Was God so very reluctant to meet her? How old could a person grow, anyway?
Eleanor, by the Grace of God, queen of the English, stared down at her hands. Thin, wrinkled skin was speckled with liver spots, and pain throbbed through her stiff fingers. Still, they held the reins well enough.
She looked at the young woman riding beside her: Blanche, yet another of her grandchildren now old enough to be wed. She had so many grandchildren, and she found them a comfort, when they did not take up arms against her sons, at least. They were so young: she could not possibly outlive them all.
The drizzle of rain thickened. A young oak, growing close to the road, shivered in the wind. Eleanor’s joints ached, and her muscles. It was the cold; it was no good for her. John knew that, and he certainly knew how old she was, and yet he had sent her to Castile anyway. She had not gone because her son had asked her, but because she knew that he had been right to do so. She had ruled Aquitaine and England, and seen more than most of the world; what was one more journey to choose the next queen of France? The septuagenarian English queen leading her small expedition over the Pyrenees to see which of her Castilian granddaughters would be most suited to the French throne. Why not?
Eleanor had held it herself, once, long ago. She knew what was needed in France, what was needed in a queen, and she had chosen the younger princess. The French wouldn’t like that; they would consider it an insult. She was doing them a favour, giving them a girl more suited to their court’s sensibilities, but God knew Philip wouldn’t listen to reason when he could infer a slight.
“We should stop soon, her grace is tired.” Sir William of Hovedon. An ugly lump of a man, but he had a sound mind even if he did mistake age for fragility.
“Am I indeed?” said Eleanor. The man had sharp eyes that turned away swiftly at her anger. What had he seen, anyway? Her expression was carefully neutral, she was certain of that. Had she slumped or sighed? Was he simply assuming, knowing that she was an old woman?
“I am tired, grandmother,” said Blanche. “I’m not used to such great journeys as you.” Eleanor almost smiled. A nice bit of diplomacy that. Shame that Blanche’s Spanish accent was so strong. The French wouldn’t like it, any more than the Saxon English took to Eleanor’s own French one.
“There’s a campsite clearing a mile or so ahead,” said Mercadier. “I’ve used it often when I’ve been on this road.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “Might be the best we can hope for, if this storm breaks.”
Eleanor’s heart lightened at his words. Mercadier unsettled her knights; he was a mercenary, and they were suspicious of loyalty plainly bought. But he had been beloved by her Richard, had fought alongside him. He had bloodied his sword at her own call when John’s inheritance was at stake.
There was a murmur among her men-at-arms, and Eleanor felt sure that Sir William was going to make some objection. “Well,” she said, settling the matter, “if we must spend a night in the rain, I shall appreciate Ombrière Palace all the more when we reach it.”
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There were deer in these woods, and Blanche had gone with the hunting party. Did the dauphin hunt? Eleanor wasn’t sure. If so it would be something he could share with his wife. If not, Blanche could encourage him to take up the diversion. Always good for a king to hunt; that, at least, never changed.
In her tent, Eleanor closed her eyes and listened to the bustle of activity outside, letting it drown her thoughts. Sleep came in awkward starts, failing to ease the aches in her body. A queen required constant energy, but hers refused to co-operate, waxing and waning with an irritating capriciousness.
It was Sir William who came to break her rest. She blinked her tiredness away as she took in his expression, and noted how far down the candles had burned. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked.
“Your grace…” His eyes darted to the tent flap; his neck and shoulders were stiff with tension.
“Spit it out, man.” Eleanor had the distinct feeling this was what the man looked like just as battle became inevitable.
“Your grace, the hunting party has returned. They were attacked. Men are dead. The princess has been taken.”
Eleanor’s breath came sharply. Hot, fierce anger rose in her chest, but she did not let it enter her voice. “How did this happen?”
“They were outnumbered by their attackers. Many hours were spent searching for the princess, but they could find no trace of her.”
Many hours. Eleanor looked at the candle again. They had been too afraid to return to her, she realised. “Mercadier knows these lands,” she said. “Bring him to me.”
A few minutes later, the mercenary bowed as he entered her tent. “Your grace, how can I be of service?”
“Whose lands are these?” she demanded. “Have we stumbled into the domain of some feckless baron who cannot keep the peace?”
“I don’t know who took your granddaughter, but I believe we are only a few leagues from a castle owned by Hugh le Brun.”
Sir William huffed. “These were brutes, not knights.”
Mercadier shrugged. “As you say. I can seldom tell the difference.”
“The Lusignans,” muttered Eleanor. “I don’t doubt that family is capable of carrying a grudge through the generations. Hugh le Brun is by all accounts a tedious man incapable of reason. I would not put this past him.” She looked at the two men before her. “Outlaws, knights, or mercenaries, it matters not. I want my granddaughter back.”
“I am as familiar with this county as any, your grace,” said Mercadier. “We will find her.”
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Eleanor did not sleep. Patience came to her much more easily than dreams. She sat in the centre of the camp, staring at the flames of a modest fire. It was getting harder to stay warm; each day the sun grew colder.
Time burnt away in the flicker of red and orange.
“We have found her, your grace.”
Eleanor looked up. She could see only the outline of Sir William’s face in the darkness. Another figure stood a little behind him; Mercadier, she assumed.
“Where is she?” she asked.
“We do not have her.”
“Where is she?”
“The men who took the princess hold her near an old ruin of a fortress some miles north. Along with a few of your knights. I imagine they wish to trade them for ransom…”
She turned back to the flames. “Ransom? I’ve paid enough ransoms for one lifetime. Bad enough to pay one to a king, but to some brutish outlaws? I think not.”
“I don’t believe they are outlaws, your grace,” said Mercadier, stepping forward. “Their armour is well-cared for, and they have good swords. These are not desperate men.”
“Do we have the men and arms to take them?” she asked.
“With surprise and the night to cover our approach, I say it can be done,” Mercadier told her. Eleanor believed him. He was skilled in battle and not a man for false optimism.
“Should we not be more cautious, your grace? If we send to Bordeaux for aid…” said Sir William.
“I will not have my granddaughter’s journey delayed. I want an attack ready for first light. See to it.”
Her voice held no doubt but as they left her, she allowed herself a moment to imagine what could happen if she was wrong. She knew how fragile life could be, how easy it was to step too close to a castle wall and into the eye-line of a lucky bowman…but what good was regret?
Her imaginings came to a hard conclusion, cold as an English winter: if Blanche died, there were other princesses in the Castilian court.
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She had wrapped herself in thick layers but away from the comfort of the fire, the night air stung her throat. Around her, men crept forward through the forest, their weapons drawn. Someone stumbled, and muffled a gasp of pain. Eleanor looked up. Dawn would break within the hour, and she would know which way the dice had landed.
Until then, she refused to let herself worry.
Two men stayed behind with her. Youths, really. One was too young to even have a beard. “Your names?” she asked them.
“Harry, your grace,” said the elder.
She smiled. “A good name.”
“I’m Thomas, your grace.” He couldn’t have been older than fifteen.
“Be brave now, Thomas. It’s a hard thing to fight, but harder still to do nothing while others fight for you.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Patience is a great virtue, for a soldier, and a man,” she said. Patience had become her greatest strength.
The forest lightened moment by moment. Small animals rustled in the undergrowth; waking birds called out, but her men were too far away to be heard.
A strange urge to laugh rose within her. She felt as though she was rising up and up, above the trees, reaching for the clouds. Looking down, she saw the frail figure of an old woman, the tapestry of her life stretching behind her, threads reaching out to mark every corner of Christendom.
It started quietly: cries of pain and warning shouts. Eleanor closed her eyes, and prayed.
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They took her to Blanche as soon as the camp was secured.
“She’s unharmed?” Eleanor asked, striding through the mulch of the forest floor.
“Yes, your grace,” said her escort.
“Her captors?”
“Most are dead.”
The fortress ruins were a filthy mess, decorated with broken and bloodied corpses. Sir William had taken charge of Blanche, and moved her away from the carnage. The girl was wrapped in a fresh blanket and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.
Eleanor embraced her granddaughter and thanked God she had come through her ordeal safely. She looked down at the girl’s face: pale but no tears.
“Weren’t you frightened?” she asked.
Blanche held her grandmother’s hand tightly. “I knew you were nearby,” she said.
Eleanor laughed. “Such faith in an old woman: I commend you for your good sense. Can you ride? William, find her a horse. Where is Mercadier?”
Sir William bowed, a frown etching his forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
Eleanor insisted on seeing his body.
Her stomach twisted at the sight: he had been shot by arrows several times, and taken a blade in his shoulder. Quick, she hoped, it must have been quick.
“He fought well,” Sir William told her. Of course he had. He always did. As fierce and brilliant a warrior as her own dear son.
As Eleanor stared down at Mercadier, she felt the stillness within her deepen. Richard’s brother-in-arms, her protector, her weapon: dead. Another thread of her life cut away.
She realised that Blanche had followed her, and beckoned the girl over.
“Have you seen anyone die before?” Eleanor asked.
Blanche shook her head.
Eleanor spoke to her quietly: “Don’t be afraid to look at them, the bodies. The men will not want you to, but being a woman will not protect you from violence or death. You will be a queen. You will have castles and armies and you must not flinch from doing what you must to protect your husband, or your children. Look. See what death is.”
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As they made ready to leave, Sir William alerted her to the sound of horsemen approaching on a trail from the east. Moments later, a great black destrier burst into the forest clearing, followed by a dozen or more palfreys ridden by armoured men. The rider of the destrier lifted his helm and looked across the fortress remains, a hard scowl on his face.
“What devilry is this?” His dark eyes turned to Sir William, but Eleanor stepped forward.
“I am Eleanor, by the Wrath of God, Queen of England. Were these black-hearted creatures yours, sir?” She jerked her chin towards the ruins.
He smiled thinly. “They were, your grace.” He dismounted and bowed. “Hugh Lusignan, Seigneur of Lusignan, Couhe and Chateau-Larcher. This is a great honour.”
“Is it?” said Eleanor icily.
“Of course,” said Hugh. “Why, it’s almost enough to make me forget that my men appear to have been slaughtered by yours.”
“Your men, my lord, were kidnappers and traitors.”
“Were they indeed?”
“They stole my granddaughter. That is why they are dead.”
His eyes fell on Blanche, flanked by two men-at-arms. “You have my deepest apologies, your grace. I gave no orders for my men to waylay a young girl.” His eyes flicked back to Eleanor. “I sent them to offer you my humble greetings and invite you for a brief stay at my castle.”
Eleanor took two short steps forward. “I am on my way to Normandy to see my granddaughter wed.”
“A great occasion. And a great journey. I’m sure you can spare a day or two, perhaps longer, to rest and recover your strength. I assure you I’m a most cordial host.”
“As is my son, your king.”
“Who is not here.”
Eleanor had more men, but they were worn out with little sleep and a fight just behind him. Hugh le Brun’s were fresh, mounted, and would run them down easily, even on the uneven ground. Her gamble had been won; she would not risk more lives on another.
Eleanor clasped her hands together and gave Hugh an even mask of a smile. “Very well, as you are so insistent—”
“I am.”
“We should be delighted to accept your hospitality. I look forward to sampling the food and wine at your table. Sir William, have a man show the good Seigneur’s men where our baggage is. I have no doubt he will wish to see it safely escorted to his castle. And I shall require a horse, my lord, as will my granddaughter. I’m sure that will be no trouble for you.”
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“Is this wise, grandmother?” Blanche asked as they were escorted into the castle courtyard. Stable hands ran to take care of the horses as Eleanor ran a discerning eye over the castle battlements. They were in good order, and the keep had its own portcullis, but the outer walls lacked a moat.
“Wiser than provoking a fight that we would have lost,” said Eleanor. “Much power is an illusion. Don’t ever give up even the pretence of being in control. Often that is more than enough.”
As promised, Hugh offered Eleanor’s party a fine meal, and she made sure that all of her men-at-arms and servants ate well too. She could hardly eat the man out of house and home at one sitting, but she saw no harm in giving it her best shot.
It didn’t take the Seigneur long to make clear what he wanted.
“La Marche,” he told Eleanor. He took a mouthful of wine.
Eleanor gave him a look of the blandest disinterest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your late husband stole the province of La Marche from my father, and your son refused to return it; now I ask you for justice. I would have been pleased to have brought this to your notice when you toured the Aquitaine last month, but you neglected to visit my lands.”
“A most unfortunate oversight,” said Eleanor. The tour had raised much goodwill amongst the people, but her cheer had been drowned out by the long dead ghosts in the places she had visited, the fading memories, and the tombs of those she had loved.
“Indeed. Of course, I am more than happy to host you and your party here for as long as you need to consider the matter.”
“Very considerate.” She picked at her food, finding she had little appetite. There was a chicken bone on her trencher and she wondered what would happen if she were to choke on it. What an upset it would be for poor Hugh if she were to drop dead in the middle of his banquet.
Hugh le Brun inclined his head. “I would never detain you any longer than necessary.”
“No?” said Eleanor, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course not. And you need have no fear while you tarry here; this castle is well provisioned and well defended.”
“How gratifying to know you have such resources.” She glanced at Blanche, noting she was taking a great interest in their conversation.
“I’m always ready to defend the interests of my king and country,” said Hugh.
Eleanor held his eye, and waited until he looked away. “The county of La Marche, you say? Very well, it is yours. I give you my word.” She spoke carelessly, as though she’d given away no more than an enamel brooch. She stood, and Hugh quickly got to his feet. “Now I shall be on my way. Good day to you, my lord.”
Eleanor savoured the seconds the man struggled for words at her abrupt acquiescence.
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By mid-afternoon, Eleanor was back on the road, the party pushing on towards Bordeaux, with extra provisions and horses supplied by Hugh le Brun.
“Why did you give him La Marche?” asked Blanche. “Why did you not bargain with him?”
“Did you want to spend any more time in the company of the slimy little man?” asked Eleanor. Blanche shook her head. “Neither did I. I’m old, I’m tired, and I’ve been caged by giants. I will not be held against my will by Hugh le Brun. He will find it more trouble than it’s worth in the end: John will not forget the insult, or the loss of taxes from the county.” She didn’t give voice to the other thought that gnawed at her: how much trouble would John bring upon himself responding to the slight?
Once, she had overseen such grand schemes and designed the intricate plots of a consummate politician. Once, land and people had wrapped themselves around each other until she could not tell one from the other. “Besides,” she said, “land is dirt, and my time is precious.”
“I heard a story once,” said Blanche, “about my great-grandmother, the Empress Maud.”
“I wouldn’t trust any stories you hear about her, child. Men are minded to conjure the most extraordinary tales about women who would question their place in the world.”
“It was about her escape from Oxford Castle.”
“Ah,” said Eleanor approvingly, “well, that one is more or less true.”
“When you were imprisoned by the king, why did you never try to escape?”
“The Empress was besieged by a great army intent on doing her harm; I was in no danger.” She cast her mind back to those long sixteen years Henry had kept her captive. “Where would I have escaped to? I needed to be there, for my sons, for when they needed me. I loved Henry; I loved my sons more. My conscience doesn’t bother me on the matter, but I’ve often asked God to forgive me if it was indeed a sin for a wife to betray her husband for love of her sons.” She laughed, lightly. “My confessor certainly thinks so.” Her expression sobered as she looked at Blanche. “Best not to follow that path; not all kings are as kind as Henry.”
“I hadn’t planned to,” said Blanche, in such a way that she made her grandmother smile again.
“Be vigilant, Blanche. Even when not locked in a tower a queen is bound: to her husband, her children, her country, past and present, and her people. It’s a tangled mess of loyalties that your enemies will seek to use against you, and you will have enemies. Armour yourself in charm, arm yourself with words. Cultivate patience, if you can.”
“I can be patient.”
“Then you’re wiser than I was at your age. I’m almost reassured.”
Eleanor felt the ache of exhaustion in her bones. The energy reserves she had called upon during the last few days had ebbed away. God felt very close.
“Grandmother?”
Eleanor’s eyes snapped open. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” She took a deep breath and straightened her back. Her hands still held her horse’s reins, but the cold had numbed her fingers. Above, the clouds were darker than ever. The storm had not yet broken, but it was close.
Enough of this. She had done enough. Her thoughts turned to Fontevrault Abbey; the peace of its cloisters, and the kindness of its veiled nuns. Yes, she would go there soon, and she would rest. No one could deny her a little peace.
How many more storms? Eleanor asked that night, in her prayers. How many more until you see fit to call me to you?
“Little Battles” by L.M. Myles