind him, vehemently protested his innocence.
“Pure and guiltless indeed,” said de Fiennes with a sneer. “The unvarying plea of the accused.”
“Perhaps he is telling the truth,” Henry said.
“Not likely. My men found him in the forest in company with the other brigands,” said de Fiennes. “It is his misfortune that he was caught and they escaped.”
“I don’t deny these men are my comrades,” the accused cried. “In truth, I was waiting for them. I knew they had gone into the village for food but I did not go with them, nor did I know what they had in mind.”
“But you know where they’re hiding, I’ll wager,” de Fiennes said.
The man shook his head, his eyes darting anxiously from Henry to de Fiennes. It was obvious to Eleanor he was refusing to betray the lair of his comrades, but whether he was guilty of the crime as charged she could not be sure.
“Ordeal by water will determine the truth or falsehood of what this rogue says, then a severe flogging should produce the whereabouts of his accomplices.” De Fiennes summoned a guard. “Prepare the cask.”
“Such practices prove nothing,” said Henry. “How can the size of a scar prove whether someone is lying? Is the water to know whether this man is guilty or not?”
At his words a ripple of interest stirred the crowd of onlookers. De Fiennes looked shocked. “But Divine punishment will be meted out to the perjurer. It is well known.”
“It is blasphemous to suggest otherwise,” said the Cistercian priest, crossing himself. “It is how God makes His will known to us. Like nobles fighting in single combat to prove their guilt or innocence.”
“In the belief that God will grant the decision to the one whose cause is just.” Henry shook his head in disgust. “Another foolish custom I deplore.”
A huge cask near the tree was filled with water, a wooden board set across its top. As a child, Eleanor had once witnessed an ordeal by water, a custom now fallen into disuse, in Poitou at least, for the very reasons Henry had given. The accused was bound with a rope attached to his shoulders and dumped into the cask. If innocent he was supposed to sink; if guilty he would float. Of course by the time he was hauled up he was often more dead than alive so his proven innocence did him little good. This had been the case in Poitiers.
Two guards started to bind the man with rope; the priest came forward with his box of relics to administer the oath of innocence. Henry rose slowly to his feet.
“Wait! There must be a better method to determine the guilt of this man, one closer to the Divine will. As I recall, the Saxons had a way …” He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin.
Slowly he walked over to the crowd who fell back at his approach. “You, you, and you,” he said at length, pointing at three men. He turned and singled out four more, then pushed his way into the crowd and indicated five others, all of different ages. “Twelve of you—the number of the Apostles as well as the tribes of Israel—should be enough.” He smiled at the priest. “It was enough for Our Lord. Come with me.”
The bewildered men followed him to a place on the far side of the tree.
“Stay there, don’t move,” Henry said. “Now, bring this man here and let him stand thus—” he indicated a place in front of de Fiennes. The accused was led to the spot Henry indicated. “Good, good.” He reflected again, frowning.
Eleanor watched both de Fiennes and the priest turn rigid with disapproval at this variation in custom. Thomas looked interested. What in heaven’s name was Henry up to? Some old Saxon custom not used since before the Conquest? In the midst of a tense silence Eleanor felt a stir of excitement, aware that the crowd felt it too, as if everyone present were going to witness a startling event.
“All right,” Henry said at last, “bring forward the farmer and his son who were robbed and beaten, the women who were insulted, and anyone else who claims to have been wronged by these mercenaries.”
“Majesty, at the risk of offending you, I strongly protest this grave departure from tradition,” said de Fiennes, no longer able to contain his outrage. “This contravenes the law of both God and man. My own guards saw this man with his comrades before they escaped. The others had the stolen chickens and pig in their arms. This man was holding the horse’s headstall!”
“They had just that moment put the rope in my hands!” the accused shouted.
“Silence.” One of the guards gave him a shove and he fell to the ground. The guard hauled him roughly to his feet.
“As my lord de Fiennes has said, this goes against all custom and violates God’s law as well,” the priest said, sputtering in his anger. “My lord chancellor, it is not our place to—can you not explain matters to the king?”
Thomas looked from the priest to Henry. “He has a point, Sire. After all, this is their territory and we but trespass here. Would it not be best to let them manage affairs in their own way?”
It was indeed a valid point. Eleanor saw Henry hesitate. She did not know why but she was convinced he must not stray from the path he trod.
“Henry,” she called out. “If customs forever remain the same, how can England change its laws?”
It was the support he needed. “No, Thomas, in this instance I must override all of you. What the queen says is true, but there is another, more important, point to be made. Man has the ability to reason, to judge right from wrong. Is not this God-given? Surely Our Lord expects us to use His gift so He does not have to directly intervene at every turn.”
Henry surveyed the twelve men. “Are any of you related to this man by blood or marriage? Do any have aught to gain if this man prove either innocent or guilty?”
They all shook their heads.
“Do you all swear to Our Heavenly Father that you speak the truth?”
They all swore that they did.
“Then let us proceed. Now, I may ask questions of the relevant parties, your lord will ask questions, and my chancellor may ask a few. When the questions and answers are complete, you will discuss the matter among yourselves and pass judgment, although the final decision, of course, rests with your lord. Do you understand?” He impatiently eyed the group, who appeared dumbfounded. “On the evidence presented you will determine if the accused lies or speaks the truth, is that quite clear?”
“It is clear to me,” said one of the men.
“Good. You will be the spokesman for the group. Let us begin.”
Eleanor found herself spellbound by what was happening. The farm women, the farmer and his son, the Lord de Fiennes’s men were all brought before the court and interrogated. It soon became clear that the man was telling the truth. All the farm people denied ever having seen the accused on their property; only the guards gave incriminating evidence, having caught him with his comrades in the forest.
The twelve men talked together for only a few moments.
“We are ready to pronounce judgment,” said the spokesman to Henry.
“Are you all in agreement?”
“We are.”
“How do you find?”
“We find he is telling the truth.”
Henry turned to de Fiennes. “You are the arbiter of justice here, my lord. What say you to this verdict?”
De Fiennes, his nose clearly out of joint, gave a reluctant nod. “The man is innocent. Untie him—but he must still tell us where his comrades are hidden.”
The accused burst into tears and fell to his knees in front of Henry.
“Oh, my lord, Sire, I am your man forever. As God is my witness, I will be your grateful servant until my death.”
“God’s eyes, get up, man, no need for such a display,” Henry said in a gruff voice, clearly embarrassed. “And don’t tamper with your good fortune,” he added softly. “Tell what you know.”
The accused nodded and was led off by de Fiennes’s guards.
Within moments the crowd had surrounded Henry, doffing their caps, even daring to touch him with a kind of shy reverence. Their affection and respect was palpable.
“Our king executes swift justice with a strong hand,” Eleanor heard a fervent voice say. “May God bless and keep him for many a long year.”
It was the very highest praise. Tears filled her eyes; her heart swelled with love and pride.
The moment—afternoon sun glinting through the burnished leaves of the stately oak; Henry, looking absurdly young, enveloped by the adoring throng—was etched in her mind like a pen stroke on parchment, transcending time and place.
De Fiennes had a sullen look on his face. Eleanor was sure he disapproved of the whole innovative procedure. Not that it mattered. Instinct told her that what she had witnessed today—no, not merely witnessed, but contributed to—however crudely done, would one day transform the realm.